Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [68]
Once he finally leaned on the crutches—the severed limb dangling oddly—Charlie barely had enough strength remaining to hobble out of his room. He took only a dozen steps down the hall before exhaustion overpowered his will.
Even so, the staff had nothing but lavish praise for Charlie, which produced a huge smile of pride, paleness suddenly replaced by the flush of exertion and the glow of accomplishment. Once the star on his soccer team. Highest scoring player. Captain. Held in esteem by all his teammates. Now reduced to these few faltering steps.
Though her heart knew a painful ambivalence, this time Fran joined the cheering section. “I’ve never been more proud of you, Charlie,” she told him.
Charlie’s hospital days were filled with time-consuming routines and exercises; every movement tended to be laborious and pain-filled—from slowly raising the angle of his bed to a sitting position, to using the breathing machine that helped clear his lungs. Even hosting visitors sapped his strength. One afternoon the entire soccer team visited, although—per Andrea’s strict orders—only four boys were allowed in Charlie’s room at a time. They were all noticeably uncomfortable at first, but Charlie quickly put them at ease. As expected, they were curious concerning how long Charlie would be in the hospital, the treatments he’d get, and especially, about the artificial leg. By the time they left, Charlie was thoroughly exhausted.
Fran noted his weariness and smoothed back the hair that hung over his forehead. “Seemed like that went well. You have a good time with everyone?”
“Yup. I really did.” Charlie yawned, suddenly so sleepy that he could barely keep his eyes open. “It was cool they brought the championship trophy for me to see.”
“Uh-huh. And now I think you need a nap. You’ve had quite the day and—” But Charlie was already drifting off to sleep; there was no need to convince him. Fran pulled a chair next to his bed and settled in, kicking off her shoes, tucking one foot up underneath her. She leaned back and rested her head against the back of the chair.
Contentedly, she simply watched him sleep until Dr. Chang slipped in, motioning for Fran to join her in the hallway. “Charlie getting some needed rest?”
Fran smiled. “Friends from his soccer team visited. They wore him out. And then he walked earlier today too—down to the end of the hallway and back this time.”
“Wonderful. He’s working so hard, making great progress.” Dr. Chang’s smile suddenly dissipated and she gave Fran a straightforward look. “That’s why we think it’s a good time to operate on Charlie’s lung.”
Fran felt the blood drain from her face. “So soon? I mean … I knew you planned to do that eventually. But is Charlie ready?”
“We want to be as aggressive as possible with Charlie’s treatment,” she explained. “Since he’s doing so well physically—Dr. Owens tells me she’s never had a patient heal so quickly—Dr. Owens and I think it’s the right time to do the surgery.”
Charles arrived then, overhearing Dr. Chang’s comments concerning surgery. He noticeably raised his chin as he thrust out his hand to shake the doctor’s. “That’s my boy! Good afternoon, doctor. Absolutely, Charlie’s ready.”
Dr. Chang smiled, nodding her head. “Our other concern is his emotional healing, however. How do you think he’s doing in that respect?”
Simultaneously—as though synchronized, yet slightly off-beat—Charles and Fran replied:
“He’s great.”
“He’s struggling.”
Both had been looking at Dr. Chang, but turned to stare into each other’s eyes. With reproach.
“Charles, you don’t see him every day, all day, like I do. How could you possibly make that determination? That snap judgment?”
“And how could you say he’s doing less than great?” Charles, immediately exasperated, pointed toward the nurses’ station. “They’re all saying Charlie’s doing fantastic. The nurses, the people who bring his meals, other