Well, I have some good news and some bad news. Good news? New chapter! Bad news? See, I'm in college now and working part-time, so that little thing called 'free time' doesn't exist much any more. I'll try not to make updates between chapters too long, but I can't make any promises. Real life tends to throw a wrench in my plans where writing is concerned more often than I'd like it to! On the other hand, there's only two more chapters left (possibly three, depending on where my muse takes me), so we're almost to the end! Thanks a million for sticking with me!
Oh, and a note for anyone familiar with Numb3rs-org: there's a SDKG inside joke in here somewhere. See if you can find it!
CHAPTER VII
Don hated LA traffic. But right then, stuck in a gridlock less than halfway to his destination, he abhorred it. For every minute his SUV crawled along the hot asphalt he could feel Charlie drawing farther and farther away. Expending his breath into more curses than it seemed humanly possible, Don waited. And waited. Just when it seemed he had reached the proverbial tipping point, he spotted an exit ramp hovering just a hundred yards away. It wasn't his correct exit, but at that moment Don didn't care if it led into a wall of fire. Against his better judgment he snapped on the SUV's lights and siren, veered onto the shoulder, punched the gas, and tore up the exit ramp.
Weaving in and out of traffic and startling innocent motorists and pedestrians was not Don's usual mode of travel, but at that moment nothing else existed. He knew the city well enough to take the path of least resistance, even if it was nothing more than a crooked journey down streets and alleyways and through parking lots.
Tearing the wrong way down a short one way street, he whipped into the hospital's parking lot at nearly three times the posted speed limit, lights and siren still going strong. Lurching into the valet lane he jumped from the SUV, tossed the keys to the startled driver, and charged into the building.
Don's eyes recognized nothing from the previous night, but his subconscious mind did. If asked to recreate his route by sight he could not, but his feet carved a path through the twisting halls almost of their own accord. The bare hallways admitted him silently and without resistance. He moved like a man walking through water, his steps in great haste but held back, weighed down by a great and unseen force. Don could not place it, but though his body and mind longed to draw closer, his heart remained hesitant. The closer he came to the great and heavy door, the more he felt as if he was dragging a great ball and chain behind him. A prisoner of his own heart.
The door glared at him, as faceless and soundless as the gray barrier between life and death itself. Don tried the handle but it would not give. Cursing, he rested his forehead quite forcefully against the solid wood with a disgruntled sigh. So he was completely unprepared when the threshold trembled and swung open. The door's bulk pushed him back with great force, all but throwing him against the wall. He hissed as the raised doorstop came in contact with the small of his back. Unable to decide which hurt more—his head, his back, or his pride—he resigned himself to glowering in the door's shadow, embarrassed.
A young nurse with a head of dark hair peered around the door. Seeing Don, her eyes widened. She mumbled an apology and stepped away from the door, shutting it slightly so Don could peel himself off the wall.
"I need to get in there," Don mumbled. "I need to see someone.
The nurse shuffled her weight. "Um… yeah, okay. Who?"
"Eppes," Don whispered. His throat had suddenly become dry, pained. "Charlie Eppes."
The nurse glanced over her shoulder to the depths of the ICU for several moments. She turned slowly back to Don, her expression distant, almost afraid.
"Of course," she spoke without meeting Don's eyes. She pushed the door open again, stepping aside for him to enter. "Room 14."
Don kept his head low and slipped past her, pulling the door shut unceremoniously behind him. Two nurses eyed him bemusedly from the large desk to the left of the door but made no effort to stop him. Unbeknownst to Don himself, his name and that of his brother had already made the rounds with most of the nursing staff, ICU or otherwise.
"Mr. Eppes…" one of the nurses offered as he walked past, her voice hesitant, timid.
"Room 14, I know," Don replied stiffly.
"No, please, Mr. Eppes—"
He continued without hearing her down the hall. The nurse who had spoken to Don only moments before exchanged a look with her partner that conveyed nothing but dread. She rose to her feet and slowly started after him.
