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

“He didn’t ask for PTSD, honey,” I said.

“I know, Mom, I know.” A hiccup broke though Charlie’s words. “But a hero is someone you want to grow up to be like. I don’t want to be like Dad, ever.” He cast his gaze downward, and a few tears fell toward the floor of the car.

Poking around in my pocket, I searched for a semi-clean tissue to give him and thrust it into Charlie’s waiting hands. He nodded his thanks.

Charlie’s point of view made sense, and for a moment, I paused, taking in the entirety of my son, the one who looked much like Theo did as a child. Charlie would have to remember the good parts of his life with Theo because there might not be more happy memories to make. He had to fully comprehend his complex father before we visited the ghost of the man in the hospital.

“Charlie, just because Dad doesn’t look like a hero to you right now doesn’t mean he isn’t one in his own way. For these last few years, he’s gotten out of bed and tried to take on what the day brings him, whether he was strong enough to do it or not. He’s moved forward every day, hoping his therapy might help, even knowing it might not.” Balancing whether the next words that popped into my mind deserved to be shared, I hesitated. “He’s fought his demons with extreme honor and courage every day, Charlie. And for that, he is a hero.”

More tears slid down Charlie’s young face before he wiped them away with the back of his small hand. He blinked a couple times and sniffed, shaking his head up and down, as if he was contemplating what I said. Charlie had no words to give me in return and truthfully, I shouldn’t blame him. Everything I’d mentioned was a lot to take in for an eleven-year-old.

I twisted back around toward the steering wheel and placed my head on the cool center of it. Despite my better judgment and the fact that I always tried to stay calm in front of the children, I wept then, harder than I had in a long time and so much I had trouble catching any air. Amid my breakdown, Charlie climbed over the car seat and wound his arms around me. We sat for a long time, entwined in a hug.

.    .    .    .    .

Once we’d cleaned our faces and found our equilibrium again, Charlie and I visited the hospital, but I let him spend time alone with Theo. My son needed to resolve his feelings for his father, and I wasn’t sure having me in the room would have been helpful. Instead, I sat in the hallway outside Theo’s room, processing everything: the letter, the book, Theo’s initial detachment, his most recent actions, and how everything fit together. Dante’s levels of hell. What did he mean? And when did he write the letter? How long had he been thinking of doing what he did? Biting my lip to keep me in the moment, I thought about his words. He reveres you. The two of you could be happy together. Really happy.

An idea formed in the forefront of my mind. Did Theo take himself out of the mix prematurely, so to speak? Did he think he was doing me a favor? Acid rose in my throat, and I charged for the nearest restroom, barely pushing open the door before everything I’d eaten that day came rushing out.

As I splashed cool water against my heated cheeks and rinsed out my mouth, I knew it was time to go get Charlie. The words I had spoken to him in the car held the truth but were all lies at the same time. Charlie didn’t know anything about what Theo had done. Not being privy to the same information I was, about Theo’s probable act of cowardice, Charlie might be right: Maybe Theo wasn’t a hero. At least not of his own life.

December marched on, and Christmas came and went. Despite my full days, I had plenty of time to reflect on what had happened in the moments leading up to what Theo had done. I knew the why of it, thanks to his letter, but I still wasn’t sure if I’d missed something. Running through the details with a fine-tooth comb, I mulled over actions I thought I remembered and snippets of conversation that had occurred at Walloon Lake. My mind floated back to daily interactions: the smile on Theo’s face when he played with Lexie, the serene lines and mellow angle of his jaw as he sat with Charlie and Delia. Even though he had seemed somewhat detached when he’d been at the cottage, I’d checked in with Theo. “Good day or bad?” I’d asked. And on most of those days, he’d lift his thumb and nod his head.

But in his letter, he revealed he’d known about Andrew and me and the almost kiss, an event that came before my huge revelation to him. That explained his initial apathy when I told him. He must have been furious, but instead of lashing out at me, he’d turned inward and let the wound fester. Almost fatally. But what had finally set him off?

The days inched by. Theo had moments where his vital signs seemed stronger, and at one point, after the first of the year, we even took him off the ventilator. He survived, shaky and tenuous, but still on this side of alive. At other times, as people filtered in and out of his room, it seemed as if only a gossamer thread tethered him to this world. Coworkers and neighbors streamed in and sniffled their greetings, many of them saying silent goodbyes with a single nod of their heads. They didn’t know about Theo’s last act—or if they did, they didn’t let on—and I didn’t correct them otherwise. No one