In the backseat, Charlie was restless, constantly switching positions in an attempt to find relief from his throbbing leg. But nothing eased the now-unremitting pain. He wanted to ask for pain relievers, but his dad would frown on it and his mom would only worry more. Dynamics that could ignite yet another argument between the two. So Charlie decided he would bear the pain. In silence.
Later, when they turned into their neighborhood, Charles was still in his element; he enjoyed waving at friends and took great pleasure in the elegance of the neighborhood that seemed to greet him personally. Huge oaks, elms, and cottonwoods bordered the street; though the trees were not yet waving leaves from their graceful limbs, the buds were there. Stately homes lined the winding sidewalks, well-built brick and stone edifices that provided security, status. Charles unconsciously nodded his head, reassured. He breathed a sigh of relief as he scanned the neighborhood one more time and then allowed his gaze to rest on his own home.
An opulent mansion greeted them. Artistically designed landscaping framed the stone house, while stained glass—sparkling, catching the light of the sun—arched above the imposing front door. The graceful lines of the turrets and gables tempted the eye to study its roofline, the rod-iron balconies, rich fabrics of draperies peeking through windows. Inside, a spacious two-story foyer held a winding staircase, pink marble floor, artwork on the walls along with the most recent family portrait. The stunning oil had been painted by a nationally known artist, and he had captured not merely their physical likenesses, but a sense of the three individual personalities.
Charles had leaned toward the painter, chin on hand, elbow on knee, appearing to take on any onlookers. Driving home his point—whatever that might be—on any given subject. By contrast, Fran lightly draped one slender hand on her husband’s knee, while the other rested on Charlie’s shoulder. Appearing as fragile as exquisite bone china, she was clearly a bridge between father and son, negotiating a connection between their starkly differing personalities by the sheer force of her intense love for each of them. And then Charlie, the young physical replica of his father. But the resemblance ended with his visage, for Charlie’s face was an open invitation, reaching out for life—naïveté, eagerness, and vulnerability stamped on his features.
Climbing the steps from the garage, Charlie had to concentrate on not limping. He was simply hoping to get to his room, lie on his bed, and read—resting under the pretense of finishing a book assigned over spring break. But when their rambunctious yellow lab Bradley came racing around the corner and jumped on him, Charlie nearly lost his balance. Had to jerk backward, shifting all his weight to his right leg. This time, he couldn’t hide his immediate reaction. “Ouch. Bradley, cut it out.”
Instantly, Fran was next to him, her face a picture of worry.
Noting that his dad was still out in the garage, Charlie decided the timing—if he were going to admit anything—was as good as it was going to get. “I’m a little sore, Mom. That’s all. Coach Henry said to ice it.”
“A little sore? Get your shoes and shin guards off. Socks, too.” All business now, Fran opened the freezer to hunt for the gel pack they’d used countless times before to cool swollen ankles, bruised thighs, a tired throwing arm. “How about if you stretch out on the couch in the family room? Grab the remote first.” She momentarily turned her back to him, searching through the vast reaches of the freezer. “I’ll just get you something to drink and then I’ll be right there.”
Charlie limped toward the family room, Bradley glued to his side. Once Charlie had plopped down and turned on the television, he reached toward the lab, feeling remorseful, rubbing behind the dog’s ear. “Sorry I yelled at you, Brad, ole boy. Forgive me?”
Bradley sniffed his hand, then licked the entire right side of his face before Charlie could jerk away. “Guess that means I’m forgiven. Don’t hold grudges, do you, buddy?”
“Bradley taking good care of you?” his mom asked, gently placing the frozen gel pack on Charlie’s leg, moving it to the spot he gestured to. She handed him a glass of sports water and two pain relievers.
“I guess you could say he’s taking care of me. If that means covering my face with slobber.”
Fran laughed and sat on the coffee table. She moved the gel pack less than an inch, up toward Charlie’s knee. Contemplated it for a moment and moved it an inch again, the opposite way. When she finally looked up at Charlie, he lay grinning at her.
