Bridge to a Distant Star (25 page)

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 back so that she could look into his eyes again. “I imagine it was like a recording in your subconscious that played over and over. You didn’t even need to start it up, it was so ingrained.”

“I’m trying to remember. We’ve studied that passage in Sunday school. Pastor preached on it too.” Charles was reflective a moment. “I suppose it doesn’t mean all I’ve wanted it to all these years.”

Fran shrugged. “I’ve always assumed ‘pick up your cross’ was more of a reminder that I should be willing to go that far for him—to suffer as he did.” She chose her words carefully, conscious of the vulnerable path between them. “And to be willing to suffer—maybe to the point of actually
dying
for him. If that’s what he wants me to do. Kind of a ‘if you want to become my follower then you’d better count the cost’ kind of warning.”

Charles pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose. “I guess so.” He cleared his throat, stalling for time. Struggling to control his emotions once again and find the right words. They were like fencers, dueling with parries, if not thrusts. Neither wanting to hurt the other, but defending themselves still, remembering too many wounds in the past. “It’s a stark image, isn’t it? The cost of being a Christian. Symbolically carrying the crossbeam to the place of crucifixion.”

He turned toward Fran, his face reflecting a mixture of pain and peace that would force him to look further inward. “I guess I’ve never really wanted to accept that kind of pain in a believer’s life. Not the concept of it. Certainly not the reality of it in my life—but more so, not in those I love.” His voice broke, and he stopped a moment. “My coping method,” he laughed cynically, shaking his head, “my way to cope—or deny, I suppose—was putting all my energies into my will to fight. And so I’ve fought, all right. Fought you. Memories. My dad and Sarah. My own son.”

Fran reached up to put her palm against his cheek again. This type of duel between them was new and untried, hesitant and unsure. Yet as she listened to the silence between them, she found it safe. And so she whispered, “I can picture that vulnerable little boy.” Her heart breaking at the scene in her mind’s eye, the child an exact replica of Charlie, she continued, “You were all alone. And you did what was needed to survive a devastating situation, Charles—one that might’ve broken a weaker man who
hadn’t
fought back. You thought you were doing the best thing for Charlie too—pushing him to do what would help him, all the while reliving your painful past through him. It’s no wonder you were so desperate, Charles.”

“I was afraid of being left alone again, Francine.” He pulled her into his arms. “Oh, Lennie,” he whispered against her hair. “I need you so much. I need you
both
so much. I’m afraid, Lennie. I’m so very afraid.”

“I’m afraid too, Charles. But even in the leaving, God’s there. Maybe it’s like the cross is the bridge between death and resurrection. Doesn’t God become the bridge between our fears and our ability to trust in him?” Fran stared off into the distance as though attempting to bring something unrecognized into focus. “I want to believe that being alone is different than being lonely. And being left isn’t as frightening when I know I’m in the bridge of God’s love.”

“I do too. But I’m thinking that’s merely my coping and denial tendencies again. Fact is: Sarah left.”

“She must’ve been in horrible pain, Charles. And afraid. I wonder if the responsibility of you weighing on her was just more than she could handle.”

“As a young boy, I was so angry at her. But now? Well, now I just feel … sad. Sad for her
and
me. We both missed out, didn’t we?”

They had no conscious realization of time passing. Of how long it was before the receptionist came to beckon them back inside. The two apprehensive parents who stood to walk back into the building had ventured onto new paths: revelation of a past that had bound and chained them in covert ways. A present that offered glimpses of hope for the future.

The young man who looked up to greet his parents glowed, proudly standing on two legs again. Completely oblivious of the painful journey to the past Charles and Fran had just been on, Charlie stared only straight ahead. Focused on the length of the floor below the beams at his sides. And though his first steps were slow and awkward—he clung to the chest-high supports on either side of him—Charles and Fran were as proud as though he’d scored the winning goal in the World Cup.

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. “Besides some clothes, I just might tuck in a star or two.”

Preparations and departure went amazingly smoothly, but their plane was late arriving in Tampa; a front of steady rain had moved in, causing delays. Refusing to allow the gloomy weather to dampen their spirits, however, they were all bubbling over with excitement as they climbed into the rental car they’d drive to the beach.

“A Mercedes, Charles? Really?” Fran asked skeptically, though she was grinning at him as he loaded their suitcases into the trunk.

“Absolutely. Only the best for our trip. Charlie, how about if you sit up front with me? You can be my navigator.”

If possible, Charlie’s smile widened even farther. “Sure thing, Dad.”

Charles held the door for Fran as she climbed into the back. He put a hand to his mouth, whispering conspiratorially to Charlie, “You know your mom. She could get us lost in our subdivision.”

