Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [61]
She still felt stabs of pain when she recalled the miscarriages—a total of three, before Charlie was born. Two babies were far enough along to be identified as girls—a daughter had been the longing of her heart. After Charlie arrived and she could no longer get pregnant, Fran remembered wondering if she’d regret having only a boy. Her eyes welled with tears. Regret? she thought, and then smiled. Never. Not once.
And then, And he’s still with us. With me, she reassured herself. She realized anew that Charlie’s birth had been a miraculous gift after the miscarriages. And his presence with her tonight was a gift from God again. A tear dropped onto Charlie’s arm as she whispered, “Thank you, God. Thank you for my son.”
Charlie’s eyes flitted back open. “Mom?”
“Oh, love. Sorry I woke you.”
He yawned. “Nah, not you. It was the sky.”
“What’s that?”
“I saw the sky—all these stars. It was so bright because the sky was full of them.”
Taken back by his nonsensical explanation, Fran gave him a puzzled look.
“They were all so clear. Usually most’re hard to see.”
“How so?”
“You know, Mom. The dimmest ones. When you try to see them, they just kinda … disappear.” His voice sounded raspy. His reasoning was drug-affected. But it was evident that he’d seen and experienced something.
Sensing it was important to Charlie, Fran wanted to understand. “I think I know what you mean. You’re talking about how stars seem to twinkle—an effect from their being so far away? Is that it?”
Charlie yawned. “Not like that … in my dream. Really … cool.”
“Oh?”
“I could look right at them, Mom, and really see them. So clear, I wanted to touch … almost could.” He blinked a couple times, an attempt to keep himself awake. “Wish you could’ve seen them too.” His voice grew softer, his words further apart again.
“Funny, I have this vague memory of your grandmother talking about that. It was something about those who look at stars and see them clearly are more able to—what was it? I think she said it meant you were more sensitive. To God.”
“How old were you?” Charlie asked.
“Oh, I think around ten or so. I do clearly recall that we were on the back porch, looking up on this amazingly clear night. I think it was cold. Must’ve been winter, I imagine? Or fall. But I stared and stared at those stars, trying to see them like Mother said.”
Charlie yawned again, closed his eyes, conceding to sleep. “Could you?”
“No, I couldn’t. At least, not the way she described it. And I remember feeling disappointed.” Charlie’s breathing was steady and even. She doubted he’d heard her. “Go back to sleep now, okay? Get some rest.”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll see … more stars.”
Fran kissed him tenderly on the forehead. “I hope so, love. I really do.”
The next two days were a blur for Fran. Her whole world had shrunk to the confines of the hospital walls. It was where she slept, showered, ate, and cared for Charlie however she could, day and night. Her bed was a couch she made up every evening, falling onto it totally spent—yet still listening for Charlie’s every move. Ready to jump up and run to his side at the slightest sigh or groan or whisper of “Mom?”
Charles went to the hospital as much as he could, between putting in hours at work and caring for the necessities at home. He disliked not being there all the time, but his practical side knew it wasn’t feasible. There simply wasn’t enough space for three of them in the hospital room; he couldn’t justify being there twenty-four hours and there wasn’t the need. But though he wasn’t there physically, his heart and thoughts constantly were.
He attempted to time his morning visit with the doctors’ rounds, judging it important to hear firsthand how Charlie was progressing, how the stump was