Chapter 7

Charlie woke again around 9:30, and didn't remember the elephants, or the fact that he had already talked to his father and Larry. Alan repeated the ice chips, and then Charlie took a drink without the straw trick. Leaning over the bed, Alan handed the cup to Don, standing on the other side, to put on the bedside table. Charlie watched them warily, wondering at his father's grayness and his brother's grim demeanor. His head was still killing him, and he still couldn't differentiate between the parts of his body that hurt. He felt as if he had been trapped in a dryer, or something, and hurtled about for hours. Don was refusing to meet his eyes, and it was scaring Charlie a little, so he looked at his father. "Wha happen?", he whispered, and cleared his throat a little.

Alan smoothed the hair on his forehead a few times and looked toward Don, then back at Charlie. "You were hurt, son. A case of bad timing. You had Don pull over so you could use an ATM yesterday morning – do you remember?"

Charlie shook his head, forgetting his headache, and immediately squeezed his eyes shut and grimaced.

"Careful, son, you have a concussion. Just use words now, okay?"

Charlie pried his eyes open again, blinking against the light. "'Kay. Robbery?"

Alan moved his hand down so that it rested on Charlie's shoulder. "No, son, not a robbery. There was a bomb." He watched Charlie's eyes widen, watched the fear set in. Charlie turned his head carefully toward Don.

"Hurt?" he asked, anxious.

Alan waited for Don to reassure his brother and was a little taken aback with the brisk, "No. I was down the street, waiting in the SUV. I'm fine." Don didn't even touch Charlie when he said it, or smile, and his tone was almost automaton.

Charlie had caught it too, but he couldn't name it, he didn't know what was wrong. He searched Don's face for cuts, or bruises, and saw none. He was standing there, not lying in another hospital bed, so he must really be all right…something was just ≤i≥wrong≤/i≥ about him, though.

Charlie looked back at his father, wincing again as he turned his head. "Concussion?"

"Yes, son, a mild one. You were thrown around a lot, I'm sure everything hurts right now."

Charlie closed his eyes. That explained the dryer theory, at least. He tried to feel each extremity, tried to identify what he felt. Eventually, his eyes popped open again. "Hand," he said.

Alan started a little. Did Charlie remember something from the ER? "Hand?", he echoed, waiting to see.

"Hand ok. Everything else hurts."

Alan dropped his head for a moment. Charlie was trying to make a joke. Dear God in Heaven, Alan did not think he could do this. He didn't want Charlie to hear it first from his doctor, though, and it didn't look like Don was going to bail him out anytime soon. He took a deep breath and raised his head again, forced himself to smile. He rubbed Charlie's shoulder a little. "Sweetheart…" he began, and Charlie blanched at the uncommon endearment. What the hell was wrong?

"Daddy?" he heard himself say, and this time Alan winced, and looked away. Charlie was really getting freaked out here. He looked to Don for help, but his brother was sitting down now, and looking at the wall over Charlie's head. He looked frantically back to Alan, who turned at that moment and met his eyes.

"Don't be frightened, son. Don't be afraid. It will be all right." He spoke clearly, steadily, left his hand always on Charlie's shoulder. "Your left hand was somehow severed, son. Care at the scene was immediate and excellent, and it was a very clean injury. Surgeons were able to reattach it last night – but it will be some time before you feel anything past a few inches above your wrist." Alan took another breath, a cleansing breath, and studied Charlie's face.

The first emotion he identified was doubt, then complete refusal to believe as he sensed movement in Charlie's arm and knew that he was trying to lift it. Charlie's eyes flitted to the large gauze mound and stared at it for a while, then at the ceiling. He struggled with words. "That's…you're…but…shit." He closed his eyes and took his own deep breath, even though it hurt bruised ribs. He opened them again and looked at Alan, still struggling to take it all in. "They put it back?"

Alan nodded. "Fancy name for it, Larry will tell you. Your surgeon says things went very well. That's why it's so hot in here," he added, lamely. "Something to do with blood flow. No caffeine for a while, either. Oh. And don't start smoking."

Charlie looked at Don again, and finally identified what he had been seeing, all morning. Don was disgusted with him. Don was repelled by him. He thought about how his lower arm must look and didn't blame him. He had become some Frankensteinian monster. This wasn't happening. It wasn't right, for God to rip off his hand and use the reprehensible result to rip away his brother, too. In Charlie's still fuzzy head, the two became entwined. How could he fix this? Maybe if he just knocked the damn thing off…

Concentrating on using his upper arm muscles, Charlie managed to move his hand on the pillow an eighth of an inch. This was not going to help him slam it into the rail, like he intended. Frustrated, angry, confused, he lashed out at his father, and tried to roll away from his hand. "Go away!"

Alan came back at him, gently, "Hush, now, son…"

Charlie screamed. Barely able to speak over a whisper five minutes ago, now he yelled as if he were at a football game. "Alone! Go!" He began thrashing his good arm, tethered to an IV pole, and threatened to pull the lines loose. He sobbed in the middle of his yell, thinking of the look of disgust on Don's face, and knowing everyone would look at him like that forever. "LEAVE!" Don had stood and was fighting with Charlie's good arm, trying to be gentle and yet firm. "STOP!" Charlie yelled, and then his screams ceased becoming identifiable words.

Alan had pushed the call button when Charlie had first begun to get upset. He continued to speak quietly to Charlie, trying not to let his own fear and heartbreak enter his voice, and was relieved beyond measure to see a pair of hands he didn't recognize plunging a needle into Charlie's IV port. Almost immediately, his screaming and thrashing slowed, and within seconds he lay still, and quiet, and pale again against the pillow, eyes closed.

Alan let out a shaky breath and felt himself sink to a chair as his knees buckled. He looked wordlessly across the bed into the compassionate eyes of Charlie's nurse. "I'm guessing you finally told him", she said.