Bridge to a Distant Star (19 page)

Charles leaned in close, deliberately attempting to keep his voice steady and calm. “We were just talking about your recovery, son. How we’re all going to fight to get you well. Your mom. Me. You, too.” He cleared his throat, coughing lightly. “Get you back out on that field before you know it. Running and … and …”

Fran reached across Charlie, putting her other hand on Charles’s arm.

“How long they sayin’ before I’m outta here, Dad?” Each word getting a bit more slurred.

“We don’t know for sure yet, Charlie. But your mom and I will be helping you every single step. Deal?”

“Yeah, sure. Deal.” He yawned, and asked in barely distinguishable words, “Did we win?”

“I don’t know, son. I’m convinced we did, though. Momentum had switched back to us for sure.”

Charlie smiled, his only acknowledgment. Eyelids heavy, he drifted back to sleep.

Personnel were bustling around them, prepping Charlie for surgery, an unwanted reminder to Fran that they’d soon be taking him away again. “Charles. Maybe we’d better pray now?”

In case Charlie could hear, he thought carefully about what he would say—more so, would not. “Take care of our son, Lord, please. We’re so grateful for—” His voice faltered, and Charles waited until he could speak calmly again. “Thank you for Charlie, and for all he means to us. We know he’s in your hands. In your name, amen.”

When Charles opened his eyes, he discovered Charlie staring up at him. “It’ll be okay, Dad. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.”

An orderly moved to the head of Charlie’s bed. When Fran finally tore her eyes from her son’s peaceful face, she reluctantly saw it was time to release him. She placed her palm on his cheek, putting her lips right next to his ear. Whispered, “I love you, Charlie. With all my heart.”

The nurse gave Fran a reassuring pat before they wheeled Charlie down the hallway.

Charles and Fran watched until they disappeared around a corner. She and Charles simultaneously reached out again, holding hands as they walked silently to the waiting room. But that slight physical touch was the only connection made, for each heart was an entity to itself. Two islands surrounded by a sea of pain.

Charles and Fran sat in a back corner of the waiting room, oblivious to the low lighting from several lamps, the shadows created by the softened hues in the twilight of the day. The window blinds were still open, allowing some outdoor lamps from the hospital’s parking lot to pour in more light. But the result was a contrast of bright and subdued, illumination and gloominess, a chiaroscuro painting. A television, tuned to a twenty-four-hours news station, was turned down to its lowest setting. Next to them was a coffee station—clearly in need of a cleaning—a profusion of used, stained cups, rumpled napkins, and opened sugar packets, sugar sprinkled everywhere. Charles slumped in a chair; Fran stretched out on a couch. Neither spoke. The only sounds were the low voices of the newscasters, Fran’s occasional sighs, and the hiss of the coffeemaker.

Earlier, Charlie’s entire soccer team, along with the parents, had come to visit. The usually boisterous boys were subdued as they waited to hear about Charlie’s condition. When informed about the seriousness of the injury—though not of the cancer or possible amputation—they were even quieter in their shock. Above all, Charles didn’t want their sympathy—didn’t want that for his son. So he thanked them for their concern and asked them to continue praying, encouraging the sober boys by insisting Charlie would come through surgery just fine.

At the sound of the door opening, both Charles and Fran instantly stood—Fran’s body rigid, attention focused on the two people who possessed information that would shape the remainder of their lives. Charles, towering over the two diminutive doctors, leaned toward them in a way that appeared to fill all the air around them.

Dr. Chang took a step backward. “First let me reassure you that Charlie’s doing just fine. All his vitals are good.”

“And his leg?” From Charles.

“I’m so sorry. We did everything possible to try and save it, but Charlie’s leg had to be amputated above the knee.”

Fran began sobbing hysterically and Charles groped toward her, taking her hands in his. Soothing, hushing, imploring, “Francine,
Francine.
Please, Francine.” She wouldn’t look up at him, only stared down into her lap, crying despondently. Her grief had become a vortex, despair feeding upon itself.

