Chapter 3
It was late when Alan got to the motel in Medford. He had left L.A. before six, but had a layover in San Francisco, waiting for the last connection into the Valley. He didn't arrive until after midnight. By the time he retrieved his luggage, and the motel shuttle took him the few miles he probably could have walked in less time, it was nearly 1 in the morning. Don had been as good as his word, and a key was waiting at the desk for him. Alan walked through the quiet hallways until he found Charlie's corner room. He knocked lightly. He had the key, and didn't want to wake his son, if he was sleeping. Alan had thought there was little chance of that, but there was no answer to the knock. He slipped the card key in the slot, and pushed open the door.
The room was dark, and Alan thought maybe Charlie was sleeping after all. He dropped his bag inside the door and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the darkness.
It was a nice room, what he could make out. The motel had just been built during a spurt in the local economy a few years ago, and the place seemed large, offering two double beds with bedside tables, a desk he would have to be careful not to run into. A counter over drawers stretched the entire length of one wall to serve as the dresser, and also to hold a coffee tray on one end, a television on the other. Eyes a little more trustworthy now, he ventured farther into the room, around the slight corner the bathroom made. He saw Charlie, then, standing in front of a window at the end of the room. The curtains were only open a few inches, and he was squeezed in behind a small table that sat under the window. Alan walked toward him. He pulled the table out into the room further, and moved to stand beside him.
Charlie flicked his eyes briefly his way, continuing to stand looking out at the parking lot. Alan wanted him to know that he was there, but he knew words had no place here. He stood next to his son for a long time. Finally, he sensed Charlie sag a little, and used the excuse to slip his arm around Charlie's thin shoulders. Charlie had never been a tactile child, and was not a physically demonstrative adult, so Alan wasn't surprised when his shoulders stiffened at his touch. He gave the shoulders a light squeeze, prepared to drop his hand, when Charlie moved into him a little, surprising him. His son slowly leaned on him, tilted his head so that the dark curls rested on Alan's shoulder. Alan raised his own hand higher, then, ran it through those curls, began to murmur a father's love.
Charlie started shaking, but still said nothing. When the shaking grew stronger, Alan pulled back to look at his face, and was startled to see the tears. Charlie's mouth was open and he was starting to sink, but still no sound was coming from him. Alan led him quickly to the nearest bed, barely got him to it before Charlie's knees gave out. He sat heavily on the bed, boneless, and flopped over to curl on one side. There was sound now, heartbreaking, gut-wrenching sound, but it didn't seem to involve air going into lungs, just gulping, uncontrolled sobs that burst from Charlie and shook his entire body and frightened Alan with their intensity.
He felt helpless, more helpless than he had ever felt in his life…except the night Margaret had died. He and Don had sat with her that night, knowing the end was coming…and there was nothing to do. There were only breaths to count, and memorize, never knowing which would be the last. In the back of his mind, always, was the fear that he would not be able to keep his promises to her, the fear that Charlie was already lost. His own soul had been lost then, and there was nothing left in him for Charlie.
Now he remembered her, his hand absently rubbing circles on Charlie's back, and he wished for her again. He was afraid Charlie was going to make himself sick with grief, and his eyes began a search for a nearby trash can, when he finally felt a definite intake of air. His hand rose and fell on Charlie's back, as the sobs reduced to intermittent gasps and shudders.
There was nothing to do, at this moment. Alan counted the breaths, and memorized them.