Chapter 12
Someone was making too much noise. It was waking him up. Moaning. He tried to turn his head to see who it was, but then it all started spinning, inside his closed eyelids, and someone else reached down through his throat and dragged his stomach back through his larynx, pulled it inside out up into his mouth and he started bubbling. Disembodied hands pushed at him, forced him onto his side, and his head turned again, causing more bubbling. The moaning had turned to retching now, and he felt badly for whoever that was, even while he wished they would shut up.
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Don sank onto the chair he had just vacated. "Who knew you could throw up in your sleep?"
Alan continued to stand, bathing Charlie's face with a cool washcloth. "Any parent," he answered. "You both used to do it, all the time." He smiled fondly at Don over the bed rails. "You'd tell your mother you had a stomachache, and she would sing you to sleep. But when you were really sick — not just trying to get her to sing to you — you would toss, and turn, and eventually the motion would cause a little…action." He took the cloth away, looked back at Charlie. "Of course, you'd wake up in the middle of it."
"I think I did see him try to move his head, before…he'll wake up soon, Dad."
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The moaning had woken him up, again, but there was someone running a jackhammer in his head, so he was surprised he heard it. He wouldn't turn his head, again, he didn't like bubbling. He wished he could remember how to open his eyes. Maybe he could see who it was. When he quit trying, his eyes popped open on their own accord, and he had to squint against the light. That didn't work very well, either, though, because there were floating heads all around him, coming closer, drawing away, all fuzzy. Too many. Swimming in the air. Funny colors. He squeezed his eyes shut then, because he felt the bubbling in his mouth, and he was afraid the hands would come after him again. He couldn't make the bubbling stop, and now he heard the retching again, the hands moved him.
His brain made a connection.
Was that him? Was he the one moaning, the one retching?
He didn't care. He just wished it would stop.
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"He opened his eyes, that time."
Alan looked at the clock over the door. "But it's been almost 18 hours. They'll make us leave again. What if he gets sick when there's no one to help him?"
"We'll stay, then. All night, if we have to."
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That was his brother. Asleep in the chair.
That was his father, head on the bed, arm stretched out to…
That was his hand. His father was holding his hand.
That was all good. The moaning had stopped. That was even better. The jackhammer was still there. That was too bad.
Was it dim, wherever they were? The light didn't seem as bright.
He tried an experiment. He wiggled his fingers, inside his father's hand. Alan's head shot off the bed, frantic eyes locked with his own.
"Charlie…" It was a whisper. He thought it was a whisper, he couldn't hear it very well.
He tried another experiment. His voice didn't seem to be working, but he managed a smile.
Ah.
That was his father's hand, leaving his, brushing his face, now. Pushing hair out of one eye. Gently massaging his forehead, persuading the jackhammer to back off a little.
He could feel his eyes close, feel himself relaxing into sleep again…but it was wrong, something was wrong. He wanted to stay awake long enough to know why.
Why did he feel his father's tears, dropping onto his face?