Charles attempted to reach her again. “
Lennie.
”

She quieted then. Looked up at her husband, a shadow of recognition mixing with sorrow. Fran hadn’t heard the endearing name in years.

When they were dating, Charles said she reminded him of his grandmother’s tea set—Lenox bone china. Fragile, delicate, beautiful. So he’d given her the pet name, calling her Lennie in moments of tenderness, and then later when she’d suffered her first miscarriage. After that, Charles discarded the name, deciding it only encouraged her to fight less. To surrender far too easily, giving in to defeat and failure. And miscarriage after miscarriage.

“You’re not keeping anything from us, are you? I mean, is Charlie
really—
?” Fran asked, fearfully.

Dr. Chang reached over and took Fran’s hands between her own. “He’s fine, Mrs. Thomason. We wouldn’t withhold vital information about a patient’s health, so you can be assured that Charlie’s doing well. He truly is.”

Charles blurted out, “How long for the recuperation? Before he can have a prosthesis fitted?”

Dr. Lee brought his hands up as though holding off a rambunctious child. “Mr. Thomason, Charlie’s going to need time to heal. And with chemotherapy, well, you have to give this process adequate time. Give
Charlie
time.”

Dr. Chang was nodding her head in agreement. “The stump must fully heal. The sutures, the inevitable swelling. And this is based on the assumption that we’ll have no problems like an infection along the way. We’ll get to a fitting as soon as possible, Mr. Thomason. Dr. Owens will help us determine when the time’s right.”

“Listen to me.” Jaw set, Charles’s tone was intense, nearly threatening. And although he was looking at Fran, his comments were also directed toward both doctors. “We’re going to fight. And we will beat this … this cancer. Next year at this time, I promise you Charlie will be playing soccer again.” Charles pointed his index finger into the air. “One year from this day”—with each word, he stabbed out again for emphasis—“Charlie will be out on that field.” Point made, he leaned back, crossing arms over his chest.

The doctors exchanged knowing looks, but they refrained from responding and instead directed their comments toward Charlie’s recovery in ICU and how long before he’d be released to a room. “Charlie could be in the ICU for two to several hours,” Dr. Chang said.

“Yes, so we encourage you to take a break. Get something to eat. You need to keep up your strength—for Charlie’s sake,” Dr. Lee implored. And then after reassuring them once more, the doctors left Charles and Fran alone again.

Neither spoke. The silence was such that anyone passing by would’ve thought the room empty—except for the two frozen forms and the vestiges of temporary residence scattered about: newspapers, a coat and sweater, lipstick-smudged coffee cups and reading glasses.

A nurse finally directed them to Charlie’s room around midnight, when they made the decision that Charles would drive home and settle things there, bringing back a change of clothes for Fran. He trudged out to the dimly lit parking lot with a list of things to do, people to call, and various items to bring to the hospital. He hated the thought of not being there when Charlie was brought to his room, but nurses assured him Charlie would be so groggy that he’d be barely conscious.

Fran was sipping a cup of coffee when she heard voices just down the hall. She rubbed sleep-deprived eyes and ran a hand through disheveled hair, prepared herself as best she could. Aides and nurses pushed open the door. Wheeled in a tiny, pitiful form enveloped in a huge bed, swathed in bandages, hooked up to even more lines, wires, and machines than earlier. The shock of it all caused Fran to draw a quick breath.

Standing back, Fran could only peek at Charlie as she anxiously waited for the nurses to get the IV adjusted, blood pressure pump and heart monitor readouts set up, and begin preparing to elevate Charlie’s leg.
The
stump,
Fran thought to herself. Tears threatened again but she willed them away.

The nurses were so busy at first they largely ignored her. Finally acknowledging Fran’s presence, they began coaching her. “His IV bag is nearly empty,” the nurse pointed out. Her words were clipped, movements efficient. “When it’s empty, it will start beeping, this button flashing. Here’s Charlie’s call button to the nurses’ station. Let us know when that happens by pressing it. Got it?”

