Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [44]
“A little sore? Get your shoes and shin guards off. Socks, too.” All business now, Fran opened the freezer to hunt for the gel pack they’d used countless times before to cool swollen ankles, bruised thighs, a tired throwing arm. “How about if you stretch out on the couch in the family room? Grab the remote first.” She momentarily turned her back to him, searching through the vast reaches of the freezer. “I’ll just get you something to drink and then I’ll be right there.”
Charlie limped toward the family room, Bradley glued to his side. Once Charlie had plopped down and turned on the television, he reached toward the lab, feeling remorseful, rubbing behind the dog’s ear. “Sorry I yelled at you, Brad, ole boy. Forgive me?”
Bradley sniffed his hand, then licked the entire right side of his face before Charlie could jerk away. “Guess that means I’m forgiven. Don’t hold grudges, do you, buddy?”
“Bradley taking good care of you?” his mom asked, gently placing the frozen gel pack on Charlie’s leg, moving it to the spot he gestured to. She handed him a glass of sports water and two pain relievers.
“I guess you could say he’s taking care of me. If that means covering my face with slobber.”
Fran laughed and sat on the coffee table. She moved the gel pack less than an inch, up toward Charlie’s knee. Contemplated it for a moment and moved it an inch again, the opposite way. When she finally looked up at Charlie, he lay grinning at her.
“I’m going to be okay, Mom. Really.”
“But you were hurting last week. And the week before. I’ve seen you limping, Charlie. Don’t you think it’s about time we had Dr. Seldon take a look at it?”
“He’ll just tell me to use ice. Rest and stay off it. Mom, I’m not doin’ that till the tournament is over.”
“So you’ll go see Dr. Seldon on Monday?”
“I’ve got school on Monday. It’s not like it’s an emergency or anything.”
“Well, let’s see what the doctor’s office says. Could be they’ll want to see you right away.”
“What’s this?” Charles walked into the family room, reaching down to pat Bradley’s head before shooting a puzzled look toward Fran. “You’re calling the doctor about a bruised leg?”
Charlie started to open his mouth to answer when his mom cut in, “Charles, he’s been sore for weeks now.”
“That’s what happens when you play tough, eh, Charlie?” Charles noted the mindless conversation on a television show in the background and nonchalantly reached for the remote. “Any good games on today? Sox’re playing, aren’t they?” His eyes remained glued to the TV as he flipped through channels and—in a tone of forced casualness—asked, “Francine, could I speak to you for a moment? In our bedroom?” Not giving Fran a glance until he found the desired game. “Sox versus Indians. That’s a guaranteed win. Find out the score, okay?”
Charles gave his wife a pointed look and tossed Charlie the remote.
Fran leaned over and kissed Charlie on the forehead. “We’ll just be a few minutes. I’ll be right back, promise.”
Silently she followed Charles out of the room, into the foyer, and up the winding stairs. She mentally counted the steps, just as she did every time. All twenty-four. Her efforts toward finding some order in her world, comfort that the planes and angles of her home remained the same. Day after day … months leading to years. At least these things would not change, shaking the fragility of her tenuous hold on what she loved.
Charles led Fran into the spacious master bedroom, closing the French doors behind them. He walked to the curved bench at the foot of their bed, sat down and began removing sneakers. “I thought we had an agreement, Francine. No coddling.”
“I thought we had agreed, Charles. No more pressuring him.”
He pitched a sneaker in the direction of the closet. Began unlacing the other.
Fran sat on the chaise lounge and put up her feet. It was as near to plopping down as her naturally elegant movements would allow. “Charles, even Paul told him to rest the leg and ice it, for crying out loud.