Chapter 6

After another unsuccessful attempt at reaching Director Merrick, Alan was at the hospital by 9 a.m. Dr. Fitzgerald was just coming out of Charlie's room, and he led Alan away from the door, to the waiting area.

"I'll let you see Charlie, but only for a few minutes this morning. We just finished removing the breathing tube. He has a nasal canula now. He's still unconscious. It could be anywhere from another 12 to 24 hours before his system is clear of the barbiturates."

"How is the infection? The fever?"

Dr. Fitzgerald regarded him solemnly for a moment. "Mr. Eppes, have you been able to reach your son's wife, or your other son?"

A cold hand of fear clawed at Alan's chest. He couldn't speak, so he just shook his head.

The doctor rubbed weary eyes. "There is … improvement. His temperature is still over 103, and we're continuing the cooling bed and the ice. Mr. Eppes, Charlie is growing weaker. The fever is still too high, he was too gravely injured …"

Alan could hardly breathe, and was surprised to hear his own voice. "Are you telling me Charlie is going to die?"

"I just don't know, Mr. Eppes. I think it might help if his wife and brother were here …"

Alan dropped his head. "I'm trying to reach them …"

The doctor stood. "I'm sure you're doing all you can. Remember, only 10 minutes. You can come back late this afternoon, and we'll see how he is then."

Alan was in a haze as he walked back to Charlie's room. Pushing open the door, he wondered if he had remembered to thank the doctor. He froze in the doorway.

Charlie didn't even have a sheet over him. Clear plastic bags of ice were packed all around him, some protected by towels to ensure that the bandages on his abdomen, chest and arm weren't subjected to moisture. A nurse stood over the bed, gently wiping his face, his good arm, even his legs, with a cloth, which she would often dip into a bowl of ice water on the bedside table.

He was so still.

Alan came a little closer so that he could look at the monitors to be sure that Charlie was breathing.

"Would you like to help?"

The nurse extended another damp wash cloth, and Alan moved until he could reach across the bed to take it. They both worked over Charlie for a while. Alan tried hard not to let the tears pressing against the back of his eyes spill out. He knew that tears were hot, and Charlie was hot enough right now. He didn't need his old man crying on him.

When it was his turn to bathe Charlie's face, he let his fingers stray to the curls and pushed them back.

"Charlie … I know you can do this. I'm sure it's hard son, but look at all you've done already. And you have Archie, now. Someone else who needs you, as much as your brother and I do … we saw you fight your way back last year, but Archie hasn't seen that yet. You need to show her. You need to do it again. You need …" Alan's voice cracked a little. "You need to stay with us."

After 10 minutes, the nurse quietly took away the damp cloth.

Alan leaned over the bed rail and kissed Charlie's forehead carefully, inhaling the scent of him, remembering the first time he had ever done that, when Charlie was only a few hours old.

He straightened, and left for Larry's room.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"I don't feel right about leaving you here alone."

When Alan had reached Larry's room, the news had been better. Dr. Fleinhardt was being released. It was a welcome distraction, getting Larry in the car, stopping at his house to pick up some things for him, getting him home.

Now Larry was in Don's old room, propped up in his bed. "Alan, I'm fine. You've fed me and watered me and given me pain meds — I'll be asleep before you're gone. Please go and see Charles."

"You might wake up and need something. I'll stay as long as they'll let me, so I don't know how long I'll be gone."

"I can move on my own, Alan. Just a tad slowly, at the moment."

Alan stood, hands on hips. "Wait here," he finally said.

Larry looked at him with suspicion. "Alan, please. Not Mrs. Singer."

Alan just smiled and turned on his heel.

It had to have taken several minutes, but the pain meds were making him fuzzy. It was too soon when he heard steps on the stairs. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping they would think he was asleep.

"Ya, and dere is Dr. Larry, now. Da poor man. Ach, da poor man."

Alan could tell he wasn't really asleep. "Larry, you remember my neighbor, Hildegard Singer?"

"Oh, da dear Dr. Larry knows, I am only Hildy!"

Larry opened one eye, then the other, and regarded the perfectly spherical shape before him. Barely 4 feet tall, 400 pounds if she was an ounce … and she was definitely an ounce. The Lucille-Ball-orange wig on her head — and Larry knew it was a wig, for he had seen her without it — reflected a color not found in nature. It was also laden with curlers, and he wondered vaguely why a woman would wear a wig full of curlers. She was clutching several photo albums to her ample bosom, and waddled over to the bedside table to plop them down.

"Ya, and I bring da pitchers of my Ingrid, her seven babies. I not have da time to get dem all, so I be bringing only dis year, Dr. Larry."

Alan was starting to think this had been a mistake. "He's just had some medication, Mrs. Singer. I'm sure Dr. L … I mean, I'm sure Larry will sleep most of the afternoon."

"Okey-dokey," she responded happily. "Da poor man, he be needin his sleep, now." She suddenly leaned over the bed to bestow a sloppy kiss on his head, and Larry was terrified she would lose her balance and topple over onto him. The fear was quickly replaced with wonder as he eyed the mountain of breast that strained against her housedress as she leaned over him, and he hoped that they wouldn't escape.

"Ah, Mrs. Singer …" Alan helped her stand back up. "We should let him rest." Alan placed a small dinner bell within Larry's reach. "I found this, I used it when Charlie first came home from rehab. Just ring if you need something."

Mrs. Singer beamed at them both. "Ya, and ain't you da smart one, now! Dat will work good, sure it will." Alan stepped back so she could turn her bulk and head back down the stairs. As she left the room, she was still talking. "Ya, and I'll jist be in da kitchen. I be maken some spritzbaaken for ya both, some Svedish meatballs, too. I bring some of da smoked reindeer and jellied eel, too. I maken dem yestiday. It be good food, from home. Dey all be stickin to your ribs, now …"

Her voice faded under the thunder of her descension down the stairs. Alan looked guiltily at Larry, shrugged his shoulders. "She has a fine heart …"

Larry sighed and closed his eyes again.

He silently begged for the pain meds to take him.