Bridge to a Distant Star

by Carolyn Williford

  One technician handed Charlie an ankle-foot prosthesis that was partly made of silicone. “Go ahead, feel it,” he encouraged. “It’s designed to be as lifelike as possible. Comfortable. And its natural give—due to the silicone—keeps you from tripping. I get more speed with less effort.”

  “Excuse me,” Charles interjected. “You do? How could you actually try out this foot?”

  The man grinned. Stood up, and walked to the opposite side of the room and back. Still smiling broadly, he asked, “Care to see it?” He lifted his pant leg to show them the ankle of the same prosthetic foot, attached to his lower shin. “Want me to take off my shoe and sock for further proof?”

  Charlie’s eyes were wide with wonder. Charles appeared taken aback, and Fran, also amazed, laughed out loud. “No, that won’t be necessary. We’ll take your word for it!”

  They later discovered the company employed several amputee victims to learn firsthand how to continually improve their products.

  Naturally, it was the prosthetic legs that most attracted Charlie’s interest. “You actually put computers in these knees?” Charlie marveled, staring at the inner workings of a leg designed to attach at the hip. Another technician, a woman, smiled at Charlie’s fascination. She’d witnessed the enthralled reaction many times, but introducing an amputee—especially a child—to the technology was always fulfilling.

  “And you program them? How?”

  “To mimic the amputee’s gait—and for all different movements and speeds, such as walking, jogging, running. Even biking,” she explained. “You’ll get to do all that, but here’s a brief description of what’s in store for you. Technicians will analyze your residual limb strength first. Been doing your exercises?”

  Charlie was proud to vigorously nod yes.

  “Great. Next they’ll study your particular gait. How you walk. Whether you tend to lean forward, put the weight on the balls of your feet, maybe have a slight hitch in your stride. All kinds of things like that. And finally, they look at your posture—if you stand perfectly upright. Maybe slouch a little. Then they duplicate those measurements to mimic your particular gait for running. Biking adds yet another dimension of evaluations.”

  Giving her a skeptical look, Charlie asked, “How can they do that when I’m on crutches?”

  She reached out to pat him on the shoulder. “Leave that to them. They’ll figure it out, I assure you.” She grinned, raising an eyebrow. “Trust me?”

  Charlie pointed at the prosthesis. “If you’ll let me have one of those, absolutely. Just tell me what to do.”

  When they began the custom fitting, the step prosthetists, as those specialists were called, literally walked Charlie through the detailed process. They took measurements and evaluated Charlie from every possible angle. Next, after fitting him with a temporary prosthetic leg, the specialists filmed his gait from all directions. Walking without crutches—even though he was tightly clutching bars on either side of him—brought such a huge smile to Charlie’s face that Charles laughed out loud and Fran cried with joy.

  As the prosthetists fed all the gathered information about Charlie’s limb strength, gait, measurements, and posture into a special software program, the family watched in amazement as they saw a figure—mimicking Charlie’s gait exactly—walk across the computer screen.

  The part of the prosthesis that would actually fit to Charlie was formed in generally the same way a cast was—except using clear materials. That way, the technicians could observe how it fit to Charlie’s skin and if the cast needed any adjustments. Charlie’s age and the need for the limb to grow with him were also taken into consideration.

  After all the preparations were finished and they left the facility, Charlie allowed his imagination free rein, indulging in constant daydreams about how wonderful this new leg would be. So when the much-anticipated call came informing Charlie his leg was ready, he was nearly beside himself with excitement. Charles took the morning off, almost as eager as his son.

  Fran, however, felt a nagging anxiety. She worried Charlie might expect too much, too soon. Fully cognizant that she’d likely provoke an argument with Charles, she still elected to caution Charlie as they drove to the facility.

  “Charlie, love, remember this is only the first fitting. It might be too painful for you to wear for very long. Or it might need more work—to make it fit right. Could be we’ll need to come back at a later date.”

  Charles kept his view straight ahead, but Fran observed the set of his mouth and telltale lines fanning out from the corner of his eye. “It’s also equally probable it will fit him like a glove. And Charlie will take to it right away.”

  “I can’t wait to lose these crutches,” Charlie gushed. “I’m so sick of chapped and sore armpits.”

