Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [76]
Charles’s eyes bored into his son’s. Probing. And demanding.
The gap between question and answer appeared inordinately long to Fran. Again she forced herself to hold back a caustic comment.
Charlie appeared to search within himself for motivation to take this leap of faith. For a moment, his eyes seemed unfocused. His shoulders rose noticeably as he took a deep breath. “I’m ready.” Sitting up straighter in his chair, he repeated with more enthusiasm, “Yeah. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”
George motioned for Charlie to accompany him and then raised a flat, upright palm toward Charles and Fran, signaling he didn’t want them to follow. “Mom and Dad, I’m going to ask you to remain here for just a bit while Charlie and I work together in the rehabilitation room. I want to give Charlie a chance to try this leg on his own first. Once he’s getting the hang of it—has gathered some confidence—I’ll send my assistant Roberta to get you.” George looked over his glasses from Fran to Charles. “We find that’s best.”
Though he caught the looks of disappointment from Charles and Fran, George exited with Charlie before either could utter an objection. And then they immediately turned to each other, irate.
“Well, thanks to you for that, Fran.” Charles glared at her, his voice coated with disgust. “Obviously he saw how you smother Charlie. Which meant Charlie would likely fail if you were watching, coddling him.”
Fran glowered right back. “I was thinking it was your fault, actually. How could George have failed to notice your … either your overbearing pressure or utter lack of compassion for Charlie. That you didn’t even—”
“Keep your voice down,” he ordered, between clenched teeth.
“You couldn’t even encourage him, Charles. You couldn’t even …” Fran shook her head, too exasperated and flustered to find the words she sought. She purposefully strode toward the back of the room and then reversed her direction, turning abruptly on her heels. “I’ve got to get out of here. There’s a bench just outside.” She opened the door and walked out, her voice trailing behind her. “We’ll just let the receptionist know …”
Charles followed behind, begrudgingly. Yet as angry as they both were, he agreed it was imperative that they go outside. Away from people. Out of earshot.
They both knew instinctively the time had come. They would have it out.
Momentarily performing for the receptionist, Fran smiled sweetly, explaining where they’d be. Without showing if she’d noticed the tension, the receptionist simply smiled and agreed to come get them when George summoned.
Fran proceeded immediately to the bench, leaning back and closing her eyes. Charles paced. Hands in his pockets, he fumed, ranting incoherently to himself.
She took a deep breath. Plunged in. “Charles, you’ve simply got to stop this. I can’t take it anymore,” she spit out. “Don’t you get it?” Tears filled her eyes, and in that instant, she finally gave full vent to the rage nearly exploding from within. “I can’t sit back and watch you do this to Charlie one moment longer. You’re going to destroy our son!”
“Me? You actually think it’s me that’s destroying him?” As he pointed an accusing finger at her, he trembled in his fury. “You’re the one, telling him to just trust God. Don’t you understand that’s the same as telling him to quit and give up?”
She jerked upright, defending herself, “No, it’s not—it’s not that at all.” But she wasn’t prepared for Charles’s next move.
Charles stood towering over her, his body intimidating—intentionally positioning himself that way—as he never had before. Fran felt a shiver go through her as she looked up, taking in the full blast of his anger.
“That’s exactly what that sick cliché means, Fran. Of all the idiotic, lame things to lay on Charlie. You’re telling him to give up every time you