A/N: That last one nearly killed me, too. …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Chapter 11
Alan and Megan heard the shot from their places in the dining room. They looked at each other, eyes wide, and then Alan found himself taking the stairs two at a time, something he hadn't done in 20 years.
He smelled the acrid burn of gunpowder before he registered the scene before him. Don was at Charlie's bedside, one hand on his brother's neck, checking for a carotid pulse, the other holding a cell phone to his ear already. He was blocking Alan's view of Charlie, but he could see a hand hanging limply off the bed, a gun on the floor below. He shifted a little in the doorway to try and see around Don.
Blood. He saw blood, dripping down Charlie's head and soaking into his mattress, and Alan was there, pushing Don away, kneeling at the bed and touching Charlie, grabbing the limp hand. He was keening over his son, howling. He did not see Megan on the other side of the bed, checking Charlie's head wound, her own cell phone out. There was no measure of time.
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EMTs. IV lines. Oxygen. Backboard. Stretcher. Too many people pulling at him, talking at him, trying to remove him from Charlie's hand.
One presence.
Did no one else see her?
One presence, soft and peaceful, whispers he couldn't quite put into words, touches he couldn't quite feel.
One presence, one presence that settled within him and stilled his panic, and filled his heart.
One presence, that moved like the smoke from the gun, that expanded to be both with him, in him, part of him…and part of Charlie. He saw her there, he felt her there, with her son, and he didn't panic again, he just wondered…was she there to take him with her, or was she there to give him back? …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Colby found them in the waiting area of the ER. None of them looked like they knew how they got there. He pulled up a chair. "Have you heard anything?" No one offered a verbal response, but he got a slight shake of the head from Megan. "I've been at the scene…the house," he offered. "Found a round in the wall behind the bed. If there was only one shot, at least the bullet is not actually in his head…" Damn. Mr. Eppes and Don didn't even react to that. Only Megan seemed to understand. There was a tiniest light of hope in her eyes, but then, just as suddenly, it was gone.
"I should have spoken sooner. If I had spoken just one day sooner…"
"I should have kept in closer touch. I knew he was getting lost…"
"I should have seen it. I'm the one who lives with him, who sees him every day…"
They all spoke at once, then lapsed into silence, again.
Colby propped his elbows on his knees, leaned and looked at the floor. "So, when Charlie wakes up," he said, "you've all got a little more for him to take on?" The three looked at him. "He has to sense your guilt, know that your pain is his fault, add all that to whatever led him here tonight?" They didn't answer. He stood, paced a little, came back to face them. "Everybody did the best he — or she — could. Even Charlie. You have to let it go, all of you, if you want to help him. This is not the way to help him."
Don looked up at him. That didn't sound like easily learned insight. Colby saw the question in his eyes. "My cousin. When we were in high school. Only she used pills, and came really close to succeeding. Now? Now it's 15 years later, she's a pilot for Hawaiian airlines, has two little girls of her own and is married to a great guy." He squatted in front of Don and Alan. "I'm telling you, this doesn't have to be the end for Charlie. This can be a beginning."
Don wanted to believe that. He knew that he had to forgive himself, concentrate on Charlie. He took his father's hand, gave it a squeeze. They all did.
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"If I could speak with the family, please?"
Colby and Megan got to their feet, but Alan reached up for Megan's hand and pulled her back down. "I'd like them to stay," he said to the doctor, and Don nodded his affirmaion. "Is that all right?"
"Not really hospital policy," he answered, smiling a little, "but I can't really help it if someone else in the waiting area overhears me, now, can I?"
Colby offered the doctor the chair he had just vacated, and it was accepted gratefully. The doctor looked at Alan. "This type of wound is typically referred to as a 'graze' — the bullet actually cuts a path through the surface of the body…in this case, the temple…but does not actually lodge within the body."
"We found the bullet in the wall," Colby said again.
The doctor nodded. "We have done a CT scan to make sure there is no bleeding or bruising of the brain, and it looks good. We'll do another tomorrow. Your son has a serious, Grade 3 concussion. He is still unconscious, and likely will remain so for several hours. When he does wake up, there will be dizziness, nausea, likely some amnesia of the hours leading up to the incident. That memory may be recovered, and may not. And of course, he'll have an enormous headache. He could be dealing with ongoing headaches for months. He'll be groggy, and dazed. Recovery from traumatic brain injury can be very slow, and proper rest and nutrition are imperative. He will be here with us several days."
Alan took a breath, looked at Don. "He's alive."
"Dad…"
"There's more." The doctor's voice interrupted them. "I understand that this wound was self-inflicted?"
"No," started Don, and felt Megan looking at him. "I mean, yes. Both. The shot itself, I think I scared him, I yelled at him, he jerked…it just went off. But he took the gun out of the safe, he had it with him, it was in his hands. Obviously, none of that was accidental."
"Has he seemed depressed, recently?"
This time Alan answered. "We were going to talk to him tonight, ask him if he needed some help…he's had an extremely difficult time dealing with the loss of two close friends…"
"and Mom," Don said softly. Alan looked at him, but Don looked at the doctor. "Our mother died about three years ago, after a long and ugly battle with cancer. Charlie never really dealt with that, and I think when Sam and Jenna died, too, a lot of unresolved grief just overwhelmed him." Suddenly, Don stood up, put his hand to his head. "Damn," he said angrily. "It's so easy to see, now."
"Traumatic loss can trigger serious depressions," the doctor agreed. "While he is with us, after he regains consciousness, one of our staff psychiatrists will evaluate your son's situation and devise a treatment plan." He looked directly at Alan, then up to Don. "80 percent of the people treated for depression respond positively," he said, "and it doesn't have to mean a lifetime of disability. The psychiatrist will be able to provide more specific details for Charlie's case, but this episode being induced by traumatic events, that encourages me. Behavioral therapy — showing Charlie other solutions and new ways to think about himself, and what happens around him — should be very effective."
Alan sagged a little in his chair. "Can we see him?"
The doctor looked at his watch. "It will take a little time to get him settled in a bed upstairs, and then he'll probably remain unconscious at least through the night. You should go home, get some rest yourselves. The hard part is still coming, for Charlie. He'll need you both at your best."
Don frowned. "I've left him alone too much already."
The doctor stood to end the conversation. "He's not alone, Mr. Eppes, we're taking good care of him. We have all your contact numbers." He indicated Alan with his eyes. "Your job tonight is to take care of your father."