  “But you’re still going to need them for some time yet, probably. And—”

  “Could you just let him be excited about this, Fran? Can’t we assume that things will go well? Could you do that just this once, for cryin’ out loud?” Charles snapped.

  “I’m only trying to prepare him in case … in case it’s God’s will that we need to be patient. For a while yet, maybe.”

  “And what if it’s God’s will that the leg fits perfectly? And it works like … like a real leg? Then all that worry was wasted energy, wasn’t it?”

  Fran thought to herself, God’s will doesn’t seem to bring many good things lately. I pray so hard. But bad things still happen.

  “Fran?”

  “Sure.” She stared out her passenger window, hugging the armrest. “We’ll face whatever we need to. When the time comes.”

  “Could be we’ll need to celebrate—by ordering a burger and milkshake at the drive-in. Right, Charlie?”

  Charlie could see his dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror, drawing him in. “Yeah, that sounds great, Dad.”

  “Whatever happens, you’ll do your ole dad proud, won’t you, son? No pain, no gain, right? Hey. This afternoon we’ll get out the soccer ball, eh, Charlie? Try dribbling and passing it a little.”

  When Fran shot Charles an astonished, pleading look, Charles interjected, “I was just kidding.” He lifted his hands from the steering wheel, feigning innocence, staring into the rearview mirror to get Charlie’s attention. “You knew I was teasing, didn’t you, Charlie? Just your dad’s way of letting you know I’m on your team. Always on your team, right son?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And hey, this part I wasn’t teasing about. I know you’ll make me proud, Charlie. Because you’re going to do your best, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Sure, Dad.”

  But the lilt of excitement in Charlie’s voice had diminished. Replaced with an edge that pressed against Fran’s heart and caused her to search her son for signs of stress. She took in the line of worry creasing between his brows. The slumped shoulders—a posture Charlie had never exhibited before his surgery. The tension revealed in his clenched fists. She bit her lip to keep from lashing out at Charles right then, but resolved: This has got to stop. For Charlie’s sake, Charles and I will have this out. She leaned back into her seat. And begged God to help Charlie today, no matter what challenges he faced. Whether it be physical pain … or his father’s unrelenting pressure.

  Once they’d stepped into the office, the lead prosthetist welcomed them, reaching out to shake Charlie’s hand first. “I wasn’t here the last time you came in. Sorry to have missed you,” he said with a strong British accent. “Name’s George Beckham.” To Charlie’s immediate spark of interest, he responded, “No, sorry to say that I’m no relation to that Beckham. The famous David. You a fan of his, Charlie?”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s the best.”

  “Maybe someday Beckham himself will come watch the famous Charlie Thomason play—on the world’s first bionic leg.”

  Fran cringed inwardly; out of th
e corner of her eye she noted Charles’s smug look.

  “Cool.”

  From the table behind him, George produced the prosthetic leg, complete with special ankle and computerized knee. Presented it to Charlie as though he were a doctor placing a newborn into its mother’s arms for the first time. “Here it is, Charlie. State-of-the-art. Made especially for you.

  “Now, understand our first priority is getting the inner workings to fit and work perfectly. That’s just a temporary covering on the outside. The cosmesis component will come later. Did they teach you that word from your last visit here—cosmesis?”

  Charlie nodded. “It’s like the skin, right?”

  “Exactly. We’ll do our best to make it look like your other leg. But that comes later. For now, let’s see how this gizmo’s gonna work. You up to that?”

  Before Charlie could answer, Charles interjected, “Of course he is. Charlie’s never been one to back off a challenge.”

  It was all Fran could do to bite back a reprimand, but she realized it wasn’t necessary; Charlie’s complete attention was on the marvel in his arms. Like others had done during their last visit, George explained how the leg would allow Charlie to walk nearly effortlessly and with stability, due to the computer sensors taking measurements and making adjustments fifty times per second.

  “Wow. Fifty times a second?” Charlie asked, to George’s enthusiastic nod.

  “The knee’s got a hydraulic piston. Which means you can do complicated movements like stepping off a curb. Go up and down stairs. Climb in and out of a car.

