Chapter 14
Charlie was miserable, sitting up in this chair. He was pretty miserable lying down, too, but his head hurt so much now, he was having trouble concentrating on what this newest doctor sitting across from him was saying. He tried to focus. "I'm sorry. You're?"
"Dr. Landon. I'm a staff psychiatrist here at the hospital."
A psychiatrist? "How can I help you?"
Dr. Landon smiled. "That's usually my line." He waited until Charlie attempted to return his smile, then looked down at the file in his lap. "I've talked to your family, and some of your friends. I understand you have your Ph.D in applied mathematics, and teach at Cal Sci?"
"Yes…"
"I could have used your help during med school. Math has never been my best subject. How has it been going lately, teaching?"
Charlie closed his eyes. His head would fall off soon. He hoped. "Okay."
"Your colleagues tell me that you've been a little stressed and unprepared, and you've been missing some classes."
Charlie opened his eyes again. Colleagues? Larry? Amita? Who? "I haven't been feeling well. And I…I got behind. I can't seem to catch up."
"Do you have trouble concentrating?"
"Right now?"
Dr, Landon allowed a brief smile. "Before the hospital. Why are you behind in your work?"
"I'm tired. First I couldn't sleep, then I couldn't stop. When I try to work…" Charlie tried to think. "It's all mixed up, sometimes. It all runs together."
"You said, 'first I couldn't sleep'. When was 'first'?"
Charlie was getting tired of this. "If you talked to my family, I'm sure my Dad told you that."
"He told me about your friends. He also told me that you don't eat well."
Charlie closed his eyes again. "I'm tired."
"We're almost done, for today. Dr. Eppes, have you been preoccupied with death?"
The eyes opened again, wary. "What do you mean?"
"How much do you think about it?"
Charlie shifted uncomfortably in the chair beside his bed. "I don't know. I think about my friends, I dream about…about my mother, again…I worry about my brother. He's an FBI agent." He shifted again. "I don't want to talk about this."
"Have you ever thought about killing yourself?"
Charlie looked at the doctor. He whispered. "What?"
"Have you ever planned how that might occur?"
Charlie visibly paled. "What did I do?"
"Have you ever planned…"
Charlie swallowed. "Yes."
"How?"
"Th…Th…Th" Charlie was hiccupping, and the sound was echoing through his head like a gunshot.
Like a gunshot.
"We have a gun." He tried to breathe around the hiccups. "G-d. I must have done it."
Dr. Landon waited for the hiccups to slow down. "Can you identify what you feel right now?"
Charlie didn't know when he started crying, but something was dripping off his chin. "Afraid," he finally said. "How could I have done that?"
"How could you have done what?"
"Killed him. Sam. It's not just signing a paper, it's not."
Charlie tried to sit up a little straighter. "It's wrong, it's wrong for me to want what I took from him, isn't it? I shouldn't be happy I screwed up somehow." He felt bile rise up. "I'm going to be sick."
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Don and Alan stood in the hallway, and waited.
"This is taking a long time," Don said. "Is this taking a long time?"
Before Alan could answer a nurse with a syringe brushed past them, entered Charlie's room. He started to follow her but she turned in the doorway. "Dr. Landon will be right with you," she said, closing the door in his face, and Alan had no choice. Again.
He leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, started remembering Charlie's birthdays. He tried to remember what he and Margaret had done for a party each year, the gifts his son had wanted, the cake fights he always got into with Don…Charlie was nine years old again before Dr. Landon exited his room, and motioned for them to follow him down the hall to his office.
"Please, sit," he said, placing a file on his desk. He walked to the corner of the office, where several chairs were placed together, picked one for himself. He waited for Don and Alan to sit down. "Charlie's resting, right now. This was very difficult for him. I gave him a mild sedative, and the nurse is cleaning him up and getting him back to bed."
"Cleaning him up?" Don must not understand psychiatry.
"He was ill. I believe it was caused by a combination of the emotional impact of the interview and the physical trauma he still suffers from the concussion."
"Did he remember?"
"Not exactly. I'm afraid I can't really tell you the specifics of our conversation. I will see Charlie again tomorrow, and discuss treatment options with him. I'm going to start him on an antidepressant medication. At this point, I don't anticipate this being a long-term solution. I'm hoping medication can provide a short-term reduction in depressive symptoms while he is learning, through cognitive and behavioral therapy, other solutions to problems, different ways to view himself, and the world around him."
Alan hadn't spoken yet, and Dr. Landon looked directly at him. "I don't want to negate the seriousness of Charlie's illness, of what happened. But I actually found our conversation very encouraging."
He let Alan sit with that for a moment. "Dr. Steen, Charlie's neurologist, is anticipating a release date of Wednesday, if I concur. I want to talk to Charlie one more time before I do that. I'll ask him to verbally agree to a 'no-harm contract' with me; he will agree not to harm himself, for a specific, brief time. Until he has chosen a therapist to work with, I will continue to renew those contracts with him, over the telephone if necessary. We'll see how much activity his head injury allows him; it may be difficult for him, physically, but I want him in therapy as soon as possible. We'll set up an appointment for him with someone on Monday, but if it's not a good match for him, there will be several other referrals available. It's important to connect with a therapist, feel comfortable and safe there."
Alan finally spoke. "I'd like to see him."
"As I said, I had to give him a mild sedative, and he's had a difficult time." Dr. Landon looked at his watch. "It's almost noon. Why don't you wait for evening visiting hours?" He smiled to ease the sting. "I know this must be difficult. But he really will sleep all afternoon."
Don started to stand up, but the doctor put his hand up. "One more thing, please. I mentioned the antidepressant. It's important to remember that it can take two weeks to a month for enough medication to enter the system for it to do its job effectively. This is one reason the no-harm contracts, even though they may sound silly, are so important. You'll need to be diligent, during this time. Keep your home safe, express your care, your love, verbally. Make sure Charlie knows how important he is to your family."
"I don't think it sounds silly," said Alan quietly. "I don't think it sounds silly at all."
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Charlie opened his eyes. After taking a moment to focus, he could see his father in the chair beside the bed. He wasn't reading. He wasn't doing a crossword puzzle. He was just sitting there, aging five years with every bit of focus Charlie's eyes regained. He looked so sad.
Charlie saw Don come into his line of sight. He walked up his father, put a hand on his shoulder. Alan smiled and covered it with his own. Don's own shoulders slumped, like they did during a difficult case that he couldn't get away from, like they did for a long time after their mother died.
This was all his fault.
It hurt his head to do it, but he didn't care. Charlie rolled over on his side, tried to curl into himself. "You should leave me alone," he whispered.
Alan stood, walked to his son's side. His hand brushed at the curls. "I saw your mother," he said, and both of his sons looked at him. "I saw her that night. She has never left you. She never will. Neither will I. Neither will your brother. What beats in our chests are just four chambers of the same heart, we are each other."
Charlie could feel that Don was behind him, now, hand on his arm. His father was still talking. Or maybe he was crying.
"We need you, here with us. We want you, here with us. Please, Charlie. Please stay."