Chapter 17
Don dreamed of gelatin. Even dreaming, he thought he should be able to come up with something more entertaining to do with gelatin, but it just sat there: Green, Orange, Red…all lined up, staring at him. He was sure they were smiling.
"Go away," he mumbled.
"They won't, you know," answered a spoon, slowly weaving in and out amongst the dishes. "Gelatin never goes away." The spoon stopped its amble and turned to face him. ("Face me", thought the rational part of Don's brain. "How can a spoon face me?")
"Gelatin never dies, either," it said. "These, here, they're from your childhood. Charlie took the blue one."
Don's eyes popped open and he stared uncomprehendingly at the ceiling of his brother's living room. "Let him have it!" he bellowed, and tried to sit up. His legs weren't working right, though, or maybe the blanket over him was too heavy. "I want him to have it!", he yelled again, and tried to pull himself up with his arm and the back of the couch.
"Donnie, Donnie, wake up," said his father's voice, and he felt a warm hand on his forehead. Stronger arms than his pushed him back. "This isn't right," Don thought, as his aching head hit the pillow behind him. "Who in this house has arms stronger than me?"
"Donnie?" he heard again, and he opened his eyes, a task that seemed much harder than it should be. His father hovered over him. Two fathers, actually. Don thought about the gelatin again and leaned over the side of the couch, and vomited on his father's shoes.
He fell back and raised a hand to his bald had, shocked the rest of the way into wakefulness by the feel of it. "Where's my hair?" he asked his father, who was looking with some displeasure at his shoes.
"Let me clean this up, first," said his father, carefully slipping out of his loafers. "Then we'll talk."
By the time Alan had brought a bucket and brush from the kitchen and completed his task, Don was asleep again. Alan returned the supplies, went to the laundry room to change his socks, then padded back into the living room. He sat in the chair, and waited for Don to wake up again. He must have fallen asleep himself, then, because Don's voice woke him.
"Dad?" he asked softly.
"Donnie!" Alan smiled, leaning toward the couch. "How are you feeling?"
Don shifted slightly and grimaced. "I'm okay," he said. "What happened? Why did we come home? I want to go see Charlie."
"Hush, son, too many questions," said Alan. He looked at the clock on the wall. "It's almost 3 a.m. I don't think they'll let us see Charlie, now."
Don looked confused, tried again to sit up. Alan left his chair to help, and this time Don succeded. "But I thought I would get to see Charlie after the procedure," he said, and he hated that his voice sounded like a whine.
"I know you did," answered Alan, sitting on the couch next to his son and patting his knee. "Dr. Stevens knew that you wanted to…but between you and me," he looked conspiralitorily at Don. "He told me you probably wouldn't."
"Did something go wrong?", Don asked shakily.
"No, No, No, Donnie, nothing went wrong," answered Alan, smiling. "But the procedure was a few hours behind schedule, and it's not unusual to be tired afterwards, have a headache, nausea…" he looked down toward his socks. "I think you've hit all those high points."
Don groaned, his memory returning with force. "I think a spoon was talking to me about Jell-O," he said, leaning back against the couch.
Alan brightened. "Would you like some? It's probably ready by now…"
A chuckle escaped Don. "Dad, why do you always do that? You know Charlie and I both hate Jell-O."
"I don't always do it," protested Alan, getting to his feet and helping Don achieve a horizontal position again. "Only when you're sick. And I didn't make any blue, this time. That's Charlie's favorite."
Don smiled again as his eyes drifted shut. "We'll go in the morning, right?" he asked sleepily.
"Of course, son," said Alan, smoothing the blanket. "You sleep a few more hours." He sighed, and looked again at the clock. "We'll go in the morning."
NUMBERS NUMBERS NUMBERS NUMBERS NUMBERS
Don moved more stiffly than he would like, but still rather quickly. A couple of times he had to wait for Alan to catch up. Finally, they rounded the corner to Charlie's room. As they entered the isolation anteroom, Dr. Stevens was coming out, scribbling on a chart and speaking quickly to the nurse beside him. She hurried towards the nurses' station and Dr. Stevens saw Alan and Don. "How are you feeling this morning," he asked, not unkindly, but with more stress behind his words than Don was used to. "I'm good," he answered. "Kind-of a weird night, and I'm a little stiff, but it gets better with every passing hour."
"Good, that's good," smiled Dr. Stevens. "I'm glad to hear that." He still stood between Don and Alan and the window in the door to Charlie's room.
"What is it?" Don asked. "How's Charlie?"
The doctor sighed. "Charlie is pretty uncomfortable right now," he started, maintaining eye contact with both men. "He is receiving a blood transfusion for anemia, and he's developed a lung infection, so we have him on oxygen, and are starting an aggressive antibiotic intraveneous treatment. He also has a pretty painful case of mucositis — the lining of his mouth is very inflamed, and he has a few sores in his mouth. There's not much we can do about that, except let him suck on ice. There are a few clinical trials being done on drug treatment for mucositis, but I'm hoping this will clear up on its own now that the high dose chemo is over."
"Lung infection?" asked Don with alarm. "It's not that Graft…Graft…"
"It is my hope," interrupted Dr. Stevens, "that this is only a lung infection that will respond to the antibiotics. I have to be honest, however. This could be the first sign of Graft verses Host Disease."
The men were silent, and Dr. Stevens stepped away from the window. Don and Alan looked through, and saw something they did not even recognize. Whoever laid in that bed was so still, so unmoving, so white…
Don heard a choke beside him. "Dear G-d," gasped Alan, and he pushed past Don into the hallway. Don tried to grab him, but his own reactions were still too slow. Dr. Stevens left after Alan, and Don couldn't really see his father well anymore…at least, not until he was on the floor, with Dr. Stevens and several other hospital personnel bent over him. Don approached, but couldn't get near. He leaned against the opposite wall, and felt himself sliding down to the floor. He looked back down the hallway, and saw a nurse hurry into his brother's room. He looked at his father on the floor in front of him, Dr. Stevens shining a penlight into his eyes. He didn't know what to do. He looked back towards Charlie's room again. He didn't know where to go. Back at his father. He didn't know, until he felt her hands brushing away at his face, that Megan was on the floor beside him, and that he was crying.
