Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [58]
Head still buried, Charles took a deep breath. Exhaled. “I want my son too, Francine. I want him to live.”
“I know that, Charles. I know.” And she then willingly brought back the imagined picture of Charlie. Recognizing that at least he was alive in that vision.
Charles moved to the other side of the room, observing her. With his feet spaced wide apart, arms folded across his chest, he said through gritted teeth, “I will fight this, Francine.” His entire body went rigid. But his eyes were nearly burning with intensity. “Whatever we face, we will not give in to it. Not ever. And Charlie will fight this too.”
“Fight what, Dad?” Charlie’s voice sounded groggy, weak. “Did we win the game?” As orderlies rolled Charlie’s bed back into its place, Charles and Fran moved to either side of him. Fran gently took Charlie’s hand in hers—it was bruised from the IV, and Fran frowned at the tender spot—while Charles gripped the bed’s railing. The paraphernalia of IVs hooked up to a tall, gangly pole, various monitors beeping and humming, and several nurses tending to the positioning of each line distracted Charles. His eyes took in every machine, every line attached to his son. He blinked rapidly and then gripped the bed rail so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Charles leaned in close, deliberately attempting to keep his voice steady and calm. “We were just talking about your recovery, son. How we’re all going to fight to get you well. Your mom. Me. You, too.” He cleared his throat, coughing lightly. “Get you back out on that field before you know it. Running and … and …”
Fran reached across Charlie, putting her other hand on Charles’s arm.
“How long they sayin’ before I’m outta here, Dad?” Each word getting a bit more slurred.
“We don’t know for sure yet, Charlie. But your mom and I will be helping you every single step. Deal?”
“Yeah, sure. Deal.” He yawned, and asked in barely distinguishable words, “Did we win?”
“I don’t know, son. I’m convinced we did, though. Momentum had switched back to us for sure.”
Charlie smiled, his only acknowledgment. Eyelids heavy, he drifted back to sleep.
Personnel were bustling around them, prepping Charlie for surgery, an unwanted reminder to Fran that they’d soon be taking him away again. “Charles. Maybe we’d better pray now?”
In case Charlie could hear, he thought carefully about what he would say—more so, would not. “Take care of our son, Lord, please. We’re so grateful for—” His voice faltered, and Charles waited until he could speak calmly again. “Thank you for Charlie, and for all he means to us. We know he’s in your hands. In your name, amen.”
When Charles opened his eyes, he discovered Charlie staring up at him. “It’ll be okay, Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”
An orderly moved to the head of Charlie’s bed. When Fran finally tore her eyes from her son’s peaceful face, she reluctantly saw it was time to release him. She placed her palm on his cheek, putting her lips right next to his ear. Whispered, “I love you, Charlie. With all my heart.”
The nurse gave Fran a reassuring pat before they wheeled Charlie down the hallway.
Charles and Fran watched until they disappeared around a corner. She and Charles simultaneously reached out again, holding hands as they walked silently to the waiting room. But that slight physical touch was the only connection made, for each heart was an entity to itself. Two islands surrounded by a sea of pain.
Charles and Fran sat in a back corner of the waiting room, oblivious to the low lighting from several lamps, the shadows created by the softened hues in the twilight of the day. The window blinds were still open, allowing some outdoor lamps from the hospital’s parking lot to pour in more light. But the result was a contrast of bright and subdued, illumination and gloominess, a chiaroscuro painting. A television, tuned to a twenty-four-hours news station, was turned down to its lowest setting. Next to them was a coffee station—clearly in need