“I’m going to be okay, Mom. Really.”
“But you were hurting last week. And the week before. I’ve seen you limping, Charlie. Don’t you think it’s about time we had Dr. Seldon take a look at it?”
“He’ll just tell me to use ice. Rest and stay off it. Mom, I’m not doin’ that till the tournament is over.”
“So you’ll go see Dr. Seldon on Monday?”
“I’ve got school on Monday. It’s not like it’s an emergency or anything.”
“Well, let’s see what the doctor’s office says. Could be they’ll want to see you right away.”
“What’s this?” Charles walked into the family room, reaching down to pat Bradley’s head before shooting a puzzled look toward Fran. “You’re calling the doctor about a bruised leg?”
Charlie started to open his mouth to answer when his mom cut in, “Charles, he’s been sore for weeks now.”
“That’s what happens when you play tough, eh, Charlie?” Charles noted the mindless conversation on a television show in the background and nonchalantly reached for the remote. “Any good games on today? Sox’re playing, aren’t they?” His eyes remained glued to the TV as he flipped through channels and—in a tone of forced casualness—asked, “Francine, could I speak to you for a moment? In our bedroom?” Not giving Fran a glance until he found the desired game. “Sox versus Indians. That’s a guaranteed win. Find out the score, okay?”
Charles gave his wife a pointed look and tossed Charlie the remote.
Fran leaned over and kissed Charlie on the forehead. “We’ll just be a few minutes. I’ll be right back, promise.”
Silently she followed Charles out of the room, into the foyer, and up the winding stairs. She mentally counted the steps, just as she did every time. All twenty-four. Her efforts toward finding some order in her world, comfort that the planes and angles of her home remained the same. Day after day … months leading to years. At least these things would not change, shaking the fragility of her tenuous hold on what she loved.
Charles led Fran into the spacious master bedroom, closing the French doors behind them. He walked to the curved bench at the foot of their bed, sat down and began removing sneakers. “I thought we had an agreement, Francine. No coddling.”
“I thought we had agreed, Charles. No more pressuring him.”
He pitched a sneaker in the direction of the closet. Began unlacing the other.
Fran sat on the chaise lounge and put up her feet. It was as near to plopping down as her naturally elegant movements would allow. “Charles, even Paul told him to rest the leg and ice it, for crying out loud. It’s a wise precaution to have it checked by the doctor. Why are you being this way?”
“If he’s going to start center forward for Northwestern, he needs to stop babying himself. Time he toughened up, Francine.”
“I can’t believe this. Charles, he’s not even thirteen years old yet.”
“That means there’s five years left. Five years to prove he’s recruitment material. He’s not going to get the interest of a coach if—”
“Stop.” Fran leaned toward Charles in her frustration, pulling her hands into fists. “Stop right this instant. We don’t even know where he wants to go to college yet. Maybe he’ll be interested in Harvard. Or Wheaton. Charles, we’re going to—you are going to allow Charlie to decide this. So help me, I will stand my ground on this one. You will not pressure him already about college and a so
ccer career. He’s a boy! And we will allow him to remain a boy until the time comes when he needs to make grown-up decisions.”
The intense look on Charles’s face slowly evolved … relaxed … into a wide grin.
Charles would never forget the first time he noticed Francine. He was a junior, the star quarterback on the college team. Somehow he’d missed completing a requirement for graduation, a science course—either geology or biology. For that reason alone he’d registered for Biology 101 and was dreading it, until he glimpsed the gorgeous brunette sitting in the first row.
In the first five minutes he’d learned her name: Francine Dupre. Yes, she’d patiently answered, her father was French, her mother, American. She’d gone to France every summer to visit relatives and spoke French like a native. Amazing eyes, her body tall and slim and poised—she looked like a model and carried herself that way. The aura around Francine tended to set every male within twenty feet on edge; she was that noticeable.
