or a while, things seemed almost normal. Don found an apartment and started working low-key cases at the FBI, telling his mother he'd been trying to transfer to LA for months and this just happened at the right time.
She seemed to believe it, and if she didn't, she never said a word. They all did family things, from watching Law and Order on Wednesday nights to dinners in and out. Aunt Eve - Mom's sister - visited and Mom was able to convince Don, Dad, and Charlie to go to a Dodgers game.
The Dodgers lost, thanks to an error in the ninth inning that had Don and Dad throwing their hands up. Charlie started taking about the probability of such a play happening and Don just rolled his eyes and patted Charlie's shoulder.
For that one day it seemed like all was right in the world, that Mom was fine, and Don was twenty-three all over again.
Then it was time for another round of chemo. Mom spent the evening following the session in the bathroom.
Don couldn't sleep, the sound of retching echoing in his brain. He found himself spending the night in his old bedroom, laying flat across the bed and staring up at the ceiling.
Charlie was in the garage. If he looked out the window he could see the light peeking out from the cracks in the garage door.
It was a new routine. Mom went for chemo, Dad fretted over her and she let him, Don spent the night, and Charlie disappeared on his bike, returning late and locking himself in the garage, and Don had no doubt he was scribbling a bunch of useless numbers across a blackboard. In the morning, he'd surface, circles under his eyes, chalk-dust on his rumpled T-Shirt. Then he'd smile like nothing had happened. He'd kiss Mom on the forehead and walk upstairs to take a shower.
Don knew Dad's emotions had to be running the gamut with regard to Charlie from anger to out and out annoyance, but when Dad opened his mouth to say something, Mom would put her hand across his and shake her head.
"Maggie," he'd say.
"Alan, don't," she'd respond. "He's copping the best way he knows how." Then she'd smile and pick up the crossword she was currently working on.
Her hand always shook when she turned the pages.
Don blinked at the memory. If Mom could get out of bed tomorrow morning, there was no doubt that the day would yield the same series of events.
He turned his eyes to the hall. In the distance he saw yellow light pooling into the hall. He swallowed and pushed himself up.
Mom was leaning against the bathroom wall, her palms pressed against the cold floor.
"Mom," he started.
"Donnie, please," she interrupted. "Be quiet. Your father finally fell asleep." She sighed. "It's easier sitting here." She lifted a shaky hand and put it to her hair.
That's when he noticed. He walked over and touched her hand. She moved it and a clump of hair came with it.
She smiled. "At my age my hair isn't that pretty anymore anyway."
Don wasn't sure what to say. Mom was well over fifty, but her hair didn't show a strand of gray. Or at least she didn't let it. Her hair was her pride; the curls were always in place or tucked up. Mom always looked put together, no matter the circumstance. Even after each chemo session, she still found her brush and refused to eat breakfast without getting dressed and ready for it.
He couldn't picture her bald.
Mom sighed. "It's been falling out little by little the last couple of days. I've been thinking about cutting it. Getting a wig, perhaps. I always wanted to be a redhead." She lowered her hand and looked at the hair in it.
"I'm sorry, Mom," he said, but it didn't seem like enough. Nothing seemed like enough.
"Oh, Don, don't. Don't ever say you're sorry." She paused a moment, her mouth slightly open as if she was carefully selecting her next words. "I should be sorry."
He blinked. "Sorry? For what? I haven't been home in a long time. I missed Thanksgiving. Charlie had to call when you collapsed."
She looked up at him. "I know why you moved. I...your father and I spent so much time with Charlie when you were growing up. I worried about him so much. Too smart for his own good; I was worried the world would eat him alive. Princeton almost did and so I've spent the last fifteen years keeping him closed up from the horrible things the world has to offer. But all that time, I forgot to help you."
Don stared at her. "Mom-"
She held up a hand. "No, please, Donnie, let me say this. While I still can. I know everyone wants to pretend this might get better, but I don't think it will. The tests results are changing for the worse and who knows how much time I have before I can't even have a conversation this long." She took a breath. "You're so special, you know. But you grew up so fast and were out the door before I had a chance to even tell you that. If I have anything in the world to regret, it's that." She turned away from his eyes.
Don shook his head and lowered himself down to the floor. "Mom, don't. Charlie needed help."
"Yes, but you must have hated it. Don, I need to hear the truth."
The truth. Don wasn't sure he wanted to go there, but he looked back at his mother and knew he couldn't deny her request.
"I did hate it. You gave me extra cookies and later bedtimes. Dad bought me a new glove and there were a few times I wished Charlie wasn't so smart. But, in the end, it didn't matter because you still came to Little League games and defended my honor. You taught me how to cook, Mom, and told me it would impress women. And I did it and it worked."
