Chapter 4

Without protest, Charlie allowed Alan to drive him to the orthopedist the next morning. After an MRI, Alan was relieved to learn that while Charlie had a significant amount of inflammation and should revert back to crutches for a week, there were no new tears, and no further surgery would be required. He just wished Charlie was a little happier about the news. Not that he was unhappy, either, exactly — it didn't seem to make much impact on him one way or the other.

The fire seemed to have dragged Charlie backwards, to the place where he was just after the kidnapping orchestrated by Merrick, the former Director of the L.A. FBI office. He was very polite, responding to all of Alan's direct questions, but decidedly withdrawn.

Since he had returned to work part-time around four months ago, Charlie had decreased his sessions with the counselor Megan had set him up with, to once a week. On the drive to a medical supply house to pick up a new cane, Alan thought, and then decided to ask. "Charlie…do you think…would you like an extra appointment with Dr. Aaron this week? It's still early — we could call. I'm sure he'd fit you in."

"No, thank…" Alan was ready for that, the automatic denial. What almost made him run a red light was Charlie's sudden reversal. "Yes. That's a good idea, Dad. Let's go home now, okay? I can do all this. I can drive."

Alan hesitated so long that the light turned green and the car behind him honked. They were closer to the house than the medical supply store, but…

"Should you be driving?"

"It's all right. My car's an automatic, you know that. I was driving while I was still using crutches before."

"Toward the end, when your physical therapist said it was all right."

Charlie's voice took on a little edge. "This isn't like then, Dad. You heard the doctor. A few days and I'll be back to the cane. I can drive. Please. I have a lot of errands, today."

Alan sighed, and turned toward the house.

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Charlie left again almost as soon as they got home, taking time only for a cup of yogurt, and was gone all afternoon. Alan kept having to stop himself from calling. He was able to stop himself mainly because he didn't know whom he should call. He thought about calling Don, but how much sense did it make to interrupt the Assistant Director of the LA FBI office with something as obscure as "I'm worried about your brother"? He thought about calling Dr. Aaron, but what could he say? "Hi, I was just checking up on my 32-year-old son. Wanted to see if he was lying to me." He considered calling Larry, but that made even less sense. Charlie wasn't supposed to be on campus today, so Larry probably had no idea what had happened last night. There was the repeated urge to call Charlie himself: "Are you driving safely?"; "Have you eaten lunch?"; "Can you tell me who you are and what you've done with my son?"

He finally settled for making meatloaf; the old-fashioned way, with his hands. He squeezed the eggs and bread crumbs into the ground beef as if he were squeezing whatever had a hold on Charlie out of his son. When he was finished with that, and it was baking in the oven, he decided to make mashed potatoes — from actual potatoes. He was taking out his frustrations on the unsuspecting tubers with his potato masher when he heard first one, then another, car in the driveway. He recognized both engines.

He added butter and milk, salt and pepper, and waited for his sons to find him in the kitchen. Don soon held open the kitchen door for his brother, entered behind him and sniffed. "Say it ain't so."

Charlie paused behind Alan. He observed his potato action, and noted a saucepan of gravy on the stovetop. "Meatloaf. Potatoes. Gravy. Everything okay, Dad?"

Alan glanced at him in surprise at the question. He saw Don lifting a beer out of the refrigerator. "Son, get me the bowl of carrots I have back there — I sliced them earlier." He looked at Charlie again. "You must have had a lot of errands."

Charlie held his gaze for a moment, then dropped his eyes and moved backwards a little, taking a seat at the table. Don handed his father the bowl of carrots, then reached back into the refrigerator for a bottle of water, which he placed in front of Charlie. Finally, he twisted the top from the beer and took his own seat.

He watched Charlie study the table, then open the water and take a small drink.

"So how's the knee?", he finally asked conversationally.

"It'll be fine…well…back to where it was, in a few days. MRI didn't show any new damage."

"That's good," nodded Don. "This will slow down rehab, again…I'm sure that's…" Charlie was looking at him strangely, and Don lost his train of thought. He took another drink from his beer and tried to refocus. "Everything else okay? Didn't wake up with some injuries we missed, last night?"

Charlie shook his head. He took another sip of water, swallowed, suddenly took a deep breath. "I saw Dr. Aaron today. He let me bring him a sandwich and met with me during his lunch hour."

Carrots successfully dumped into some boiling water, Alan wiped his hands on a towel and turned from the stove. "That's…good?" He was afraid to say the wrong thing.

Charlie was finding the table fascinating, again. "Then…I…went to Cal Sci."

Don had no idea what set him off about this conversation, but something did. He carefully set the bottle of beer on the table. "Thought you didn't have any classes, today."

"I…don't. I needed to speak with Administration. Talk to Larry."

Don counted off 30 seconds in his head before someone spoke, and then it was Charlie, again. "I got the oil changed."

Don's hinky alarm, already sounding, suddenly kicked up a few decibels. He studied Charlie's face. "What are you going to do?", he asked softly.

Alan had been turning back to the stove, but now he joined them at the table, looking at Don.

Charlie's voice was even softer. "Dr. Aaron thinks it's a good idea."

Alan couldn't take his eyes off Don. Charlie was talking, but Alan was watching Don. If Don didn't get upset, if Don seemed all right with whatever Charlie said next, it would be all right.

"I need some time. Alone. I need to leave, for a while."

"Charlie…" Don tried to make his voice reasonable. "Please don't do this. It's less than two months until the end of the semester, and you'll be healthier, then…"

Charlie raised his eyes from the table then, and for an instant when he looked at his brother, Don could see Charlie again. Frightened, hurt, scared to come to the surface, and quickly clouded over by something else. Anger. "Healthier? I'm not waiting for healthier, anymore. My body has never been able to keep up with my mind, and my mind is trying to…trying to…" His voice became a little pleading. "I have to find out…find out where I went. I feel less and less able to even recognize…God. Please. Just let me go."

Don reached a hand toward his brother, almost afraid to touch him, but did, briefly, fingers-to-fingers. "How long? Where?"

Charlie stared at their fingers. He almost whispered. "I don't know."