  “See this battery? That provides your power. You’ll have to charge it every single day, so when you get ready for bed, just pop the battery in its charger for the night.” Demonstrating the charger and where the battery fit, he said, “Easy as that.” George paused a moment, assessing Charlie’s mental and emotional readiness. Deciding in the affirmative, he asked, “I’ll have you practice doing that later. For now … think you’re ready to give this high-tech leg a go?”

  Charlie’s eyes flicked to his dad, communicating a desperate need for approval. A belief that he, Charlie, could do this.

  But instead, Charles—compelled by a voice deep within his soul—kept his face blank, deciding at this critical moment to communicate nothing to Charlie. Now’s the right time, son. Time for you alone to pick up your cross, Charles’s own inner voice insisted. I will not allow you to become dependent on your mother. Be a mama’s boy. Or to depend on me, either. Fight, son—fight for whatever you need to survive.

  Charles’s eyes bored into his son’s. Probing. And demanding.

  The gap between question and answer appeared inordinately long to Fran. Again she forced herself to hold back a caustic comment.

  Charlie appeared to search within himself for motivation to take this leap of faith. For a moment, his eyes seemed unfocused. His shoulders rose noticeably as he took a deep breath. “I’m ready.” Sitting up straighter in his chair, he repeated with more enthusiasm, “Yeah. I’m ready. Let’s do it.”

  George motioned for Charlie to accompany him and then raised a flat, upright palm toward Charles and Fran, signaling he didn’t want them to follow. “Mom and Dad, I’m going to ask you to remain here for just a bit while Charlie and I work together in the rehabilitation room. I want to give Charlie a chance to try this leg on his own first. Once he’s getting the hang of it—has gathered some confidence—I’ll send my assistant Roberta to get you.” George looked over his glasses from Fran to Charles. “We find that’s best.”

  Though he caught the looks of disappointment from Charles and Fran, George exited with Charlie before either could utter an objection. And then they immediately turned to each other, irate.

  “Well, thanks to you for that, Fran.” Charles glared at her, his voice coated with disgust. “Obviously he saw how you smother Charlie. Which meant Charlie would likely fail if you were watching, coddling him.”

  Fran glowered right back. “I was thinking it was your fault, actually. How could George have failed to notice your … either your overbearing pressure or utter lack of compassion for Charlie. That you didn’t even—”

  “Keep your voice down,” he ordered, between clenched teeth.

  “You couldn’t even encourage him, Charles. You couldn’t even …” Fran shook her head, too exasperated and flustered to find the words she sought. She purposefully strode toward the back of the room and then reversed her direction, turning abruptly on her heels. “I’ve got to get out of here. There’s a bench just outside.” She opened the door and walked out, her voice trailing behind her. “We’ll just let the receptionist know …”

  Charles followed behind, begrudgingly. Yet as angry as they both were, he agreed it was imperative that they go outside. Away from people. Out of earshot.

  They both knew instinctively the time had come. They would have it out.

  Momentarily performing for the receptionist, Fran smiled sweetly, explaining where they’d be. Without showing if she’d noticed the tension, the receptionist simply smiled and agreed to come get them when George summoned.

  Fran proceeded immediately to the bench, leaning back and closing her eyes. Charles paced. Hands in his pockets, he fumed, ranting incoherently to himself.

  She took a deep breath. Plunged in. “Charles, you’ve simply got to stop this. I can’t take it anymore,” she spit out. “Don’t you get it?” Tears filled her eyes, and in that instant, she finally gave full vent to the rage nearly exploding from within. “I can’t sit back and watch you do this to Charlie one moment longer. You’re going to destroy our son!”

  “Me? You actually think it’s me that’s destroying him?” As he pointed an accusing finger at her, he trembled in his fury. “You’re the one, telling him to just trust God. Don’t you understand that’s the same as telling him to quit and give up?”

  She jerked upright, defending herself, “No, it’s not—it’s not that at all.” But she wasn’t prepared for Charles’s next move.

  Charles stood towering over her, his body intimidating—intentionally positioning himself that way—as he never had before. Fran felt a shiver go through her as she looked up, taking in the full blast of his anger.

  “That’s exactly what that sick cliché means, Fran. Of all the idiotic, lame things to lay on Charlie. You’re telling him to give up every time you say that. You might as well just tell him to go ahead and … and die.”

  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?”

&n
bsp; 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.”