Chapter 19

She looked at him with confusion and pain in her eyes. "I don't understand. I thought we were friends, again."

He tried to reach her, touch her, reassure her, but when he placed a hand on her arm, it went all the way through. He could see his fingers sticking out on the other side, and he looked at them in horror. What had he done to her? He jerked his hand back. "I'm sorry," he said, moving his eyes from his offending hand to her own eyes, now brimming with tears. That realization constricted his heart. He hated it when she cried. "Please. Don't cry, Amita. Did I hurt you?"

She looked at him sorrowfully, and began to drift backwards, as if a strong wind had picked her up. "You didn't hurt me, Charlie," she said softly, and he followed after her so that he could hear. He was close enough that he could see the worms start crawling out of her eyes when she repeated herself and then finished her sentence…her accusation. " You didn't hurt me. You killed me."

Worms began to fall on the ground then, hundreds of them, thousands. They were covering his feet, crawling into his socks. "No!", he shouted, stamping his feet and backing away from her. "Stop it!" She began to laugh then, and the sound was terrifying, hysterical, it hurt his ears. He clamped his hands over them. "No!", he shouted again.

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Charlie awoke in a cold sweat on the daybed. His shout echoed in the living room, but the pounding of his heart drowned it out. As he had learned to do over the last few days, he waited until the beat slowed, until the gasps of air that he was taking became breaths again.

He was glad once more that Alan had agreed to giving him a few hours a day alone. It was the only time he even tried to sleep. At night, after he let Alan settle him in his room, Charlie waited until he couldn't stand it any more. Then he hoped his father was sleeping and turned on his bedside lamp. He reached between the mattress and box springs, and wrestled out the notebook he was storing there. Then he would grab a pencil off he desk, and work on "P vs NP" until the sun began to rise.

He wasn't really lost in it, this time. He always noticed the lightening sky, for instance, and put the notebook away before Alan, an early riser, came smiling into his room. It was easy. He didn't really care about the problem. It just gave him something to do, during the night. Something he knew he wouldn't accidentally finish.

He was halfway through his fifth day out of the hospital, and his growing exhaustion was slowing everything down. Cecile was concerned about several of the burns, especially the largest one around the bullet graze. For the last couple of days, she had been coming over early in the morning, before her shift, and late at night, after it. She had only agreed to a "date" with Don this evening because she knew Charlie had a doctor's appointment this afternoon.

Remembering the appointment, Charlie tried to focus on the clock across the room. He still couldn't wear a watch, although the stitches should come out of his wrists at the doctor's later. He hadn't means to fall asleep today, because he knew his Dad would be back soon, to take him to the appointment…but he was so tired. So tired.

His knee never ceased its agony. He knew the physical therapist wasn't pushing him very hard, in recognition of his other injuries, but Charlie thought the 15 minutes of exercises every morning would kill him.

He looked at his bandaged wrists again.

No, they wouldn't kill him.

Apparently, dying was too good for him.

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By Friday, a week after Charlie had been released, Don was going stir crazy. The morphine, it turned out, had been good for more than just pain. By rendering him unconscious so much of the time, it had saved him from boredom. The day before, he had begged his father to bring him his laptop. "I'll balance my checkbook. Type out recipes for you. Start a Christmas letter. Something. Anything. Please."

When Alan finally reminded him that his apartment had been ransacked, and told him that it was his laptop Charlie had destroyed, Don was bereft. Alan tried to lighten the moment. "I can't get Charlie to go near a computer. You're begging for one. I'm beginning to think you two scrambled your brains and put them back into the wrong bodies."

Now, strung up like a smoked ham, Don remembered what his father had said, and decided on an experiment. He looked at the clock. 11 a.m. Dad and Charlie were home from his PT by 10:30, but since Charlie's doctor's appointment on Wednesday afternoon had not gone well, Alan still stayed with him until after lunch. Don frowned, thinking about what his father and Cecile had said about the appointment. Charlie was not healing well — no part of him. The doctor had untaped his nose, and then taped it back up again. He had removed the stitches in both wrists, and one had broken back open, so he had stitched it up again. He checked Charlie's burns and scheduled him for a skin graft on his arm the next month, and said he might have to do the same with one of the burns on a foot. Charlie had sported a low-grade fever, and he had continued him on antibiotics, switching to a stronger one. He said that it was obvious Charlie was not getting enough rest, and handed Alan a prescription for a sleeping pill. He strongly encouraged Charlie to seek counseling, and he said the next step would take him back to the hospital if he wasn't careful.

Don picked up the phone beside the bed and dialed Charlie's cell. He was almost surprised when the call didn't go to voice mail.

"Hello?"

God. He sounded so…weary.

"Hey, Buddy."

Silence. Then, "Don. How are you?"

"Bored. Is Dad still there?"

"He's making lunch. Do you want me to call him?"

"No, actually I called to ask you a couple of things."

A wary "What?" eventually came back at Don.

"Dad says you're not working on anything, and I know you've got some cool stuff loaded on your laptop. Can I borrow it? I'm going crazy, here."

"Oh. Oh. Sure. I'll send it over with Dad today." There was some surprise in Charlie's voice, but the total lack of hesitation was disturbing to Don. Charlie's computer meant more to him than his kidneys.

"Um…thanks…"

"Was there something else? You said 'a couple of things'?"

Don let his loneliness show in his voice. "Yeah. I know you haven't been feeling so hot…but will you come and see me tomorrow? It's Saturday — you won't have therapy. I miss you."

Silence again. Finally, "All right." Almost sounding like Charlie again, he added, "I'm sorry."

Damn. Don hadn't meant to make him feel bad. "It's okay. I'm sure PT is exhausting." He tried a joke. "Can't wait to find out, myself."

Charlie chuckled a little.

"That's cute," Don interjected. "Chuck chuckled."

A quiet groan. "Are you back on morphine?"

This time it was Don's turn to laugh.

"Dad's bringing me lunch," Charlie suddenly said. "I'll send the laptop."

"Thanks," Don said again. "See you tomorrow?"

"Okay," Charlie answered. "Good…" He suddenly interrupted himself. "Don?"

"Yeah, Buddy?"

Don could hear Charlie breathing. "Just…take care, okay?"

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Charlie did come to see Don the next day, but not with Alan. On Saturday, he arrived with Larry, and on Sunday he came with Megan. He stayed an hour each day, but let the others in the room monopolize the visit. He spoke when spoken to, but otherwise sat in quiet observation. Don wished he could get some time alone with him, but no-one was picking up on his hints. When he had first seen Charlie on Saturday, he was shocked at his appearance. Charlie seemed gaunt, listless, exhausted. Never exactly bulky, he looked like he'd lost 10 pounds in the week since Don had seen him.

When Charlie and Larry left, Don looked at Alan as the door swung shut behind them, but Alan just shrugged and looked away. "Megan says to give him some time." Alan sighed, rubbed a hand on his cheek and then dropped it to his lap. "I'm not sure how much more time I can give him. I'm worried. His…emotional state, it's affecting his physical recovery. He has another appointment Monday afternoon."

The two brief weekend visits made Don uneasy, and he would have obsessed even more about it, tied to his bed, if Assistant Director Bill Walker hadn't paid him a visit on Monday, giving him something else to think about.