Rewrite the Stars by Christina Consolino (classic fiction TXT) 📗

Handshakes these days seemed too intimate and took too much of my energy, but Doc had me working on trying to reinstate my manners and proper etiquette. This guy had given me no reason to feel awkward. And this space? Familiar, calming. “Thank you. You’ll like it here, man.” I looked back at the screen to catch his name: Andrew MacKinnon. “Andrew. You’ll like it here.”

Chapter 4: Sadie

Time to dwell on Grocery Store Man didn’t exist over the next week. Between the kids’ swim classes, my job, and the many doctor appointments I’d scheduled for the summer months, my mind was occupied by so many details—only one of which was Charlie’s camp presentation, something he told me about one late afternoon at the end of June.

“Mom, I’m not sure about this camp.” He walked into the kitchen as I prepped vegetables for dinner. “It says here on the activities list...we need to do a presentation.”

“Okay. What’s wrong with that?”

Charlie snatched a piece of red pepper, popped it into his mouth, and took a seat. “It’s weird, that’s all. We work on it during the summer and into the fall, but we don’t present our project until sometime before Christmas.”

This was the first summer we’d signed up for a camp sponsored by the middle school, and while Charlie enjoyed his days there, the staff seemed to do things differently from other camps he’d attended in the past. A few more weeks of adjustment time might be required.

“No issue, Charlie. That gives you plenty of time to research the subject and to create as nice a presentation as possible. Do you need help?”

He scrunched up his nose and shook his head. “No...it’s...”

Charlie was the type who chatted incessantly, about anything. Minecraft, math, music. Insects. Grammar. Latin verb conjugation. You name it, he’d talk. Charlie had big (and small) ideas and liked to share them. His lack of articulation meant he needed me. I sat next to him on a kitchen stool and rubbed circles on his back.

“What is it?”

“We’re supposed to do this project called My Dad, My Hero. We have to feature a dad or a grandpa or some other male influence.” He used air quotes around the word “influence,” which almost sent me into a fit of laughter, something Charlie wouldn’t appreciate.

I cleared my throat. “And what’s the problem?”

“The problem is...it’s...”

“Your dad was in the service, honey. He fought for his country, and he saved a lot of lives, even though he might have been scared. That sounds like a hero to me. Doesn’t it to you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

Charlie shook his head and chewed on his fingernail. “Never mind. You’re right. I need to...I need to find all the pictures we have of us, going as far back as I can find. This is a pretty big project.”

My misstep—not letting Charlie finish his sentence—had pushed him to turn inward, just like his dad. But what was I to say to him? Theo was a hero, wasn’t he? Even if he didn’t quite have his life together right now in the way he or I wanted, he’d bravely faced an adversary that most wouldn’t. And definitions of the word hero varied.

“Honey, life right now is complicated for your dad. Remember that. But if you put your mind to it, this can be a great project. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Tell me if you need any help.”

“I will.”

I rose from the stool and ruffled Charlie’s hair. “Now let’s go tidy up before dinner and get rid of those ‘landmines’ your dad says he’s always stumbling over. Then we can go get frozen custard after dinner!”

Charlie’s eyes lit up, and he nodded his head. “Race you to the family room!”

.    .    .    .    .

Two warm and sluggish months crawled by and soon mid-August was upon us. One night after dinner, when Lexie and Delia were tucked in bed and Charlie had escaped to the family room, I mentioned to Theo I’d had a difficult day. Kate had given me grief about not attending a karaoke night at the bar. And not only had I stepped on Charlie’s latest cardboard creation, but both Lexie and Delia had experienced episodes of projectile vomiting, the dregs of which ground nicely into the minivan’s new rugs.

“Please, Sadie. I’m tired. Too tired to listen to you whine,” he mumbled.

His simple statement echoed. I had whined, although admitting that to him would never happen. I pivoted from the kitchen sink to look at Theo, who had placed his elbows on the worn dining table and his chin in his hands. His eyes held frustration in them—perhaps his day had been just as discouraging as mine—but at that moment, little sympathy existed within me.

“I didn’t go into work today,” he continued.

Understanding hit me. He had had a day. Not going into work was the last resort, according to his therapist, something reserved for the days when he malfunctioned around people or felt like he’d come undone.

“Do you—”

Theo held up his hand, palm outward, and shook his head. Shutting me out seemed to be Theo’s way. I’d hoped he’d made progress these last few months, but...

Turning back to the dishes, I scrubbed against the glass of Charlie’s favorite bowl and plunged the piece into the rinse water. I traced the tempered glass with my fingers, moving bubbles away, and felt a rough edge that gave me pause. Had the bowl hit the countertop that night months ago? The light above the sink revealed a small, glistening crack that winked at me. A flaw large enough that if I didn’t fix the bowl soon, the whole structure’s integrity would shatter. What an obvious crack; how long had it been there?

Against the screech of Charlie’s video game in the family room, I placed the dish into the drainer to dry and made a mental note to fix it in the morning. Another item to add to the ever-growing list. Outside the kitchen window, the sun continued its descent into