Bring Down the Stars

I rested my forehead on the steering wheel, feeling as if I spilled out on the track again in front of hundreds of people, and I didn’t want to get up again.

Connor was still parked across from me. Connor might not have thought to call Autumn in her hour of need, but he’d never miss one of my meets. He’d never let me be alone on Thanksgiving. And he’d never drive out of the parking lot until he heard my engine turn over.

He deserves to be happy too.

Connor smiled, waved me over, and gave me a lift home.

Autumn

I sat in the ICU waiting room, slumped against my brother’s shoulder. My mother sat on my other side, our hands clasped tight. Mom’s red hair was graying at the temples. Her face, always weathered, now showed signs of worry that seemed to have aged her another ten years.

My father said if he were the grease that kept the engine of our family going, Lynette Caldwell was the nuts and bolts that held it all together. I hadn’t seen her shed any tears since I’d arrived. Her blue eyes stayed sharp, vigilant, and dry as she watched the nurses come and go. I inherited my red hair and pragmatism from Mom, but I had my father’s hard work ethic and his soft heart.

The heart that almost gave out.

The doctor said Dad’s arterial blockage was 97% and it was a miracle he was still alive. But he was alive and any second now—thanks to Connor—I would see him.

My eyes fell shut and my head lolled against my brother’s shoulder. Travis, at eighteen, was a carbon copy of my father in both looks and soul. Kind and hard-working. But Mom said Travis had so many clouds in his head, she was surprised he didn’t float away. He was content to be a farmer. The love of the land ran simple and true in his blood. Growing up, he spent summer nights in our front-yard hammock, drinking lemonade and watching the fireflies, while I sat at the porch table with my schoolwork.

My dream was to go to college and get out into the world. Travis felt the world was already there in his backyard.

We all sat up together as a nurse emerged from the hallway and headed straight for us. “You can see him now.”

We followed her down the hallway toward the ICU. At Room 2014, the nurse opened the door. Tears sprang immediately to my eyes. If Mom looked ten years older, Dad had time-traveled twenty years into the future. His tanned, weathered face was now gaunt and pale. His hair had been salt-and-pepper when I saw him over the summer. Now it lay thin and white against his head, so small on the pillow. All of him looking so diminished, lying within a nest of tubes and wires and machines that breathed for him.

But he was alive.

“He may go in and out of consciousness,” the nurse said from the door. “I’ll leave you to visit for a little while, but then he must rest.”

“Hello, Henry,” Mom said, and sank into a chair beside the bed, as if her vigil against death was over and she had won. For now.

I went to the other side and slipped my hand in my father’s. Once a hearty and strong grip, now weak and limp.

“Hi, Daddy,” I whispered. “I’m here.”

“Hey, Dad,” Travis said from the foot of the bed.

For a handful of seconds, there was only the steady push of oxygen from the machine, and then my father opened his eyes and looked right at me. A small, weak smile stretched his lips.

He was too weak to do more than twitch his fingers against my hand. But he was there with me, and I was there with him. And I wouldn’t have traded that moment for anything in the world.

After the nurses shooed us out to let Dad rest, we went down to the cafeteria to grab an early breakfast.

“Tell me about this boy you’re seeing, Autumn,” Mom said, as we sat down with our trays of oatmeal, fruit, and coffee. She folded her napkin in her lap and nudged my brother’s elbows off the table as if we were back at home. “Connor, was it?”

“He’s not like anyone I’ve dated before,” I said. “Certainly not like Mark.”

My mother pursed her lips. “Good to hear.”

“He’s really the son of a senator?” Travis asked. “And a billionaire?”

“Yes, but that’s the least important thing about him,” I said, earning an approving nod from my mother. “Until last night, his money had no

bearing on how I felt about him. It still doesn’t, except that I’m grateful to him.”

“As are we.” Mom took a bite of her sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. “So are things serious with him?”

I had no idea how to answer that. “Yes and no,” I said. “Mostly yes, but…it’s complicated.”