Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [133]
“Well, he’s gotten … obnoxious, quite frankly. And that’s saying a lot considering he’s competing with reporters. Says he’s from your school and his name’s—” The doctor was abruptly pushed to one side of the doorway, and irritably snapped, “Hey. You can’t just—”
Hair uncombed, clothes a rumpled mess, one hand clutching a large chocolate candy bar—he’d pretty much shoved the doctor aside in his impatience—he finally settled eyes overflowing with love on the one woman he’d been seeking.
“Michal? Oh God, I was so afraid I’d lost you.”
She smiled through her tears. “Aunt Sarah. I’d like you to meet Allistair Fuller.”
The six walked into the lounge together to raucous cheers, applause, and the flashes of dozens of cameras—three survivors and three family members, though each of the six would have firmly stated they were all present due to miraculous events.
Michal and Fran were in wheelchairs, Michal to the spectators’ left. As soon as she entered the lounge area her eyes darted about the room, searching the faces. And when she found that one, her eyes lit up and a hint of a smile appeared as she relaxed back into her chair. Reddening, suddenly embarrassed, she studied the tightly clenched hands in her lap.
Sarah stood between Michal and Fran. She had one hand on each of the women’s shoulders, lightly touching one of them. The other shoulder, the slimmer of the two, Sarah held so tightly that the tips of her fingers were white. A fan pushed Sarah’s ever-escaping wispy curls across her nose, tickling her. But stubbornly, rather than remove a hand from either of the two women beside her, Sarah merely twitched her nose. She swallowed to keep herself from laughing out loud—appreciating the humor of how it must’ve looked—all the while keeping her chin high, her jaw firm, and one foot slightly in front of the other.
Fran cuddled Aubrey on her lap so tightly that it was nearly impossible to tell where one body stopped and the other began. Her cheek resting on top of Aubrey’s head, those soft curls, she glanced now and then toward Sarah. And then Bill—though he appeared not to notice.
Aubrey still clung to the collar of Fran’s robe, and she squeezed her eyes shut at the assault of glaring flashes. But when she peeked up at Fran, she was filled with wonder at the sparkle in Fran’s eyes—partly due to the gold flecks, but mostly from the glistening tears.
Colleen had insisted on wheeling Fran’s chair herself, and she gripped the handles as though she wouldn’t be able to stand without their aid. Cowed by the intensity of the crowd, Colleen glanced up only now and then, keeping her gaze on the top of Fran’s and her sister’s heads. When Bill reached over to playfully pinch Colleen’s side, she pushed his hand away—but smiled and giggled nervously as she did so.
The last in the tableau, Bill had come as the spokesperson for the group. He held a sheaf of papers in his left hand, some notes he’d jotted down concerning Aubrey’s interpretation of the miraculous survival and a short testimony to the God of miracles. He cleared his throat as he began introducing himself and the others. And as he did so, he reached back toward Colleen. He touched her lightly and then—was he even aware of the movement?—his hand strayed toward the cold metal of the wheelchair and finally, the warmth of Fran’s other shoulder. Where it rested, comfortably.
… a little more …
When a delightful concert comes to an end,
the orchestra might offer an encore.
When a fine meal comes to an end,
it’s always nice to savor a bit of dessert.
When a great story comes to an end,
we think you may want to linger.
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AfterWords—just a little something more after you
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We invite you to stay awhile in the story.
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• A Conversation with Carolyn Williford
A Conversation with Carolyn Williford
On inspiration
I’m often asked, “Where does your