“I heard that. But this seat is fine with me. Now I can be a backseat driver.”

They laughed and teased each other as they drove south, relaxed and without a hint of stress or tension—a direct contrast to the unsettling weather. When Charles suddenly became quiet, however, Fran sensed the change. And immediately felt herself go on guard.

“Charlie. I’ve been wanting to say something to you,” Charles began. “When … when I was a child you know that I lost both my mother and father.”

Charlie watched his father intently. Became rigid in his intense concentration.

“And then … then I lost someone else that I dearly loved. And so I’ve been … I’ve been way too hard on you, son. My fears got transferred to you, and that wasn’t fair.” Charles didn’t look at Charlie, but continued to stare out to the road ahead—partly because the weather was so poor. But mostly because of his insecurity and fear of how Charlie would respond.

He swallowed, and with effort, continued, “I am so sorry, Charlie. Will you forgive me for that, son?”

“Sure, Dad,” Charlie replied, as he smiled shyly up at him. “But there’s really nothing to forgive.”

Fran closed her eyes and breathed a prayer of joy as tears slipped down her cheeks.

A huge rumble of thunder shook the car, and Fran jumped, startled. Looking out the window, she searched for a road sign; she’d been so focused on Charles and Charlie that she’d not even noticed—until just then—how bad the weather had become. The rain pounded on the windshield and lightning flashed almost continuously. “Where are we now, Charles?”

Immediately, as though on cue, lightning highlighted the vast beams of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. The simultaneous thunder proved they were thrust into the very heart of the storm—the thunder and the car’s sudden responding jolt sideways. Then, just as quickly, it jerked forward, almost as though a huge, unseen hand had taken control.

“What on earth?” Charles said.

Frustrated that she couldn’t see much of anything out front, Fran turned around to look out the back window. She felt the sensation of launching into nothingness pull her out and away from the road below. Gazing upward, Fran stared off into the distance. Another attempt to bring that same unrecognized something into focus.

Until they plunged into the raging waters beneath them.

Book Three

Follow Me

Mid-March 2009

McMaster’s Bible College, Tennessee

The all-too-familiar feelings assaulted Michal again, bullying her mind back to the rolling hills of Ethiopia. She was six years old then—tall for her age and therefore gangly and awkward, freckled, with long blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail. It was the type of fine hair that would not be contained neatly; wispy locks escaped around her face and neck. Tendrils which tickled and exasperated.

The nauseating fear had attacked first. Creeping over her like an aggressive fog, causing her to break out in a cold sweat and her stomach to feel like it was being turned inside out. Panic was its accomplice, robbing Michal of any capacity for rational thought; she felt paralyzed.

Images flashed like a spastic slide show. The battered brown suitcase, her grip on the handle so intense that she watched her knuckles turn white. The hem of her dress, the tiny stitches of thread. The toes of her worn tennis shoes. Her dad’s deep-set dark brown eyes, filled with weariness and disappointment. Her mom’s light grey eyes, stern, reproachful. Attempting to control Michal with the sheer force of their intensity.

She could smell the dew of the morning mingled with the pungent exhaust from the idling old station wagon. Feel the heat of the sun on her head and shoulders, the scratchy upholstery against the tender skin of her thighs, the irritating wetness above her lip, evidence of a runny nose, her emotions barely held in check. She heard the irregular rattle of the car’s aging engine, her own sniffs and hiccups.

Snatches of dialogue came in an onslaught against her ears. They erupted like gunfire, and she cringed.

“Please, Daddy. I could have school right here. Mommy can teach me.”

“You have to go—it’s what’s best. Most importantly, it’s what God wants.”

“But maybe … maybe God’s wrong this time.” As soon as she let the words slip out, she knew she’d committed a grave mistake.

Her father leaned down on one knee, looking her right in the eyes. Narrowed his gaze. “Never say that again, Michal. You know God reveals his will to us. After we’ve prayed and sought him through Scripture. He’s never wrong, never. God will take care of you, don’t you believe that? Your mom and I are trusting God. Now it’s your turn to trust him too, Michal.”

“But what if I get sick? Who will put a cool cloth to my forehead?” In her rising anxiety, her questions came faster, her words staccato and sharp: “What if my tummy doesn’t want food again? Who will make a special broth and feed it to me?” The tears formed suddenly, pushing out of her eyes and running down her cheeks. “Who will—?”

Her mother’s voice now. “Michal, enough. We’ve been through all this. I would come if you got really ill, but you’re not going to. You’re going to be fine. This is God’s will, Michal, and you will stop this right now. Be brave like all the others before you—like your grandpa when he was your age. And your dad and his brothers and sisters. Are you going to be the first McHenry not to accept the importance of our work here in Ethiopia? And that this is the only way we can stay, doing what God’s called us to do? Don’t you care about the unbelievers here who need Jesus?”

