Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [72]
One particular bout of postchemo nausea ravaged Charlie’s body even more than usual. Though his stomach contained nothing more to expel, the convulsive heaves continued to engulf his entire body, hour after hour, until Fran could stand it no longer. She simply held him to her, and cried. When Charles stayed away, completely avoiding Charlie’s bedroom and bath, she was appalled by his lack of empathy.
Once Charlie was so exhausted that he finally fell asleep and she could leave him for a while, Fran stormed into Charles’s office, where she found him filling out reports. Calmly, methodically working as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
She attacked him with words. “How can you possibly be so uncaring? Don’t you feel an ounce of compassion for your son when he’s suffering like that?” she threw at him. “I swear you have about as much ability to feel as a sociopath.”
Charles pointedly put down his pen, faced his irate wife. Trying to keep from reacting, striking out with anger, he calmly responded, “Francine, evidence of love is not merely through tears.”
She crossed her arms, a subconscious barrier between them. “But just once … just once I wish you could let Charlie see that you feel … something, for God’s sake.”
“You have no idea what—” and then, knowing that he was failing at his resolve to remain calm and detached, he stopped. “Know why I came in here? To pray for Charlie. You were holding him; praying felt like the only thing I could do. And maybe I … let’s just say there are things you don’t know, Fran.”
“Like what? What is it that I don’t know, Charles? Enlighten me, will you?”
Charles picked up his pen, returned his attention to his work. She could see the familiar muscle tensing in the firm line of his jaw. “I really don’t think details are necessary.” He shrugged his shoulders. “You do what’s necessary, that’s all.”
“Like your father did?”
He jerked his head up to spit back, “Don’t ever throw his actions back at me again. I am not like him. When you lose both your parents, you become what you have to. To survive.”
Stung, remorseful, Fran instantly softened. “I guess I really don’t … you’ve never told me much about your dad’s death, Charles. I know your mom died in childbirth when she had you, but your dad?” Probing gently, she said, “I don’t know anything, really. But I’d really like to hear more. Please, Charles?”
He lifted his pen into the air, casually waving off the suggestion. “Water over the dam. No sense revisiting any of it. He got cancer and died. End of story.”
“What kind of cancer? How old were you then? And can you tell me how that made you feel?”
Slowly, Charles lifted his gaze to meet her eyes, frowning.
“Okay, so you don’t want to talk about that. But what about your aunt and uncle? The ones who raised you?”
“They were wonderful—you know that. You’ve met them. Fran, this is going nowhere …”
She sat down, taking a deep breath and willing herself to not react defensively. “Charles, so many times in the past I’ve attempted to get you to talk about this. There was no compelling reason before—besides the fact that I just wanted to get to know you better. What’s affected you … made you who you are today. It feels like … like we have this huge barrier between us, and I want so much to know. And now—now there is a compelling reason: Charlie. For his good—and because you love him—won’t you tell me more about your dad? Please, Charles? For Charlie’s sake?”
Charles put down his pen and pushed away from the handsome cherry desk, leaning back in his leather chair. He narrowed his eyes as he gazed out the large picture window that overlooked their front yard. “Dad got cancer of the kidney. Pretty devastating today even—but back then? It was a death sentence, effective almost immediately. He died after only three months.”
Understanding flooded Fran’s mind. “Oh, Charles. I’m so sorry.”
Charles chuckled.