Don searched the numbers on the doors for what seemed like miles until he spotted the sign bearing the number 14 in large white letters. It didn't occur to him to knock, and he flung the door open without a second thought and hurled himself inside.
His stomach crashed to his feet. The intense fire, the need to see his brother, snuffed out in an instant and an unbearable cold rushed through his body from his fingertips to his heart.
The room was empty. The hospital bed, the IV tower, the respirator, the pulseoxymeter—equipment that had once dominated the room now left a stark emptiness in its wake. And Alan sat alone in the one chair that had been beside the bed with his back to the door, his head bowed and his face hidden.
"D-D-D-" Don's tongue completely failed him and he could utter nothing more than a horrid, raspy whine. His bones melted to liquid and he stumbled across the room, flinging himself against the back of the chair for support. Alan stifled a gasp and dropped the magazine he had been reading and craned his neck to see his son's pale face.
"Donny?" Alan stood and turned to face him, alarmed. "What's wrong?"
"W-Wrong? Wrong!" Don flung his arms around wildly, using the action to convey the sentences he was unable to articulate. "D-Dad! C-Charlie!" He spun around, surveying the room with disbelieving eyes. "Wrong! Why! W-What!"
Alan placed his hands on Don's shoulders and felt his son trembling wildly.
"Donny, listen to me! He's all right!"
Don continued on, unhearing. "Dad! Where did they take him?"
"Don, he's fine! They're bringing him back!"
His son unleashed a curse, so rabid and primal that Alan flinched against its force.
"He's having chest x-rays done, Mr. Eppes," called out the nurse from her place at the doorway. "It's routine procedure for those recovering from his type of surgery. He should be back soon." She spoke in a voice of pure professionalism, neither comforting nor angry.
"Routine procedure?" Don wheezed out in a sigh. "Why didn't you tell us about the routine procedure, damn it?"
"She did," Alan offered softly. "You just weren't here, Don. Don't worry. I swear to you, he's fine."
"I'm sorry for the confusion, Mr. Eppes. I tried to tell you when you first came in."
Don brushed passed his father and fell limply into the chair. He dragged his hands down his face, hissing through his teeth.
"I'm sorry," he moaned. "I—damn it."
Alan reached down a hand to his son's shoulder, and Don did not refuse it. The nurse left the room, and the two men stood frozen in a heavy silence for several more minutes.
"… I feel like an idiot, Dad," Don ventured. "Damn, this is—it's just … hard."
Alan gave his son's shoulder a squeeze. "I know, Donny. But we have to have faith and be strong—for Charlie and for ourselves. It'll be all right, Don. I just know it."
"But it was my fau—"
"No."
His father's abrupt reply startled Don and he turned to face a stern expression.
"No," his father reiterated.
Don heaved a sigh just as the door swung open and a flurry of activity burst into the room. Two nurses swarmed in an out of his line of vision, pushing Charlie smoothly in his hospital bed and adjusting the mass of equipment that accompanied him. Machines were checked, as was his IV. In all the movement Don barely noticed that the central line of Charlie's blood transfusion had been removed.
The nurses filed out without a word and no sooner had the door closed behind them that it opened again, admitting Dr. Meisner into the room, and with him a stiff silence. The doctor stepped over to the Eppes men, acknowledged them separately, and shook Alan's hand with a professional vigor.
"It's really too early to say much, Mr. Eppes," he began, "but I believe Charlie is improving. His vitals have grown drastically stronger. Depending on the x-rays tonight, we may be able to take him off the respirator as early as tomorrow evening."
"Wonderful," Alan sputtered breathlessly. All the information seemed to be too much for him to take in at once. He stole a gentle look over he shoulder at Charlie, pale and still on the bed, and felt reassured. Improving. Charlie was getting better. That was all that mattered. "Thank you, Doctor Meisner."
The doctor nodded. "I'll be back in a few hours. Press the button for Nurse Maple if you need anything."
Alan nodded, still focused on Charlie. Don stared over his brother's body at the collection of machinery at the bedside, focused on the flashing numbers and blinking lights. The doctor's departure plunged the Eppes men into silence again. It was not a heavy silence, but rather comforting, Charlie's presence alleviating the tension present moments before. Even the continual beeping of the pulseoxymeter and the soft clicks from the respirator were less noticeable, almost background noise, as both men stood a silent vigil.
