Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [65]
“Charles,” she whispered urgently. “Let go.”
He gave Fran a vacant look. Eyebrows raised, questioning. Then, suddenly aware, he glanced down at his fist as though he’d just recognized it as his own. Mumbled, “Oh, sorry, son. I forgot about your … the IV.” He brusquely swiped at his eyes and backed stiffly away from the bed. Putting both hands in his pockets, he shot Fran a venomous glare before walking toward the window, where he stood, staring.
Fran tenderly cradled Charlie’s cheek in her palm. “It’s all right, love,” she soothed. And then she turned to confront her husband, fully expecting to meet his disapproval. She set her jaw, felt her stomach muscles tighten.
There’d been numerous times Fran had intentionally avoided her husband’s intimidating anger. For Charles’s wrath, she’d discovered, was a life force in itself—a daunting mountain to climb that often defeated her in its fury before she could take one step. But whenever she judged Charlie’s health—emotional or physical—was at stake, she called upon a hidden strength enabling her to stand up to him.
As she slowly turned her head toward Charles, she understood this fleeting moment would not be the final battle. From the piercing challenge Charles had fixed on her with his gaze—any hint of tears now gone, his pupils narrowed to two jet black dots—Fran recognized the full consequences of her actions. The gauntlet she’d thrown.
“Enough, Francine.” His voice nearly stripped of emotion, he stated, “We can’t do this anymore. We need to find … resolution. But now’s not the time.”
“No, it’s not.”
“We’ll talk about this later. Soon.”
Attempting to compose herself, Fran sat down in a chair. Folded her hands in her lap. She took a deep breath. “Charlie, love, can you forgive both of us? Obviously we’re … a bit frayed at the edges, I guess you could say.” She gave him a wan smile.
Charles walked back over to Fran, placing his hands on her shoulders. Squared his own, and raised his chin. The two arranged in perfect positions for a posed portrait. “Son, the bottom line is, we’re going to get the job done. Whatever it takes to get you walking again. Your mom and I promise you that, don’t we?” He squeezed Fran’s shoulders, a nonverbal signal for a temporary truce. “We’re going to meet this challenge. All three of us together.”
Fran reached up to lightly pat one of her husband’s hands. “Yes. Absolutely.” She kept patting him, mechanically. “Everything’s going to be just fine. Before we know it, things will be back to normal and … and …”
Looking into her son’s eyes, Fran saw he was wrestling to hold back tears. “No. Don’t hold it in. Go ahead and cry, Charlie,” she entreated, jumping up to enfold him in her arms. “You need to cry. Grieve for your lost leg. You have every right to!”
As Charlie began to cry and soon sob, Fran wept with him.
She’d been so focused on her son, Fran had temporarily forgotten Charles. When she looked up at him, her heart broke to see deep pain transforming the handsome features into a caricature of despair. In the next moment, however, she caught Charles’s eye and was surprised to see a look of panic alongside the torment. And then, instantly, it was as though Charles had put on a mask—one that hid everything he was feeling, shutting her out as effectively as if a locked door had been slammed in her face.
“Charles? You need to grieve too. Please, Charles.” The imploring look she gave him blatantly, vulnerably begged him to reveal tenderness. To be vulnerable in return.
But Charles merely flinched and turned his back; once again he stared out at the city below.
Fran closed her eyes, feeling more tears of disappointment form. Tears she blinked away as she consciously focused on Charlie and his needs. His sobs had diminished to soft whimpers. She tightened her embrace, kissing him on the beloved curls.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Charlie said softly. “I’m better now.”
How can I feel so alone, so disconnected,