Author: FraidyCat
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Chapter 10: Another Brilliant Idea
TIMELINE: Backstory, About 6 Months Ago…Charlie couldn't feel how much of his ass was on the seat of the chair, so he misjudged again and slipped into the crack between the chair and the bed. Frustrated tears sprang to his eyes, and the bored voice of the attendant made him want to scream. "You almost had it that time, man. You okay?"
Charlie jerked his head up so fast he almost got whiplash. "No, dammit! I'm freakin' paralyzed here, you jerk! What makes you think I could possibly be okay?" He pounded a fist on his unfeeling leg in frustration.
He would never be able to do this. Any of it. The numbers still danced in his head, distracting and teasing him, driving him crazy. He spent so much time on ridiculous things like putting his own damn socks on, and learning how to train his bladder and keep from pissing his jeans, that he had nothing left for them; and the numbers were jealous.
He had abandoned them as surely as Don and Amita had abandoned him, and he felt terrible about it. He knew, every day that went by without any form of contact from either one of them, exactly how they felt.
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TIMELINE: Present DayDon sat alone on the couch for a long time after Charlie left. His father never came back down, for which he was grateful; he didn't want to have to explain his latest mistake. On the other hand, the most unwise thing he could do right now was check on Charlie, and he was worried that his brother was so upset he would have an accident getting into bed by himself.
At length, the worry won out and he heaved himself off the couch. He stood and swayed a little, feeling as if he was recovering from a really bad case of the flu, before he slowly took the stairs and knocked on his father's door.
Alan called out an "Enter!", and Don opened the door. He leaned against the frame and stared helplessly at his father, who was sitting with his feet up on the bed, reading his book, staring at him over the top of his glasses. "You'd better go check on him," was all Don could manage. He continued to lean in the doorframe while Alan hurried past, into the hall. When the sound of his feet on the stairs faded, Don turned and started to follow. As he drew even with his Charlie's old room, he paused, and thought a little while.
Finally, he walked stealthily inside, as if afraid someone might ask him to leave. He quietly closed the door and crossed to the bed. He slipped off his shoes, and then climbed in fully clothed.
He lay there all night, thinking.
He lay there past Alan's footsteps on the stairs again, some time later. He lay there when the feet stopped for a moment outside the door, then moved slowly on. He lay there through the noises of his Dad using the restroom and preparing for bed, and he lay there long after Alan turned off the hall light and it no longer shone through the crack under the door.
Don lay there, in Charlie's childhood bed, now abandoned in favor of one that Alan had a carpenter custom-make. It was lower, so even with today's new, thicker, mattresses, Charlie would have an easier time getting in and out of it. Don clutched a familiar old blanket to his chest, thinking, until the sun rose.
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Don was sitting at the kitchen table drinking water for breakfast – because he could not reach the coffee – when he heard his father on the stairs. He lowered the plastic bottle to the table and placed his hands flat on either side, and watched for the swinging of the door.
He didn't have long to wait. Alan was looking down, tucking his shirt in, and worked off the general impression that struck him. "Good morning, Charlie. How did you sleep?"
"Not too well, Dad," answered Don, and Alan dropped his shirttail and looked up quickly. Don saw his eyes widen, his face pale, and sincerely hoped he wasn't going to witness his dropping to the floor. Probably should have thought through the presentation a little better.
"Where…where did you get that?", Alan stammered.
"I rented it. 24-hour medical supply store," supplied Don helpfully. "You should put the coffee on a lower shelf."
Alan, eyes glued to the chair, shook his head. "Ch-Charlie only drinks tea, now. He said to leave room on the bottom shelves for other things." He took a step forward, feeling a little weak in the knees. "Oh, Donnie…this is so NOT a good idea…"
Don begged to differ. He had thought about it half the night. "I think it is. I need to show Charlie that I want to understand. Let's face it, Dad, there's nothing I can say anymore that will make a difference to him."
Alan finally reached the table and sat heavily in the single chair. "Have you hit your head recently on the job?"