"… Don," Alan seemed almost reluctant to break the silence. "Don't you need to … head back to the office?"
Don merely gaped at his father for a few moments before the words registered in his brain and a fire lit up beneath his feet. He jumped from the chair, seething.
"Shit! … Yeah—I should probably go." The words dripped in acidic regret.
"Come back when you're off work. Hopefully you can come before visiting hours are over. You can have some time alone with him."
The last comment caught Don off guard.
"I—uh, okay, Dad."
"Come back soon, Donny."
Alan took his son's place in the chair as Don headed for the door.
Don walked a smooth path through the FBI office, eliciting half-glances and quiet murmurs from coworkers that watched him pass, a sort of sentient and silent energy. What had happened to Charlie was well-known all through the office. Don pushed on, unhearing, unseeing. He rode the elevator alone. Reaching his level and heading for his desk, heads craned to follow him with silent, uneasy expressions. Others called out quiet sentiments to him, wasted on unhearing ears.
Terry could see him coming through the glass walls and her heart suddenly constricted. Almost in spite of herself she made her way towards him, meeting him only feet from his desk. She reached out and touched him softly on the arm just below his shoulder, a gesture of pure comfort. She could feel Don's body, tense as a coiled spring.
David came around the corner several feet behind them. Seeing Don, he stopped short and detoured in the opposite direction. Don didn't notice him.
"Don, I—" Terry began.
Don raised his eyes to look at her. His empty expression, not unlike in the SUV the night before, made even the air around him seem cold, an aura of total agony and sadness.
Terry struggled to regain her train of thought. Unconsciously her grip on Don's arm tightened. "… Merrick's put you on paid leave, Don."
The sudden flinch that coursed through Don's body caused Terry to jerk her arm back, startled.
"W—What?" he sputtered.
"He's put you on paid leave. You can go, at least until Charlie pulls through. He doesn't think you'd do well working on cases right now, and personally, I agree with him…"
"Yeah…"
"You need to be with your family right now, Don. It's as simple as that. Merrick knows that … we all do."
A brief pause followed in which Terry wondered if he had heard her at all.
This time Don's arms found her, locking her in nothing short of a small embrace.
"Thanks," he spoke.
Terry flushed. "Go, Don. Keep us informed?"
A nod. Don left the building quickly and with a purpose, his earlier vigor to see his brother suddenly revitalized.
A click, barely discernable even in the silence. A soft and steady stream of oxygen. The gentle rise and fall of a chest weighed down, unable to breathe steadily on its own. Unnatural sounds, foreign tubes snaking sinisterly, ushering strange liquids. Machines. Utterly grotesque, they dwarfed Charlie's prone form. No matter how hard Don tried, he could not bring himself to look at his younger brother's face, to see the gargantuan tube of the respirator with all its contraptions shadowing half of Charlie's pale face.
He had just returned from another chest x-ray, more routine procedure, and one he would encounter every two hours in succession for several more days. Don sat beside him in utter silence, thinking of night approaching beyond the windowless walls, the sun dipping below the cement horizon and dousing the buildings in hues of orange and red. It was a tranquil image, sacrosanct, and, in context, wholly obscene.
Don rested his chin on his balled fists, elbows on his knees. Tearing his thoughts away from inane sunsets, he began to stare distantly at nothing, as was his wont since the fatal conclusion to that terrible case merely a day before. In fact, Charlie had absorbed every figment of his life—Don could barely remember the details of the case, of what he did that day, or even the current day of the week. Everything before the shooting was a blank, everything after it a blur.
Don's stomach suddenly growled, lurching him from his reverie. A wave of nausea washed over him, its ferocity making the room spin. Taking several deep and calculated breaths to dispel the room's liquid-like quality, Don realized that it had been hours—nearly a day, really—since he had even seen any food. He tried to ignore it, but the horrible feeling scattered any meager thoughts he had and made dealing with Charlie's situation all the more difficult for him. Reluctantly he took to his feet, steadying himself against the back of the chair. His free hand sought Charlie's, hesitating for only an instant before pressing down against the tepid flesh.
