Charlie was sleeping, but he was restless. Alan had felt his forehead, and he knew without being told that his son still had a fever. The wound on his leg did not really look any worse — but it was no better either. Alan knew that, too, because they had put one of those fancy transparent film dressings on it. He tried not to look.
At a sound from the bed, Alan looked up from his book. Charlie's eyes had that REM thing going on — he was dreaming. He was frowning. He said something, but Alan couldn't quite make it out. He rose from the chair and approached the bed. This time he heard Charlie clearly. "I'm sorry!" He stretched his IV-less hand out in front of him. Alan was trying to decide whether he should wake him up when Charlie's eyes flew open, and he tried to sit up. "'Mita!"
"Sh, shh., Charlie, you're dreaming," soothed Alan, pushing his son gently back onto the bed. Charlie's eyes focused on his father, quickly shot around the room like he was inside a pinball machine, came back to his father. He clutched his shirt. "Was that real? Is she really gone?"
Alan raised one hand to brush the hair from his son's hot brow, the other to hold the hand that clutched his shirt. "Yes and no, son. Whatever you just experienced was a dream. You've been here in the hospital since yesterday afternoon."
One tear squeezed from each eye and rolled down Charlie's face, and the hand on his father's shirt tightened. "It wasn't a dream," he whispered. "More like a memory? She's gone?"
Although it hurt Alan to say it, he knew there was no way around it. He spoke as gently as he could. "Yes, my son."
Charlie released his death grip and rolled away from his father, toward the IV, curling as far into himself as his leg would allow. Alan was certain that must have hurt, but he was just as certain that it wasn't physical pain that was breaking out of Charlie now in huge, gasping sobs. Gut-wrenching, no sound coming out, no air going in, sobs. Charlie's shoulders heaved and Alan was concerned Charlie might make himself sick, and began to rub his back. "It's all right, son," he said over, and over. "It will be all right." Eventually Charlie subsided into periodic gasps. Not removing his hand from Charlie's back, Alan extended his leg behind him, hooked the chair, and dragged it closer to the bed.
That's how Don found them.
His father was sitting close to the bed, one hand on Charlie's back, head lying on the other arm on the bed, asleep. Charlie was curled up on his side, arms wrapped around his stomach like it hurt. He was sleeping, too, but Don could see the dried tears on his face. He was breathing with his mouth slightly open, as if he couldn't get enough air through a stuffy nose, and the breathing sounded raspy to Don.
The door swung open and a nurse entered. Don was sorry it wasn't Katie. Of course, it couldn't be Katie, since she didn't even work here, but still – when Mark smiled at him brightly, it just didn't have the same affect.
Mark was carrying some tubing, which he attached to a receptacle in the wall.
Then he leaned over and gently shook Charlie to wake him. "Dr. Eppes? Dr. Eppes, I need you to wake up now."
Both Charlie and Alan woke up then, and Mark smiled at them both. "I'm so sorry. Hospitals are notorious for telling you to sleep, and then waking you up."
Alan stretched, slowly unwound himself from the chair, stood to join Don. "Donnie! Good to see you, son. You can tell me where you disappeared to last night."
Charlie's rearrangement was slower, and not much of his own power was involved. The nurse helped him turn to his back, checked his wound and respositioned the leg. Charlie coughed a few times. Mark, glancing at Charlie, laid the tubing down and crossed quickly to the bathroom. When he came back, he brought a cool wash cloth. "In case you'd like to wash your face," he said quietly, and Charlie found himself at a crossroads. On the one hand, he was touched that his comfort was obviously an issue to this nurse. On the other, he didn't really care what he looked like. The cool cloth felt so good on his hands, though, he finally raised it to his face, which seemed way too warm too him.
Don hadn't taken his eyes off the tubing. "What's that for?" he finally asked.
Mark accepted the cloth from Charlie, placed it on the bedside table and began to adjust the dials in the wall. "The on-call pulmonologist was here this afternoon," he began. "He's ordered a few tests tomorrow, and would like Charlie to be on oxygen until then."
Alan seemed startled. "Why? What tests?"
"Does that feel all right?" Mark was speaking to Charlie. "Good. You buzz if you need anything." Looking to Alan and Don, he gave a sympathethic grin. "I'm sorry. It's really not my position to say. I could ask the doctor to contact you…"
Alan bristled. "You can bet your life I want…"
"It's ok, Dad," Don interrupted, shooting Mark what everyone recognized as a smile of dismissal.
Alan looked expectantly at Don, who drew closer to the bed. "You doing ok, Charlie?"
An almost imperceptible nod, a quiet, "Tired."
"You go back to sleep. I'm going to make Dad eat some dinner."
At that, Charlie's eyes, which had been drooping, popped open again. He glanced worriedly at his father, and he coughed again.
"It's ok, Charlie, he's ok. We're just going to go down to the cafeteria for awhile. Is that all right? Would you like me to call Larry, or Megan first?"
Charlie's eyes were drooping again. The oxygen didn't seem to be making his breathing any easier. He shook his head, gave up, totally closed his eyes. "Tired," he said again.
"You sleep," Don said again, turning to lead his father out of the room. "We'll be back."
Alan refused to go any further than the hallway. "What?"
"I promised him, dad. Come with me to the cafeteria." Alan sighed, knowing Don well enough to know he'd never get anything out of him unless he did as he asked. The time to walk there, go through the line, find a table and finally sit — it seemed interminable to Alan. Knowing that Don was watching him, he took one bite of some nondeterminate pasta dish, a gulp of coffee, slammed the cup on the table. "What?", he said again.
Don knew his father, too. He lowered his own fork. "Dr. Stevens called me," he offered. "The pumlomologist consulted with him on the telephone, since he's been treating Charlie for the last 18 months." He reached across the table and took Alan's hand then. Alan couldn't stop the fear from reaching his eyes, and he just waited for Don to continue.
Don removed his hand and reached quickly into a pocket for a notebook. "I wrote some stuff down," he said. "They're concerned about a…about a 'late postransplation opportunistic infection' in his lungs. They want to check for something called RSV, and also, bacterial pneumonia."
He looked up from his notes and met his father's eyes again. "The test scheduled for tomorrow morning is a…" back to the notes. "…a bronchoscopy, with a bronchoalveolar lavage."
"Those are big words."
"I know. The test is done under a local anesthetic, some cells are harvested…"
Alan held up his hand. "Will Dr. Stevens be here?"
"Not during the procedure. He assures me the docs here will do a great job, and that this test is easier on the patient than an alternative, which would be an open lung biopsy."
Alan blanched. "Dear G-d. None of it sounds good to me."
Don put the notebook away and reached for his father's hand again. "I know. Dr. Stevens will be faxed the test results immediately, and he'll come here during his lunch hour tomorrow to see Charlie himself, and talk to us."
Alan pushed himself away from the table.
"Dad! You haven't eaten yet!"
Alan stood. "I'll eat at home. I'm going to stop at the store and buy a nice beef to roast. Some of that thick, whole-grain bread we all like. The least I can do is bring the good doctor lunch."
