Bridge to a Distant Star - Carolyn Williford [79]
Fran stopped before him, pressed both hands to her heart. Began weeping for joy through a smile not incongruent with her tears. She turned to look over at Charles, reveling in his reaction.
“That’s my son,” he choked out, emotion tightening his throat, tears filling his eyes, unashamedly. “Oh, Charlie. I’m so proud of you.”
If not for the crutches, a stranger observing the family leaving the building that day wouldn’t have guessed which one walked on a newly christened prosthetic leg. For they moved forward as one, leaning toward a center together, supporting one another.
After they’d pulled into their driveway, Charles uncharacteristically sat silently a moment, fidgeting with the keys, passing them from one hand to the other. Turning to look back at Charlie. Finally, he offered, “We can do this. Together—all three of us, I mean—with God’s help. We will do this.” Then, almost an afterthought, “You know I love you, son.”
Later that evening, as Charles and Fran stood on the patio—Charlie was fast asleep, his leg reverently placed so he would see it first thing in the morning—they stood apart from one another. Gazing up at a cloudy sky, only a few stars peeking out from the haze.
“It seems like only yesterday, and yet so long ago at the same time, when Charlie first woke from surgery. Chattering away about stars.”
Charles took a sip of his drink. “Tell me more about that. What all did he say?”
“Just that he could see stars so clearly. They weren’t—you know, hazy at all. But incredibly clear to him.” She sighed, hugging her arms to herself as she continued to look upward. “I can almost imagine it, you know?”
He scoffed. “Not tonight. Typical Chicago gloom. We’d have to get far away from this weather and all the city lights to see stars clearly.”
Fran ventured, “Charles, what if we went away this weekend? A long weekend, to the beach? We could take the Thursday night red-eye, get to Tampa by Friday morning. Drive down … we’d have three whole days together.” Her voice rose in excitement as she shared the strategy for their escape. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful? For all of us?”
He twirled the stem of the glass between his fingers. “Where you thinking? Marco Island?”
She didn’t reach out to him, though her arms ached to do so. Instead, she allowed her words to convey the longing. “Oh, Charles. I think it’s just what we need. Charlie’s in between chemo treatments right now, so it’s perfect timing for him. Could you get away, last minute like this?”
“It’s a slow time. Definitely a possibility.” Charles put the glass down and gently took her hand, pulling her to him. He reached up to caress her hair. “Can you … can you forgive me?”
“Oh, Charles. There’s nothing to forgive.”
“And Charlie? Think he can forgive me?”
She traced the line of his jaw to his lips with a finger. “Why don’t you ask him? I think he’ll say the same thing I just did. There’s nothing to forgive.”
Charles kissed her gently, and turned her so she was in front of him, leaning against his chest, his arms around her. He pointed out a star newly emerged from behind a passing cloud. “There’s a fairly bright one for you.”
Fran smiled. “I see it. Must be one of Charlie’s.”
“We’d better get to bed. Busy day tomorrow. I’ll call about a flight. How about if you try to get reservations at that hotel we liked so much, okay?”
“Umm. Absolutely.”
Neither moved. Fran contentedly snuggled even closer.
“You’ll need to take Bradley to the kennel. Cancel the paper and the mail.” As they regretfully pulled apart and Charles locked the door behind them, he asked, “Would you mind packing for me too?”
“Oh, I suppose I could do that.” Fran grinned playfully up at him.