Don swallowed hard, stiffening as if touching his brother pained him. "Don't worry, buddy," he spoke softly. "I'll be right back."
He withdrew his hand and had barely turned a full circle when a horrid screeching assaulted his senses, carrying with it so much force that Don jumped against the chair, knocking it over and nearly falling himself in the process. In a horrid fraction of a second Don's world lurched upside down. He knew the sound and its connotation. A flatline. The sound he thought he would only hear in movies, the sound of death itself. The sound mixed with the silence and became chaos. Don's legs turned to cement. He wanted to rush to his brother's side, to assure himself it was not true. He wanted to run for help, convinced that it was. Charlie had flatlined. The beat of his heart had stopped, his feeble breaths stilled. He had lost the battle he had so valiantly fought. Flatline. Death. A cold table behind a steel door.
Don's hand clutched at his hairline, his breath frozen, words stuck in his throat. The agonizing sound of the flatline drowned out even the fierce beating of his heart. Overcome, rage and confusion and terror and agony coursing through every synapses of his brain, he mustered the only sound he was able to make, and screamed.
The door shot open and smashed against the wall, rebounding off the doorstop and brushing off Nurse Maple's shoulder as she rushed into the room. She pushed Don aside to reach Charlie, instantly scanning the machines and holding a syringe in her hand. His sheer emotions propelling him, Don found the courage to glance at Charlie's face for a shaking moment. Had adrenaline not frozen his body solid, he would have dropped soundlessly to the floor. So still. Behind the bulk of the respirator, Charlie's face was calm, innocent, serene. It was death's expression, all that remains after all life drains from muscles and bone.
Tears came and Don did not try to stop them. His little brother was gone. Charlie was dead.
But suddenly, the noise stopped. The alarm ceased, a steady beat replaced the shrill tone. Don sputtered, unbelieving. He threw his head up, staring through misty eyes to see Nurse Maple watching him cautiously from across the room.
"I-It's okay, Mr. Eppes. Everything's fine now. It was a—a malfunction of the machinery."
Don's jaw slackened, his mind struggling to process the information.
"The—uh, the clamp on his finger slipped off. It—It must've come loose during transport, for the x-rays." She opened and closed her mouth several times, searching for words. "It's—ah—it's not uncommon, Mr. Eppes." She looked truly sincere, "I'm so sorry about this scare, Mr. Eppes, so sorry."
Don stared at her, his breathing so erratic and his face so pale Nurse Maple considered for a moment getting him medical attention.
"He—he—" Don struggled, in the end merely looked hopefully in Charlie's direction.
"He's fine, Mr. Eppes," Nurse Maple offered softly.
Not dead. The words hit Don with a thousand pounds of force. He staggered, struggling to think, to comprehend, to sort out all the events of the last minute—sixty seconds that had seemed like a million more. It was too much for his already tortured mind to accept. Sputtering, he hurled himself toward the door. Stumbling out, he fell to his knees in the hall and heaved, but his empty stomach could offer nothing. Panting, dizzy, and overwhelmed he merely curled against the wall, his head resting against his knees, his eyes closed off from the horror he had just witnessed. Nothing was wrong. A malfunction. A mishap. Charlie was still alive. He hadn't … died. Don bit down hard on his tongue to stave the nausea with which he fought a losing battle.
An indeterminable time later—Don had given up attempting to discern time any more—the door closed softly behind Nurse Maple, who paused for a moment to examine Don sitting against the wall in the hallway. Don ignored her.
"Mr. Eppes…?"
Silence. A vortex of chaotic thought had Don in an infallible hold.
"Mr. Eppes, I really think you—"
"Go," Don growled, a harsh and primal roar. "Leave."
Nurse Maple hesitated, genuinely worried about Don, but after a moment decided he was beyond her power and shuffled away, leaving him in silence.
