One Golden Summer(97)

“Hi, Alice.” He hesitates before he says, “I’m sorry, but he says he doesn’t want you to visit again.”

I stand in the middle of my kitchen, an icy chill trickling down my spine.

“He said he doesn’t want to waste your time.”

Before this summer, I might have agreed to keep my distance. But I know Charlie, and I don’t believe that’s what he really wants. It’s not what I want, either.

“Well, too bad for Charlie,” I say to Sam. “Tell your brother I’ll give him a couple days to catch up on his beauty rest, but that I’ll be there on Saturday.”

“Good,” Sam says. I can hear his smile. “It’s about time Charlie met his match.”



* * *





I arrive at the hospital on Saturday with a bouquet of balloons and an envelope.

Charlie is sitting up, his color far better than it was a few days ago. He’s in a private room, whether by luck or Sam’s intervention, I’m not sure.

I stand in the doorway, our eyes locked together.

“I meant it when I said you shouldn’t be here,” he says. His voice is clearer than it was earlier in the week.

“I won’t stay long,” I tell him. “But I won’t stay away, either.”

“I don’t want you seeing me like this. There’s a reason I didn’t tell you.” He closes his eyes briefly, gathering strength.

“We don’t need to talk about that today,” I say. “But you can’t stop me from worrying or wanting to help. You need support, Charlie. You need your people, and like it or not, I’m one of them.”

Charlie stares at me. He doesn’t argue.

“All that matters right now is that you get better. And then I’ll yell at you.”

His lips curve. “Fair enough.”

I hand him the envelope. “These are for you. So you don’t forget.”

His eyes move between mine. “Forget what?”

“Us.”



* * *





I visit Charlie every day for four days. I don’t mention the photos I gave him, and neither does he. Instead, he tells me about the day last spring when he walked into his doctor’s office, thinking Sam was making a big deal about him being short of breath, and walked out in shock. His doctor had heard a heart murmur. More tests led him to a cardiologist’s office and the diagnosis of two heart conditions that could prove fatal. The first condition, an aortic coarctation, was taken care of with a stent soon after.

“A stent isn’t even considered a surgery,” Charlie says. “Doctors do them all the time, and I was in and out the same day. But there were still risks. And even though Sam is a cardiologist and assured me that I was getting the best care, I could tell even he was getting anxious as my surgery date got closer.”

Charlie tells me the surgery means he has a normal life expectancy. He’s healing as he’s supposed to, but it will take a few months until he’s fully recovered. He won’t be able to return to work right away, but he’s not sure he wants to go back at all. He tells me how his diagnoses threw him, how worried he was when they waited for the results of Sam’s screening, and how anxious he’s been about the baby.

I bump into Sam in the hallway, and his hair is smooshed up on one side, like he’s been running a hand through it. Stress radiates from him—his daughter is coming any day. I ask what I can do to help, and he gives me the keys to Charlie’s condo.

I fill Charlie’s fridge with obnoxiously healthy foods; sort through his mail; water his single plant, a fiddle-leaf fig; and put fresh sheets on the bed.

The day before he’s released, we walk the halls of the hospital together.

“I couldn’t focus at work,” Charlie says as we turn back toward his room. “Recovery after the stent was straightforward, but waiting for this surgery really threw me. There was no reason not to work, and I was supposed to stay active, but I couldn’t bring myself to care about my job, so I took the sabbatical.”

“That sounds like it was the smartest thing to do,” I tell him. “Getting some time away to think, to relax.”

He looks at me, his eyes dancing. “Until I met a very troublesome redhead.”

“Careful,” I tell him. “I’m still furious you didn’t tell me.”

We reach his room, and Charlie’s voice softens. “You would have wanted to take care of me. You would have worried.”

“Yes.”

His eyes search my face, and even if I hadn’t told him how I feel, he would see it now. “You would have stuck with me, through all of it.”

I lift my chin. “Yes.”

“And I couldn’t ask that of you. You’ve given so much of yourself to other people. You told me once that you lost yourself in your last relationship. I wanted you to have the freedom you deserve. It wouldn’t have been fair to ask you to be tethered to someone like me.”

“Someone like you?”

“I’m broken, Alice.”

When Charlie said he’s not built for relationships, he meant it literally.

“I’m sorry,” he says, eyes pleading. “For everything I said that morning. I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you the truth. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to stand by me because of pity or a sense of loyalty.”