Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [62]
The first two days after surgery, Charlie had been asleep more than he was awake. When he was conscious, he was barely communicable—due to high doses of pain medicine. The doctors explained it was best for Charlie to get through those first few days in a semiconscious state. Though Charles was intent on telling Charlie about his amputation and was frustrated with the delay, the doctors and nurses insisted the discussion could wait.
But it was torture for Charles. For many reasons.
“He’s got to know. Now,” Charles had told Fran the morning after surgery.
“For heaven’s sake, why, Charles? Why the urgency?”
“Because he can’t mentally or emotionally defeat the cancer if he doesn’t know it’s there.”
Fran moved to her son’s bedside, stared at his peacefully sleeping face. “The time will come, Charles. But not yet. He’s not even coherent, for crying out loud.”
Charles whispered through gritted teeth, “You’re being overly protective, Fran. Let him be a man for once, will you? Let go so Charlie can do what he needs to do.”
“He’s not a man, Charles. He’s a boy,” Fran hissed back. She groped for Charlie’s hand, threatening to disturb his sleep. She moved unconsciously, only cognizant of the battle that had seemingly raged between her and Charles since the first miscarriage.
She turned deliberately toward Charlie, away from her husband. “We’re setting up Charlie to be in the middle of this impasse between us. We can’t be on opposite sides for this … this fight … as you’re so prone to term it, Charles. Don’t you see? Charlie will lose if we’re not both on the same side. And if Charlie loses, that means—that means—”
A nurse pushed against the door, giving it a desultory knock, knock as she breezed in. “Time to check Charlie’s bandage. I’ll just be a minute.” Efficient, operating from a checklist including far too many duties, the nurse hadn’t noticed the tension in the room, the conversation she’d interrupted.
And once interrupted, it was easier to put aside. To delay the inevitable battle … until the next day or the next.
Until the third morning after his surgery, when Charlie awoke early. Before Fran was even out of her makeshift bed, she heard, spoken with a noticeably clearer voice, “Mornin’, Mom.”
Fran lifted a groggy head from the pillow, trying to assess if she’d heard correctly. “Charlie?” Hoping to clear her vision, she rubbed sleep-deprived eyes. “Are you awake?”
“Yeah, I think so. I mean, I still feel kinda loopy. But I’m starved, Mom. My tummy’s growling.” With effort, Charlie lifted his head to watch his mom climb out of bed, reach for her robe. “How much longer till I get some breakfast around here anyway?”
Fran moved to him as fast as she could, leaning over to kiss his forehead, caress his hair. “Just as soon as I can get them to bring you something. I’m thrilled to hear you’re hungry.”
Charlie grinned up at her. “French toast sounds good. And eggs. Bacon, too. Gosh, it seems like years since I’ve eaten.”
She chuckled at him, but shook her head. Dreading the disappointment she’d cause as the messenger of bad news. “Don’t you remember? You’re on a restricted diet.” Seeing the immediate dismay that came over Charlie’s features, she hurried to add, “But maybe you can eat a little more today.” He brightened a bit, confident in his mom’s ability to bend the rules for him.
Fran glanced into the mirror, ran a hand through her hair, and tightened the belt of her robe. She winked at Charlie. “Armed for battle. I’ll be right back.”
By now, Fran knew all the nurses, what shifts they worked. She made a beeline for the head nurse who’d demonstrated a soft spot for her son.
“Andrea? Good news: Charlie’s got an appetite this morning. I think