He wanted to go back into the room. He wanted to see his brother again, to protect him and hold a constant vigil, but his body refused. So weak. His mind and his body failed him. Chaotic thought had receded into a lethargic emptiness, a state of shock that left him unable to move, unable to think save that, for a moment, he truly thought Charlie dead. And that he had just stood by to watch it happen, nothing less than a sin. What if it hadn't been a slip of the machinery?
He had failed Charlie. In the end everything led to that. If not for that sniper shot…
Another set of footsteps started down the hall, heavier than Nurse Maple's, smooth and precise. Don felt a presence stop next to him and a hand came down on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find another hand held out to him. Glancing up, he espied Dr. Meisner's face. Don took the doctor's outstretched hand and staggered to his feet, unconsciously accepting Dr. Meisner's support as he wavered dangerously.
"Mr. Eppes, I heard what happened," Dr. Meisner began. "I can understand your anger, but you can trust me when I say that absolutely nothing happened to Charlie. The clamp simply slipped off. Charlie is not the first person this has happened to, and I assure you he will not be the last. It was just … unfortunate that you had to be present. It's a hard thing for anyone.
Don sucked in a few breaths to steady himself. "Unfortunate," he wheezed. "He wouldn't even need that damn clamp if it wasn't for me."
Dr. Meisner remained silent, studying Don.
"Oh come on, you probably saw the news on TV," Don continued. "It's probably everywhere, isn't it? The story? A world-class mathematician damn near dead because his brother didn't do his job right?"
"I heard nothing of the sort," Dr. Meisner stated, the epitome of professionalism. "And he's not 'damn near dead,' Mr. Eppes. I've told you before that he will pull through, and my position hasn't changed."
"It's been … what, two days? Three days? And it was the machinery this time—what if next time, it's not?"
Dr. Meisner tightened his grip on Don's arm. "There won't be a next time."
"You have no idea how hard this is."
"Mr. Eppes—Don—I'm a doctor. I deal with sick and hurt people every day of my life. Even with death. And it's never easy. But I've seen a lot of people pull though, some of them as bad off as Charlie is, or worse. And you know something? It's not so much a miracle or the work of some divine power. It's their will to live, and the will of the people around them to want them to live, too. I can't explain it, I don't think anyone can, but there's something about people knowing that others care about them and don't want them to go that keeps them fighting. I imagine Charlie knows that."
His frank and almost altruistic tone caught Don off guard. He remained silent, processing the doctor's information.
"And I know Charlie doesn't blame you. He just can't tell you yet."
Don sputtered, nearly recoiling in shock. The statement's audacity instinctually made him want to rearrange the doctor's face, but somewhere in the back of his mind it comforted him, as if they were words he wanted to hear, needed to hear.
"You've been beating yourself senseless over what happened to Charlie, but tell me this. Have you ever considered what will happen once he wakes up?"
The proverbial ton of bricks slammed headlong into Don. Whatever thoughts he had been nurturing vanished. The doctor had spoken the pure and infallible truth. It shamed Don to admit it, but he had never considered when—or even the mere possibility--that Charlie would wake from that coma. He thought back to what his father had said, words that until now he had ignored.
"Blaming yourself isn't going to make things better." Dr. Meisner looked straight into Don's eyes as he spoke. "But wanting Charlie to pull through is."
Don held the doctor's gaze for a moment, contemplating. Pieces began to fall into place, the shattered parts of his mind and his heart so far scattered since the shooting less than 36 hours before. He stole a glance toward the door, feeling the great weight lessen on his shoulders. He wouldn't be able to fully remove his guilt until he saw his brother's eyes, but until then he could hope, tremendous feelings of self-loathing no longer weighing him down. Amazing that a doctor he had met under the most unfavorable circumstances could be a catalyst to understanding everything he had ignored until now.
He turned back to Dr. Meisner. "Everything will be all right."
Dr. Meisner smiled, bright and genuine. "Yes, it will."
Don extended his arm to the doctor, and they shook hands. Don turned to the door.
"Excuse me, doctor. I'm going to go call my father."
To Be Continued.