Still, those attractions alone wouldn’t have provided enough impetus for Charles to pursue her. He’d eventually learned of a deeper quality. Though she appeared as delicate as the English teacups and saucers his aunt kept in the curio cabinet of his adopted childhood home, there was a side to Francine not readily apparent—a flint-like will. And like flint, when struck with steel, she sparked. Charles Edgar Thomason soon realized the delicate bone china was the perfect match for his steel.
As he watched Fran’s eyes flash and spark now, Charles couldn’t help but think back to the girl who first caught his attention in Biology 101.
“What are you grinning at?” His smirk and raised eyebrows made her anger even more intense.
“Always did like a spark of fire in your eyes,” he said, his own eyes glowing.
“You’re absolutely despicable, Charles.” She charged up off the chaise, her feet barely skimming the floor as she covered the distance to the door. She flung back over her shoulder, “I’ll take this to mean we are in agreement now. You will stop pressuring Charlie. And I will make an appointment with the doctor once this tournament is over.”
“Hey. I never agreed to that. He’s got a bruise, Francine!” Charles moved to the landing outside their room, leaned over and called down, “We are not in agreement on this.” He scowled at her retreating back, disgusted with himself for the momentary distraction.
But she had moved on. Was already checking on Charlie. “Okay, love?”
Apparently engrossed in the ballgame, Charlie merely glanced her way and barely nodded. “Sure. Doin’ great.”
Charlie’s eyes were on the game, but his attention had roamed elsewhere. From the moment his parents started bickering, he’d begun fretting. More and more frequently, their disagreements focused on him—his schedule, which was a constant rush to varied activities; any physical issues, from mere sniffles to the broken arm he’d suffered last year; and his emotional makeup, whether he was happy or merely out of sorts. The need to be constantly upbeat dogged Charlie; the slightest sign of weariness or negativity caused his mom to worry. And then his dad lectured them both. No matter what, it’s my fault when they fight about me, Charlie lectured himself. I gotta be more careful about what I do. What I say.
“My fault,” Charlie mumbled to himself.
“You say something, Charlie?” his mom asked, poking her head around the corner to check on him.
“Nothin’, Mom.” He shrugged his shoulders, grinning now. “I’m great.”
When Charlie woke the next morning, his thoughts immediately went to the game. And then to his leg. Gingerly, he moved it a little. Reaching down to feel it, he noted the area of swelling just below his knee. Not nearly as sore as yesterday, he thought. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and heard a slight rap on the door.
“Awake, Charlie?” His mom eased the door open a fraction, peeking in.
“Hey. Just woke up.”
Fran was tying the belt of her robe as she pushed open the door with her elbows. “How you feeling this morning, love?”
“Fine.” He stretched out his leg. Testing. “It’s better, Mom. The ice must’ve helped.”
“It feels good enough to play?”
“Mom.”
“Okay, I get the point.” She grinned at him, holding her hands up in surrender. “So, eggs, bacon, and toast this morning?”
“Sounds great.”
“Charlie, if at any point you’re hurting and need to stop playing,” she hesitated, cautiously weighing her words, “well, I know Coach Henry would agree with me. It’s okay. Will you please remember that for me?”
“Sure, Mom.”
She leaned down to rest her cheek on top of his head for a few moments while she whispered, “I love you, Charlie. Whether you play and don’t do well. If you score and win the game for the team. Or if you don’t play at all. Every bit of that has nothing to do with how much I love you.” Then she tilted his head up to her so she could look into his eyes again. “Okay?”
Charlie nodded. “Okay.”
Silently, she turned and left his room, closing the door behind her.
What would Dad say if I came off the field? Charlie had not spoken the question out loud, but he might as well have. The words were just as concrete and real in his mind.
He stood up, feeling a stab of pain as he put all his weight on the right leg. But as he stretched and walked around his room, the pain seemed to ease. It was just stiff from sleeping, Charlie reassured himself. It’s better. I’m sure of it.
