Chapter 21

Charlie slept on as Don and Alan shared a sandwich from the cafeteria. Around 8, when Cecile showed up after her shift, they were able to talk Alan into going home. Don was still overwhelmed by the visit from Walker, the Demoral and the black cloud that followed Charlie, and fell asleep again himself while Cecile was still there.

Several times during the night he half-woke during traction, but it either had been going on long enough now that he was getting used to it, or it was beginning to hurt less. Either way, the lingering cloud of medication kept him from fully awakening until the 4:15 a.m. disconnection. He had slept a lot since yesterday, so while the nurse did her work he raised the head of the bed a little and picked up the Grisham novel, telling her to leave the light over his bed on when she left, assuring her that it provided him enough light to read.

He held the book unopened while she walked to Charlie's bed. He could hear her talking, so he figured Charlie was awake. He laid the book back down and turned the light off again, and waited for her to leave.

He only had 48 minutes. Maybe less, depending on what they had given his brother.

Don took a breath. "Charlie?"

"Mmmm."

He sounded pretty sleepy. Probably on his way out, again. Don didn't care. He had been thinking about this conversation all night, in his dreams, and he was damn well going to say it before it drove him to distraction. He just couldn't look at him while he did it, so Don stared at the ceiling.

"Charlie…remember the family honesty policy? We all made a deal, back when you had surgery on your ulcer perforation."

"Mmmm."

"Well, you haven't been living up to your end, Chuck."

No response.

Don continued nervously. "I'm sure you don't remember what you told us, Dad and me, after your knee surgery last week. You were under the influence." He raised his voice a little. "Are you listening to me?"

The tiniest whisper. "Yes."

"Well, Dad and I made a mistake then, too. After you told us…what you did, when you were being held, and why you did it…Charlie, we didn't talk about that. To each other, or to you. We should have. Regardless of how…horrible it was, to think about, despite how terrible it made us feel to know that Merrick brought you to that place. We…well, I can't really speak for Dad. But I didn't want you to have to think about it again. I thought we could ignore it away, but we can't, can we Charlie? The scars are too fresh — and I don't just mean the physical ones, on your wrists."

He waited a second, but wasn't surprised when Charlie didn't respond.

"Let me tell you now what I think, Charlie. I think you couldn't let Merrick win because it would be like killing all his victims all over again. I think you were broken down and confused and terrified, and felt helpless to prevent what happened to Amita from happening to us. I think you believed that your own death was the only way to save us. I believe you love us enough to do that. In fact, I doubt that you even had to talk yourself into it. I believe that you thought it was you — or us — and that was no contest for you." Don paused, then said his next words firmly, and slowly. "I believe that you would die for me, Charlie."

Don stopped again, and the silence in the room was deafening. He took another breath.

"And you know what else? I'm a bastard, Buddy — because even that is just not enough for me. You know what I want? I don't want you to find the strength inside you that it takes to die for me. I want you… hell, I need you, to find the strength inside that it takes to live for me. Don't let him win, Charlie. Don't let him take you away from me. From Dad."

Suddenly as exhausted as if he hadn't slept in days, Don abruptly stopped speaking and turned his head to look toward Charlie's bed. His brother held a hand to his face, IV lines dangling, and he shook silently. As Don watched, a keening sound began to come from him, and the silent sobbing began to be interrupted by huge, gut-wrenching gasps. Don started to lean forward to figure out how to get out of this thing. They got him up a few times a day for the necessities, he was going home in a few days…and his brother needed him. He held his leg in one hand while he unhooked the hammock, so his leg didn't crash into the bed. He lowered it gently and then leaned over to let the rail down. He wouldn't even have to hop, he could lower himself into the chair between the beds.

Don threw his pillows to the floor, so he could rest his leg on them, and then carefully let himself drop to the chair.

Things were going well. That hadn't really hurt. Too much.

He lowered the rail on Charlie's bed, and reached to touch his brother's arm. Feeling it, Charlie turned toward him, and Don decided to ignore Charlie's knee for the moment and moved his arm all the way around Charlie's neck, pulled him over on his side, further toward him. Don leaned as far into the bed as he could, and added his other arm to the equation, fully encircling Charlie's shaking shoulders. Charlie leaned his head into Don and cried.

Don held on, silent, while Charlie cried harder than he had when he was five, and discovered their pet goldfish dead; harder than he had when he was seven, and broke his arm falling out of the Oak tree; harder than he had when he was 10, and a 15-year-old Don had ditched him at the mall for his friends. Charlie cried as if he would never stop, and Don held on as if he would never let go.