And then she felt the good-bye, the closing scene. The obligatory hug that merely left her feeling vacant. Longing for more, for … something. Never the melding that Michal ached for from her parents, when the contours of two flow one into the other. Instead, this hug was instruction, correction in euphemistic form.

The recurrent dream changed at this point, switching venues, and she shivered violently. She was underwater; it was pitch black and she was gasping for air, grasping for what taunted and teased just beyond her reach. And then she woke, bolting upright in bed.

Michal’s heart pounded and she panted as if she’d been running. Blinking her eyes and attempting to orient herself, she stared at the curtain, watching it flap softly against the sill. A motor idled from a car outside her room. She took a deep breath and reassured herself,
Calm down. It’s okay. You’re not in Ethiopia. You’re in your dorm room, at school, in the States.

“Michal, you okay? That’s the second nightmare you’ve had this week.” Beth, Michal’s roommate, peered at her curiously from the other twin bed.

Michal flopped back onto her pillow. Stared up at the ceiling, faintly visible in the early morning light. “Bad memories. But yeah, I’m okay.” She turned to view the alarm clock on her desk, then flipped over and groaned, complaining, “Except for the fact that I’ve got to get up. I don’t know. I’m just not getting much out of chapel lately.”

“Me neither. I really don’t want to go this morning.” Beth frowned, making a face like she’d sucked on a lemon. “It’s a missionary today.”

“Oh, yeah. Where’s he from?”

“Don’t remember. Don’t want to.”

“Wasn’t it Chile? You’re not interested?”

Beth’s face registered near horror. “Nope.”

Since Beth had grown up in Brazil, where her parents were still missionaries, Michal assumed she’d be curious.

“So use one of your cuts.”

“Can’t. I’ve used ’em all.”

Michal’s eyes opened wider at that. “For the whole semester? Already?”

Beth pulled the covers up over her head, so all Michal heard was a slightly muffled, “Yup.”

Michal raised herself up on one elbow to have a better view of the lump that was Beth. Confused, she asked, “But you’ve been walking over to chapel with me almost every morning. Haven’t you been going in?”

McMaster’s Bible College required daily chapel attendance, except for a number of approved “cuts.” A small, nondenominational evangelical school that awarded degrees in Bible for ministers, missionaries, and laypersons, McMaster’s stressed living a Christian lifestyle—pretty much demanded it. In the administrators’ minds, learning how to live a holy life began in daily chapel. Attendance was required; actual participation—as every student knew—was optional.

No response from Beth but a noticeable shaking back and forth under the faded maroon bedspread. It was an inexpensive quilt, the kind sewn by machine in big, looping stitches that easily snagged and snapped. Leaving threads hanging and the resulting smooth patches without additional quilting.

In contrast, Michal’s bed was covered with a bright blue and yellow quilt, a genuine one. It was completely handmade, pieced together square by square, the tiny stitches perfectly spaced in a beautiful pattern called Starry Nights. Michal’s quilt was the one cheerful accent in the otherwise unadorned room—a very atypical college dorm room in many ways.

Most of the other women in Peterson Dormitory—after advance notification of assigned roommates—had been proactive about contacting one another. They’d developed elaborate plans to decorate their rooms with matching bedspreads, study pillows, rugs, sheets, and towels. Some even purchased curtains to replace the drab and worn navy ones provided. Rooms with the plainest raw materials—beige-colored cement block walls, metal desks and beds, scuffed tan linoleum floors—were effectively disguised to effects almost worthy of ads in home-makeover magazines.

Michal and Beth’s room was a notable exception.

Though they’d been assigned as roommates—both were missionary kids (MKs) who hadn’t lived in the States for years (the administration thought it a perfect match to help with adjustment problems)—Michal and Beth never bothered to contact each other. So there was no prior coordination of decor. No assigning of who was to bring or buy what. Bed coverings, towels, rugs, and pillows were hodgepodge at best. Whatever was worn-out and could be spared from home at worst. The quilt, which Michal’s Aunt Sarah had made—and which she treasured—was the one bright spot in the entire room.

Neither Michal nor Beth appeared to care that their room was teasingly yet affectionately known as the “Barrel Room.” After school began, the dorm had an open house—an opportunity to browse through each others’ rooms, admiring the coordinated decoration. For the special evening, Michal sketched a picture of a barrel on brown poster board. After tacking it to the door, she laughingly explained that the contents of their room had come from the bottoms of missionary barrels. Which were described as containing books of matches missing half the sticks. Socks with holes. Towels with frayed edges. Blouses without buttons. And patchwork quilts.