Donning his uniform, Charlie’s mind and heart began racing. He smiled to himself, anticipating the excitement of being on the field. Feeling the ball at his feet. Sensing—knowing when to pass. And when to shoot for the goal. It was his own pep session, his way to psyche himself for the game—mentally, physically, emotionally. By the time he was dressed, he’d mentally run through several drills. Lastly, Charlie stood before his mirror. Ran a comb through his hair, but decided it was a waste of time to wet down the untamed curls. He knew girls liked his hair, but the curls were his nemesis.
He trotted down the stairs, enjoying the aroma of frying bacon wafting its way to him, ignoring any twinges in his leg. It will only bother me if I allow it to, he’d decided.
Bradley had been sitting at Fran’s feet, eagerly awaiting any bits of food that might fall his way. But as soon as he heard Charlie, he came running, wagging his tail, demanding his morning ear rub. “Hey, Brad. Mom drop any treats for you yet?”
“Mornin’, sport,” from his dad. He was buried behind the paper at the kitchen table, but he peered around it to look Charlie over. “Your mom says your knee’s doing great, eh?”
“I did not say great.” Fran pivoted to give Charles a glare before turning back to the stove to retrieve bacon and eggs for the three of them. After taking her place at the table, she asked, “Charles? Could you pray for us, please?”
Charles neatly folded the paper, putting it beside him. “Big day, huh, Charlie? It’s gonna be a great day, I just know it.” He bowed his head, Fran and Charlie following suit. “Lord, I ask for protection for all the boys today, especially Charlie, for his sore leg. Help them to play hard, to do their best, to play fair. Thanks for this food and all you give to us. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
Father and son both gulped down the meal, despite frequent disparaging looks from Fran. She eventually gave up, realizing they both were far too excited—and anxious to get out the door—to attempt even a pretext of proper manners this morning.
Wiping her hands on her napkin, Fran asked Charlie, “Is there anything else you want or need before you go?”
Charlie thought a moment. “Just wish me luck, Mom.”
Fran reached out to hug him, pulling him tightly against her chest.
“Always remember what I told you this morning, okay?”
“Su
re, Mom.”
“Charlie, I—”
He waited, gripping the doorknob, impatient.
“Never mind. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Have fun, okay? Promise me—you’ll have fun?”
“Aw, Mom.” Charlie laughed. He opened the door and rushed down the steps, calling over his shoulder, “No way I hafta promise that!”
Fran stood by the door, tension making her shoulders and back ache. She heard the car start and seconds later, the garage door close. Still she stood there, instinct telling her to call them back. Resigned, Fran turned back to the empty kitchen. And trudged upstairs to get dressed.
Charlie and his dad were lost in their own thoughts as they drove to the field. Charles was second-guessing himself, wondering, Have I been too hard on Charlie? This is your doing, Fran—making me doubt.
Shooting pains were traveling up Charlie’s right leg. He fidgeted, stretched it out again and again. Glanced up to his dad to see if he’d noticed, but Charles’s eyes remained focused on the road. Charlie turned his head away, willing the pain to stop.
By the time they’d pulled into the parking lot, Charlie’s adrenaline was pumping so much he was able to ignore most of the discomfort. He nearly bounced out of the car in his excitement, shouting, “Later, Dad. Wish me luck.” As he jogged away, he turned back to give his dad a quick wave and then hurried over to the group of boys who were huddled near Coach Henry.
“Go get ’em, son.” Charles leaned against the car a moment, savored watching his son high-five his teammates. Noted how they gathered around as he joined them, their leader, many addressing him as The Toe Thomason. He felt a flush of pleasure, intense pride.
Coach Henry motioned for Charlie to join him for a private conversation. He looked worried, concern making a deep groove between his brows. “Seems like you’re still favoring your leg, Charlie. How is it this morning?”
“I iced and rested it like you said,” Charlie offered, eager to emphasize the positive first. There was no sense trying to fool his coach; he knew their movements and skills better than anyone, including themselves. Knowing he’d be asked about his leg, Charlie had already prepared an answer, determined to soften his response yet still be truthful.
Bridge to a Distant Star Page 11
