Bridge to a Distant Star by Carolyn Williford Page A

“Yes. Sorry, I was just—” She saw Colleen and Aubrey both staring at her, mouths open, as though she were a stranger. “I’m going to get ready for bed.” And then she abruptly turned away from them, walked down the hallway.
    Bill momentarily stopped himself from following her, gripped the back of his chair for a moment and then, decision clearly made, he said, “Colleen, can you—” He waved a hand vaguely toward Aubrey and the scattered remnants of their ice cream party. “Can you clean up Aubrey and … everything?”
    Colleen nodded. She looked up at him with eyebrows drawn together, questioning.
    Bill shrugged his shoulders, glanced over at Aubrey and managed a half smile, and then walked resolutely toward the bedroom.
    He found Maureen standing in front of her dresser, staring with unfocused eyes at her reflection in the mirror.
    “What on earth is the matter with you?” he threw at her, whispering, but his voice seething with frustration.
    Maureen looked at him vacantly. “What?”
    Bill grabbed her arms, shaking her to get her attention. “Where have you been? What’s the matter with you, Maureen?”
    She narrowed her eyes at him, pupils becoming smaller and focused now. And then she reached down to angrily pry his fingers off her arms. “I was walking on the beach.”
    “The beach? For cryin’ … I thought you said you needed time to get things done?”
    “I did. I needed time to … to think. To be alone, to pray. Is that a crime?”
    “When it means selfish time away from your family—yes. It is a crime. What on earth?” He began pacing from one side of their bedroom to the other. “I don’t know what’s up with you, Mo. But this has to stop. Now.” He stopped in front of her, positioning his face only inches from hers. “You will quit this frivolous job of yours. Tomorrow. And then you’ll call Emilie and apologize. For whatever insensitive nonsense you said to her. Obviously you’re not capable of handling anything right now, so I want you to call Pastor Johnson and tell him—”
    “How dare you.”
    Startled, he took a step back from her. From the completely unexpected force behind her words. “Excuse me?”
    “Who are you to order me to do … anything?”
    Bill stepped forward again. Glaring at her, he spit out through gritted teeth, “I … am … your … husband. I know my role as your husband; do you remember yours—as my wife? Think about the verse Pastor Johnson spoke on just last Sunday. Deny yourself, Maureen. ‘Deny yourself, pick up your cross, and follow me,’ Christ said.”
    Maureen grabbed her antique silver-plated hairbrush and threw it with all her might at the dresser mirror, shattering it. Turned then to face Bill, tears filling her hazel eyes and spilling over, her voice pleading with him, “There. The facade that represents Maureen Roberts never existed anyway. Tell me, Bill, how do I deny myself when I’ve never had a self to deny?”
    Her anger instantly vanished, released with the power of her emotion, and she dropped her arms limply to her sides. Only the sound of her soft weeping filled the room. And then Maureen crumpled to the floor, breaking into heaving sobs, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth.
    Bill dropped down beside her and instantly pulled her into his arms. “Oh, Maureen, I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “What place have we traveled to?”
    He rocked her like a baby, combing a hand gently through her hair.
    Minutes later, when her breathing had calmed, she whispered, “I can’t go on like this any longer, Bill.” She felt him stiffen, almost become rigid beneath her. “What? What’s wrong?”
    “Are you saying …” his voice was hoarse, rough, “… are you leaving me?”
    Maureen twisted around in his arms so that she could look into his eyes, and she put a hand on either side of his face. The hazel-flecked eyes sparkled with lingering tears. “Oh Bill, no. ” She slumped back away from him, adding, “But I