As Michal held the quilt up to her chin, she gave Beth a look of astonishment. “What have you been doing, Beth? Where do you go during chapel?”

“Oh, I just kinda … hang out.”

A sudden worry struck Michal. “Hey, you’re not getting sick again like you were back in September, are you? I thought you were never gonna get over that stomach flu, Beth.”

“No. It’s not that—not anything physical. I feel great, really.”

Michal glanced over at the clock again, and at that exact moment, the alarm came on. At the sudden harsh, irritating sound, she reached over to smack the button with her palm.

“I hate that alarm. If I’m not waking up with my heart pounding because of a stupid nightmare, this dumb clock has the same effect.”

Beth rolled toward the wall, grousing as she did so, “Then why don’t you set it to music?”

Michal jerked the covers down, climbed out of bed. She ran her fingers lightly through her hair, trying to judge if it needed washing. Noticing Beth’s inactivity, she urged, “Beth. You need to get up.”

“Why? I’m already gonna get detention for too many cuts. What’s one more?”

Michal padded over to her roommate’s bed. “Beth, are you okay? I mean … really. Are you all right?” The pause worried Michal, and she reached out to lightly touch Beth’s shoulder.

Still electing to remain beneath the bedspread, Beth finally responded, “I’m just sleepy. I was up late studying. Stupid English exam.”

“Well, if you’re sure then. I’d better get going.” Michal began tugging up her sheet, straightening the pillow and quilt. “You just going to stay in bed a while?”

“Uh-huh.”

When Michal entered the bathroom the six women in her suite shared, she discovered Ruth and Jenny were there, one at a sink and the other in the shower. Since Michal and Ruth were the only ones who were somewhat personable in the early morning hours, Jenny merely grunted when Michal entered. Michal simply said “Morning” back. But when Ruth began singing in the shower—prompting Jenny to frown and roll her eyes—Michal laughed.

Deciding her hair could go another day without washing, Michal showered quickly. She wet her shoulder-length hair and pulled it into a casual ponytail with a simple rubber band. Her blonde hair had darkened considerably and was now a light brown with blonde highlights. But it hadn’t lost its wispy tendency, nor the natural curls; both qualities meant that tendrils still escaped the confines of the rubber band. Rarely, on special occasions, Michal would blow-dry her hair—but even then, she’d merely tuck it behind her ears. No fancy styling, no bows or barrettes, no fuss.

The other girls were amazed when Michal arrived at school with absolutely no makeup. No blush, mascara, lipstick, powder. Definitely no eyelash curler (she’d responded with amazement when shown the “contraption,” as she called it), eyeliner, or eye shadow.

As Michal stood at the sink brushing her teeth, she took note of the spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, a remnant from her childhood Michal considered an ongoing aggravation. After rinsing her mouth, she impulsively stuck out her tongue at the offending spots. Otherwise, her skin was perfectly clear, emitting a peaches-and-cream glow. As a rare fair-skinned person in remote sections of Africa, she’d learned to apply moisturizer with sunscreen every day, and did that still. Smoothing the cream around her eyes, she took for granted the long, naturally curly lashes (she had no need of the contraption) framing her almond-shaped light grey eyes, the slightly turned-up nose, the full and well-shaped lips. Samantha, another of her suitemates, liberally used makeup, and quickly recognized what a skillful application could do for Michal’s cheekbones and eyes. But Michal had remained adamant she hadn’t the time or desire to “mess with all that stuff.”

Michal’s one indulgence was a pair of pierced earrings, small gold hoops she’d received as a young child. Rarely removed, the earrings were such a part of her image she scarcely took notice of them anymore.

At five feet nine inches, she was no longer gangly, having grown into her long legs. A natural athlete, Michal moved with grace and coordination, but preferred to run only as a personal discipline, declining to participate in competitive track and other organized sports. Sometimes she’d join an impromptu pick-up game of soccer, basketball, or volleyball, her skills quickly making her a desired team member. Intramural team players begged her to play, but she’d refused, insisting she needed more time to “hit the books.” When needing a stress reliever or a break from study, however, she’d run. Sometimes for several miles, as she had in Ethiopia.

Michal indiscriminately pulled clothes out of the closet—a plain white blouse and jeans. Years of coming to the States on furlough and discovering her clothes were woefully outdated had led to a firm resolve: She disregarded being in style almost entirely. Attempting to rotate her outfits (she had a total of about ten, as she switched blouses with differing skirts, slacks, and jeans), Michal didn’t fret much over that either. In her opinion, hassling over clothes, hair, and makeup wasn’t worth the time or effort.