Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [53]
Charles’s head snapped around at that point, and he gave Greg a skeptical look.
When Greg turned off the ignition, he asked, “May I come in for a few minutes? Pray for all of you?”
“I’d appreciate that. So would Fran.”
They walked into the emergency room together, both immediately struck with the blatant need before them. Two small children, held by worried parents, cried pitifully, a weakened elderly gentleman sat slumped over in a wheelchair, several had bandages from wounds, others were ill with coughs or the flu. Charlie was nowhere in sight, admitted immediately due to his more serious injury.
At the receptionist’s station, Charles stopped to ask, “Charlie Thomason? I’m his father.”
“He’s just down this hallway, the fourth cubicle on your right.”
When the automatic doors swung wide, they could see Fran pacing in the stark bright light of the hallway, arms hugged tightly against her chest. She didn’t notice them until Charles put his hand on her arm. “What are they—?”
She jumped, startled. “Oh. Charles. Charlie’s had an X-ray already. I thought it was patently obvious the leg was broken. Wondered why they had to put him through that, but I guess they need to check everything. I had to sign permission forms for other tests too. A CT scan. Some kind of bone scan—can’t remember what. But Charles, they’re going to put a small amount of radioactive material in him for that one. What on earth? And of course they wouldn’t let me go with him …”
Charles turned white instantly, as though the blood had drained from his face. He reached toward her but was distracted by the approach of several doctors, their faces grave as they conferred quietly among themselves. And then they stopped before Charles and Fran. Suddenly, unnervingly silent.
One of the specialists cleared her throat and glanced from Charles to Fran to Greg, her face a mask. “Charlie’s parents?”
Charles reached out to shake her hand. “I’m Charlie’s father. Charles. And this is Francine, his mother. This is Greg Trent, one of our pastors at Oak Hills Chapel.”
They were shaking hands, practicing the proper etiquette, when Fran blurted out, “Where’s Charlie?”
And Charles demanded, “What’s going on, doctor?”
The doctor’s kind eyes settled on Fran’s direct look. In a calm yet authoritative tone, she offered, “I’m Dr. Lois Owens, the orthopedic specialist here. Charlie’s still undergoing some tests. We’re scheduling him for an MRI also.”
“But why—?” from Charles and Fran, nearly at the same moment.
“Let’s go into a consultation room, shall we? Pastor Trent, is it?” the doctor asked.
“Yes. I’ll just go out into the waiting room.”
“Actually, I think it might be good for you to join us.” She glanced toward Fran and Charles, seeking their approval. “With your permission, of course.”
Charles nodded. “Yes, that’s fine.” His voice sounded remote, devoid of emotion, as though his body and its responses were not acting in tandem. Leaving Charles awkwardly disjointed, disconnected from the situation.
“Right this way, please.” Dr. Owens directed them into a small room just off the corridor. She flicked on the switch, pouring the harsh fluorescent light into the white-walled room. Their senses were assaulted by the stale smell from a room with no windows and little ventilation plus the lingering remnants of antiseptic and various medications. The telltale pungent scent of nearly all doctors’ offices and hospitals. The room was anything but inviting with its scuffed linoleum floor and worn furniture, but Charles and Fran were grateful to escape the exposure of the busy hallway.
Dr. Owens clasped her hands together, inclined her head toward Charles and Fran. Her features noticeably softened, conveying compassion.
“First, I want you to have the peace of mind that we’ve given Charlie pain medication. He’s not suffering physically right now and he’s resting