Alan was pleased to see Don's SUV in the driveway when he finally got home after 9 that evening. He knew his son remembered the golf tournament — they had talked about it just yesterday — so he must have purposely come to the house just to have dinner with Charlie. Alan was happy whenever Don stopped by, or went out with him and Charlie, but sometimes he worried that his two boys didn't spend that much personal time together without him in the equation. It warmed his heart, that they had chosen to spend the evening together. He stood at the kitchen entry, fumbling with the lock, and frowned. Unless, of course, Don was just here to get Charlie to do some work for him.
He pushed open the door to find his eldest sitting alone at the kitchen table, surrounded by papers. His frown deepened. Maybe Don was just here with some work. "Hey, Donnie."
Don looked up from the paper he was reading with a tight smile. "Dad. How was the tournament?"
Alan's frown reversed itself. "Great. As usual. Someday, I'll get you and Charlie to play it with me. Some of the guys are getting pretty…ripe. I'm not sure how many years this foursome has left."
Don laughed. "Good luck with that, Dad. You know how Charlie feels about golf."
Alan sat opposite Don at the table. "What? He told me he loves golf. He's just not very good at it."
"True," Don acknowledged with a tilt of his head. His Dad didn't need to know that Charlie only played with him to make him happy, to give Alan an opportunity to be the teacher, for once. "I guess a charity event would be good for him. He would agree that it doesn't really matter how good you are, it only matters that the charity benefit…"
Alan nodded his head. "Exactly. So maybe next year, the two of you will join me."
"Sounds good, Dad. Colby plays too, if we need a fourth."
Alan raised an eyebrow. "Excellent. I was worried Charlie might bring Larry, and I'd be trapped on the course between a mathemetician and a physicist."
Don laughed again and Alan reached for one of the papers. "What are you reading? Did you bring Charlie some work, or did the two of you just socialize tonight?"
Don stopped Alan's hand with his own. The laughter had left his voice and his tone was suddenly serious. "Dad."
One word.
One syllable.
Unbelievable, the power it had. Alan jerked his hand back as if Don's were a rattlesnake. "What?" He couldn't keep the apprehension from his own voice.
"Charlie…Charlie had a…a procedure, today. I don't know why he didn't tell you, probably because he knows how much you enjoy this tournament…"
Alan felt himself growing cold. "A procedure? What do you mean, a procedure?"
Don sighed. "Look, he didn't tell me much, either. Called at 10 o'clock last night and asked me to pick him up at a clinic this afternoon, said he was having a simple diagnostic thing, but the clinic insisted that someone pick him up. He apologized all over the place."
"What was it?" Alan's voice sounded like a whine in his own ears.
Don looked back at the papers. "An… 'upper GI endoscopy'. I was just reading about it. Doesn't look all that pleasant. Charlie was pretty out of it when I picked him up. They used a local, but apparently the thing took longer than they anticipated…anyway, I stopped on the way home and bought him some strawberry ice cream. His throat was pretty raw, I could barely get a few syllables out of him." Don smiled briefly. "He fell asleep on the way home, but he woke up soon enough when he saw the ice cream." He waved a hand toward the counter next to the refrigerator and Alan noticed a pharmacy bag for the first time. "Had a lot of prescriptions, but the pharmacist said to let him sleep tonight, and start them tomorrow."
Alan stood as if he were going to the bag, but then stopped and sat down again. "What are they for?"
"Dad, I swear, Charlie has said maybe 10 words since I picked him up. But he had all these papers with him. There's a bunch of stuff about gastric ulcers in here."
At least Alan had something to do, now. He got angry. "Your brother has an ulcer? Donnie, it's too much stress. Helping you on your cases. There's so much stress already in his teaching, his own work…my God, the stress level of never being able to turn that brain off alone must be astronomical."
Don interrupted him. "They don't believe that about ulcers anymore, Dad. They're actually an infection, caused by some bacteria…" He searched through the papers again. "Helicobacter pylori. One of the prescriptions is for antibiotics."
Alan stood again, still angry. "I don't care what some paper says. Stress makes anything worse, you know that. Break your leg, and it won't heal as quickly if you're under too much stress."
Don quietly laid all the papers back on the table and stood to face his father. "Of course. You're right. I can see that, Dad. But Charlie…Charlie is a stress factory. I'm not sure how much I can help. Remember, he doesn't just consult for me…"
Alan started walking, and spoke dismissively. "Well, he has to stop. He can't make himself sick with all his…" He pushed open the swinging door and headed for the stairs. "I want to see him. Is he in his room?"
Don was close behind him. "Yeah. It's been about 20, 25 minutes since I checked on him."
The two men thundered up the stairs, and stopped together outside Charlie's room. The door stood slightly ajar, and Alan pushed it gently open. When his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that his son's bed was empty. He looked with confusion over his shoulder at Don. "Where is he?"
Don was focused on the bathroom door at the end of the hall. "I think I heard…" The rest of his sentence was punctuated by the solid thump of a body hitting the floor, and the two rushed for the bathroom. Don reached the door first. He knocked on it while he twisted the handle, calling out to Charlie. "Buddy, I'm coming in…" Opening the door, he froze. Charlie lay on his side on the floor, his body shivering so hard it looked as if he were having convulsions. His arms were clutched around his stomach. Vomit that looked like coffee grounds surrounded him and dripped down the side of the toilet he had been aiming for. Alan pushed past Don and dropped to his knees in the vomit, put his hand on Charlie's face.
"Dear God," he said, and looked up at Don. "He's burning up. Call 9-1-1." Don just stood in the doorway, unable at first to make anything move. Alan raised his voice. "DONALD ALAN. CALL 9-1-1. DO IT NOW." The tone of his father's voice reached him, and Don grabbed the cell phone off his belt and placed the call with one hand, while he soaked several towels in cold water with the other. Disconnecting, he joined his father on the floor. When he looked at Charlie, he saw that he wasn't unconscious, as he had assumed. Instead, his brother looked back at him, eyes wide and frightened. Gingerly Don used the end of a towel to wash Charlie's face.
"Shhh, Buddy, just relax," he started, trying to make his voice as steady and soothing as possible. "It's okay. You're okay." He felt Charlie tremble beneath him. "We've got you, Buddy. We've got you."