Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [67]
Charlie chewed his lip a moment. Shrugged his shoulders.
“Another issue we need to discuss is rehabilitation.” She glanced toward Fran and Charles, adding, “Mom and Dad, you need to take good mental notes. Be a part of Charlie’s team—his rehabilitation team. I’m going to have the therapist visit Charlie later today to begin teaching him exercises to strengthen his limb. Start the process to get him ready for a prosthesis.
“I’ll be honest with you, Charlie: You have a lot of work ahead. But from what I’ve learned about you already, I absolutely don’t doubt your ability to do this.” She waited a few seconds, allowing the compliment to sink in.
“How long before I get my leg?”
“Depends. On how quickly you heal. Hey, go ahead and eat—I would, if I were you!”
Charlie picked up a fork, began gingerly picking at his food.
“Did your mom and dad tell you about the chemotherapy?”
“Uh-huh. What will that be like?”
“Dr. Chang can give you more details, but you’ll most likely come in for treatment for a couple weeks, then you’ll have a week or two off. Depends on how your body responds.”
Charlie put down his fork as though about to ask another question. But he avoided Dr. Owens’s eyes, staring down at his food.
“Anything else, Charlie?” Dr. Owens waited patiently.
A few seconds ticked by before Charlie asked, in a barely audible voice, “Am I gonna die?”
The question struck at Fran’s heart like a knife, and she felt the all-too-familiar tightening in her throat. Glancing toward Charles to gauge his reaction, she saw that he remained as closed to her—to them all—as though they were strangers.
Dr. Owens’s voice was straightforward yet gentle at the same time, the tightrope walk of balancing hope with reality. “Charlie, we don’t know how you’re going to respond to chemotherapy. But we have every reason to believe you’ll do very well. And if so, then you should have an abundance of time to run around on that high tech leg of yours.”
Charlie’s shoulders visibly relaxed. He nodded at Dr. Owens and then picked up his fork, sampling a small bite of eggs.
“Okay. See you next time, my friend. I want to hear you’ve taken a stroll around the joint, okay? Check out the nurses. See if any are good-looking.”
Charlie grinned at her, shyly ducking his head.
“I heard that.” Andrea scurried in just then, handing Charlie his pain pills. Hands on hips, she quipped, “Some nerve these doctors have. They know who really does all the work around here.”
“We sure do.” Dr. Owens laughed and waved as she walked out. “No way I’m denying that.”
Charles also walked toward the door, jingling the coins and keys in his pocket again. He cleared his throat. “I’d best be going too, son. See you later this afternoon.”
“Sure, Dad.” Charlie was picking at his French toast, mostly pushing it around on his plate.
“French toast not so great?”
Charlie shrugged. “Not nearly as good as Mom’s.”
Charles laughed, and playfully punched Charlie’s shoulder. “Hey, that’s one politically correct answer.” He turned to go and then added, “I hope your walk goes great. Give it your best effort, okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Great. Well … I’ll see you two later.” Though Fran sought to make eye contact with him, he avoided her, leaving the room without even a backward glance.
Later, nurses helped get Charlie out of bed and onto crutches. Every slight movement required a significant amount of time—plus physical and emotional energy. When removing his leg from the sling that kept the limb elevated, Charlie had to grit his teeth. Swipe at irritating, unwanted tears. Tackle whatever small movement he had to accomplish next to simply reach a standing position.
Throughout the interminable process, Fran took in Charlie’s every grimace, any utterance of pain. She had to clamp her jaw shut to keep from crying out herself. From physically stopping