Before Don could think of an appropriate response, they both heard the distinctive whoosh of Charlie approaching the kitchen through the wide hallway that led to his new quarters in the back of the house. Alan watched the doorway with a sense of absolute dread, while Don just watched, steeling himself for the confrontation.
Charlie had given himself a big push just before he got to the kitchen, and coasted inside. He saw his father and Don at the table. "Good morning," he said, a little stiffly, surprised that Don was there. He angled the wheelchair a few degrees by changing the pressure of his hands on the wheels, and as he did so, more fully took in his brother sitting at the end of the table.
Startled, he jolted the chair to a stop so fast he bounced off the back, and had to exert some serious shoulder action to keep from tumbling out. His father reached out a silent hand to help, but it was unneeded, so he dropped it silently and held his breath.
Charlie stared at Don, his eyes traveling to the floor and back to his face, again. Charlie looked at his father. He looked back at Don, and swallowed a few times, almost convulsively. "You hate me that much," he finally whispered.
Don had tried to prepare himself for a myriad of reactions. Naturally, that was one he had not even considered. "What? No, God, no, Charlie. I want to spend the day with you. On your level. I want you to show me what your life is like, now. That's why I rented the chair."
Charlie almost sneered. He came as close as he could, since it was not an expression he had any experience with. "So I'm a tourist attraction now. An oddity to be experienced, like the Space Needle in Seattle. What the hell do you think you can learn about the last eight months of my life in one damn day sitting in a rented wheelchair?" He was shouting by the time he finished, and breathing heavily.
"Not enough," Don answered, truthfully. "I know that I used my own problems to distract me from things I did not want to see, and I know that I cannot apologize to you any more. I understand that those are only words, and I understand that both of us need to see things on a new level."
Alan looked at Don sharply, but did not say anything. Charlie, however, was not so inclined. "Both of us? Sure, Don, let me just stand up and get a different perspective on things."
Don winced. "I'm just saying..." He flailed around for words. Maybe his father had been right; maybe this was so NOT a good idea.
While he searched his suddenly blank mind, Charlie continued. "At the end of the day, Don, you can get up; take your rented chair back and call it good. I'm still here. I will always be here. And I don't appreciate your trying to make some kind of…of game, out of it."
Don tried again, a little desperate. "Look, when you try to explain one of your math theories, or expressions, or patterns, or whatever…. When you explain them to us at the FBI, or to your students, you always find a way to put it into something we can understand. You make us relate your concept to something we already know. I'm sure you simplify the hell out of it, but you're a teacher – you know how important that step is. There's nothing in my life that relates to this, Charlie, and that won't work, this time. But I want to understand, even it's a pathetically small slice of what you've been through. You can call this another form of selfishness if you want, because that would be true. But it's only partially true. I need to show you that I'm ready to really be there, now; and you need to be able to believe in me, again. Don't lie to any of us, Chuck. You miss your big brother more than you miss walking."
Charlie had started moving his wheelchair backward a few inches, then forward a few inches, effectively "running in place". As much as he wanted to deny the truth of what Don said, he knew that he couldn't. "I get it," he said, gruffly. "You've made your point. Don't make me look at you all day in that chair." He heard his own words, and a strange look washed over his face. Seeing Don in the rented wheelchair was making him physically ill, and he knew that Don didn't really need it. Had it been even worse for Don, and their father, seeing Charlie in the chair and knowing that he did? Maybe Don was right. Perhaps Charlie could use a new perspective, himself.
Don had almost given up his plan and added it to the list of "Really Stupid Things I Have Done Since Charlie Got Shot", when Charlie spoke again.
His voice wavered a little, but he got it all out. "You can reach the bread and the toaster on the West counter from your chair. I usually make the toast in the morning, and Dad scrambles eggs…or sometimes, he makes oatmeal. If you're careful, and it's not too full, you can get the carton of milk from the refrigerator to the table, if it's oatmeal. And the brown sugar is down in the cupboard to the left of the sink, now. After breakfast, you have to take a shower."
Don obediently and awkwardly turned the chair away from the table, and felt a smile plastered all over his face.