Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [77]
And then the tears formed. Slowly at first, as they collected in his eyes. But then spilling over, gushing out. Coursing down his cheeks. Fran’s mouth dropped open. She’d rarely seen Charles shed a single tear, let alone witness this kind of weeping. He hadn’t really cried once since this entire nightmare began. A great, heaving sob erupted from deep within, and in his sudden embarrassment, he turned his back to her, hunching his shoulders as he moved away. Moaning now, sounds of utter devastation. Fran’s anger instantly dissipated, converting to compassion for her husband, and she instinctively rose to reach for him—only to be pushed away.
“Charles, what is it? Tell me, please.”
Barely above a whisper, he choked out between sobs, “I’m so … so scared. Scared we’ll lose him. I can’t—I just can’t lose anyone else. It was too much … as a child. I can’t …”
“Your mother and father.”
Charles struggled to talk still. “He kept saying, ‘Just trust God. Rest in God’s will. Everything will be … fine.’ But he left me. And then she did too.” The words ended in a whimper. From Charles, the intimidator.
“Your father said that, right? But who else—who left you, Charles?”
He buried his head in his hands. “Her name was Sarah, but I called her mom. She was the only mom I knew, really. And then she left me too.”
“Who? Why? Charles, I’m so sorry. Are you saying your dad had remarried?”
Charles slumped down onto the bench, and he stared at the ground. Finally quieting some, he took a deep breath and continued, letting his words come out in a rush. “Yes, he did. I don’t even know what her maiden name was, but she was … wonderful.” He swallowed, and continued on. “They were so happy—we all were—just like a regular family. And then Dad got the cancer diagnosis. He promised me she would always be there. That I just needed to trust God and everything would be okay. But then Dad died … and she left.” He was silent, bereft.
Fran reached out tentatively, softly touching his arm. “You must’ve felt … rejected? And so alone.”
Tears continued to slip from Charles’s eyes. She watched them fall onto the ground at his feet and reached out a palm to tenderly wipe his cheek.
“I was alone. Everyone was gone—my mom, who I never knew, of course. My dad. And then Sarah, too.”
“Do you know where she went? What happened to her?”
Charles shook his head. “I went to live with my aunt and uncle. Never heard from Sarah again. And I vowed …” he struggled to keep from losing control again, “… I vowed that I’d never allow anyone to tell me—or anyone I loved—to just trust God or anything like that because I would never willingly be a victim again.”
She put her arm around him. Rested her cheek against his shoulder.
“It wasn’t long after I went to live with Uncle Richard and Aunt Lynn that I heard this preacher—they pretty much always had Christian radio blaring, their not-so-subtle way of preaching at me—and he was preaching on the verse where Christ says to ‘Deny yourself, pick up your cross, and follow me.’”
Charles turned to her, his eyes blazing. “It was like I heard that verse for the very first time.” He held up a tightened fist as though he had just captured the concept once more. “That was the answer. You fight for … for everything. Whenever life throws something at you, you don’t just sit back. You do something about it. Rest in simplistic trust? By God, no. You pick up your cross—whatever it is—and you fight! You fight with every inch of your being. And I will fight for my son, Fran, I will.”
Fran cautiously put her arms around her husband and pulled him to her, praying for acceptance, steeling herself for rejection. But she felt him subtly give way as he relaxed against her, no longer holding her at arm’s length—pushing her away physically. More importantly, emotionally. They molded to each other’s bodies as they had not done in months. And wept together.
Charles, suddenly embarrassed, muttered, “That verse? I think it’s become like a mantra in my head, you know?”
Fran pulled