She smiled. "You always listened to me more than your brother did."
"Yeah..." he muttered. "Charlie's different."
"Don't blame him. He's dealing in his own way. He'll make his peace."
"By not admitting you're sick?" Don asked. "Mom, what if..." He trailed off, not being able to say the words.
"I don't know, Don," she admitted. "But I've been thinking about it. I'm so glad you're here. You always have a level head. And you fold laundry better than your father does."
Don let out a short laugh. "That's why you're happy I'm here? At least Dad does laundry. Charlie's lucky if he remembers to put his clothes in the hamper."
"I know." She sighed again. "I can't predict the future. But I'm not ready to let go. Not yet."
Don swallowed back the lump forming in his throat. "Don't ever let go."
"I'll try, but some things aren't up to us," she whispered. She let the piece of hair still her hand fall to the ground. "I think I need some sleep."
Don pursed his lips and nodded. "I'll help you." He extended a hand.
Mom took it. "You already have helped me, Donnie. You're my son."
Don returned to his room that night, stared out the window towards the garage, and contemplated his mother's words.
--
She wasn't going to get better. It was the beginning of the end.
The fact hit him square in the face the morning she sat on the couch, still dressed in her bathrobe. She met his eyes and he knew.
She was admitted back into the hospital two days later.
It had been almost two years. Two years of chemo, a few months of false hope when the cancer seemed to stand still. She was beating odds left and right, even after the night he found her sitting on the bathroom floor.
"I'm sorry. There's really nothing more we can do..."
The doctor's words were sympathetic, but they seemed empty. Mom was in constant pain. They gave her two months, tops. Two months filled with pain. She might never come back home. She remained in a drugged haze, clicking at the morphine pump like it was the remote. The hair was completely gone.
Dad was a mess. He wouldn't leave her side.
Charlie listened to the news and disappeared. Again.
Don took more personal time and then proceeded to do the things that needed to be done, but that Dad couldn't handle doing. He watered her plants, got her address book, called family members he hadn't spoken to in years. He gathered family albums and brought them to the hospital.
He called the lawyer and during her more lucid moments talked to Mom about her will even though she was no longer sound enough to sign it.
He tried not to cry.
Charlie went back to the garage. This time, however, he didn't surface in the morning. He didn't surface ever. He dragged chalkboard after chalkboard out and started scribbling. He didn't answer Don when Don called him by name. He didn't listen to Dad when Dad came home to shower and change clothes. Instead, he scribbled. If it weren't for the small amount of things disappearing from the fridge, Don would swear Charlie hadn't even left his numbers to eat.
Don didn't understand. Couldn't understand. Started to channel his grief into anger. Anger over the fact that Charlie wouldn't see the truth. That Charlie wouldn't even acknowledge it existed. That Charlie wasn't going to see her ever. Wasn't going to say good-bye.
Charlie didn't listen. When Larry stopped by, Don could only explain why Charlie was absent from campus and direct the physicist to the garage. Larry offered Don his condolences before trying to talk to Charlie. Don followed behind him, hoping Larry, at least, could get Charlie to see reality.
"Charles."
Charlie turned this time. Looked at Larry. "Larry. I'll get to those calculations, I promise. They're on my desk. Monday, for sure. I need to finish this." Charlie had the eyes of crazed man, energy running full speed, the chalk flying across the slate, leaving dust in its wake.
"The calculations can wait," Larry said, his hands moving as he talked. Don figured it must be either a scientist or genius trait. Larry always used body language to convey his feelings. "Charles, Don said your mother is ill. That she is seeking medical attention..."
Charlie stopped, chalk paused in mid-air. He turned. "My mother is fine. She'll be home soon," Charlie said, his voice completely even. Then he turned back to the chalkboard. "It has to be true," he muttered. "Minesweeper proves it."
Don had no clue what he was talking about. "Minesweeper?"
"P versus NP," Larry said, bringing his hands together and gesturing with his two index fingers. "Or so that is the idea. To put it in extremely simple terms, it's a mathematical theory that many consider unsolvable. That one can use a computer to check solutions to a problem, but cannot design the actual program to enable the computer to complete such a task."
"Nothing is unsolvable," Charlie replied.
"Well, yes, I suppose mathematicians have been arguing such a theory for decades," Larry muttered, tilting his head. "But I don't believe you will find the answer overnight."
"You never know."
Don had enough. "A math problem? Damn it, Charlie, Mom's in the hospital and you're working on a math problem! This is not another chemo session. This is the end."
Charlie didn't budge. If anything, the chalk just picked up speed.
"Charlie."
Larry shook his head. "This is not good."
"No, it isn't," Don agreed.
It had to stop.