In Fran’s grogginess, she concentrated hard to take it all in. “I think so.”

“Normally we’d be teaching Charlie about this, but he’s pretty much out of it still. I’m hoping he’ll sleep fairly well till morning, though we’ll need to keep taking his vitals throughout the night.”

The nurse continued adjusting various lines, a catheter bag, and the sling system which held up his stump.

“Before I leave tomorrow morning, I’ll show you the pressure garment. You’ll need to know how to remove it yourself before Charlie can leave the hospital. Then you’ll have to clean the wound and reapply the wrapping.”

Fran nodded at her, suddenly overwhelmed by it all.
I haven’t yet absorbed the fact that my son’s had an amputation,
she thought frantically.
How can I remember all these steps?

“If he should wake and complain about pain, call us right away. Okay, I think that’s it for now.” Her pocket’s contents—pens, hemostat scissors, other unknown small items—made a unique clicking sound as she hurriedly walked back down the hall toward the nurses’ station.

Fran looked down and saw Charlie’s eyes staring into hers.

“Mom?” His pupils were dilated, hazy. She watched them grow smaller as he focused on her face.

She searched for his hand, taking it gently between her own, mindful of the attached IV. Forced a reassuring smile. “Oh, love. How are you?”

“Leg hurts.”

“The nurse just left, but I’ll get her back here immediately.”

His eyelids were already getting heavy, closing slowly. Fluttering back open as he struggled to stay awake before closing again. “Nah, don’t bother. I think I’m gonna …” he yawned, slurring his words now, “just go back to sleep.” He smiled, mumbling just before he nodded off, “Whatever. They’re givin’ me. Good stuff.”

Fran reached up to smooth back the curls from his forehead, luxuriating in the very feel of him … his skin, hair, hands. She traced the small scar on the back of his hand with her thumb—a reminder of Bradley’s puppyhood and his razor-sharp teeth. Noted the cowlick on the right side of his forehead—which he’d had from birth, and that she recalled tenderly tracing her fingers over the very first time she’d held him. She allowed her gaze to roam over every inch of her son, taking in and cherishing all the boyish angles and bruises and scars, still-present baby fat amid the muscle.

She still felt stabs of pain when she recalled the miscarriages—a total of three, before Charlie was born. Two babies were far enough along to be identified as girls—a daughter had been the longing of her heart. After Charlie arrived and she could no longer get pregnant, Fran remembered wondering if she’d regret having only a boy. Her eyes welled with tears.
Regret?
she thought, and then smiled.
Never. Not once.

And then,
And he’s still with us. With me,
she reassured herself. She realized anew that Charlie’s birth had been a miraculous gift after the miscarriages. And his presence with her tonight was a gift from God again. A tear dropped onto Charlie’s arm as she whispered, “Thank you, God. Thank you for my son.”

Charlie’s eyes flitted back open. “Mom?”

“Oh, love. Sorry I woke you.”

He yawned. “Nah, not you. It was the sky.”

“What’s that?”

“I saw the sky—all these stars. It was so bright because the sky was full of them.”

Taken back by his nonsensical explanation, Fran gave him a puzzled look.

“They were all so clear. Usually most’re hard to see.”

“How so?”

“You know, Mom. The dimmest ones. When you try to see them, they just kinda … disappear.” His voice sounded raspy. His reasoning was drug-affected. But it was evident that he’d seen and experienced
some
thing.

Sensing it was important to Charlie, Fran wanted to understand. “I think I know what you mean. You’re talking about how stars seem to twinkle—an effect from their being so far away? Is that it?”

Charlie yawned. “Not like that … in my dream. Really … cool.”

“Oh?”

“I could look right at them, Mom, and
really
see them. So clear, I wanted to touch … almost could.” He blinked a couple times, an attempt to keep himself awake. “Wish you could’ve seen them too.” His voice grew softer, his words further apart again.

“Funny, I have this vague memory of your grandmother talking about that. It was something about those who look at stars and see them clearly are more able to—what was it? I think she said it meant you were more sensitive. To God.”