Chapter 13

Charlie heard the door open, but he didn't open his eyes until he figured out that there was more than one set of footsteps. Had his nurse ignored his insistence that there be no visitors? His eyes popped open and Dr. Trendell smiled at him, while Anna, the nurse, arranged sterile materials on the rolling table beside his bed. A man he didn't recognize was also there, and he looked at him suspiciously.

"This is Dr. Melman," his surgeon informed him. "He's a staff psychiatrist here at the hospital, and he works exclusively with our replantation and amputation patients."

"I don't have anything to say," Charlie informed them all.

Dr. Trendell glanced at Anna, and back at Charlie. "I understand you're not taking visitors today. Not even your father."

"I have to think," Charlie defended.

The surgeon nodded. "That's not an unheard of reaction, believe it or not. Dr. Melman is not here because of that — at least not yet."

Charlie was eyeing the materials Anna was continually exposing, and moving from curiosity to dread. "What are you going to do?"

"We need to re-dress the surgical site," answered Trendell. "We try to have Dr. Melman or one of his colleagues with us, the first time."

Well, shit, Charlie thought, looking warily at the doctors. That can't be good.

"Your father also asked me earlier if he could be here, but I explained that was up to you. Would you like him to come in? I understand that he's still here."

Charlie closed his eyes and did a quick equation. Forty percent of him wanted to look at his father's face and nowhere else while this happened. Fifty percent wanted to see it on his own first, so that he wouldn't have to worry about having a reaction that freaked Alan out. Ten percent wanted to rip his hand back off and use it to slap the smile off Dr. Trendell's face. He tried not to smile himself at that image — who knew what Melman would think of that — and opened his eyes again. "No, thank you."

"Very well." Charlie had to give Trendell credit; at least he never tried to talk him into anything.

All business, the doctor stepped back to the bathroom, and Charlie heard water running in the sink. When the doctor came back toward the bed, he was snapping latex gloves onto his hands. Without preamble, he stationed himself next to Charlie's injured arm, while Anna rolled the table into a better position and then stood next to him. She lifted Charlie's arm off the pillows, and held it while Trendell picked up some scissors and cut through all the layers of the gauze. Charlie wasn't quite ready for that — he had thought, for some reason, the doctor would just take his time and unwind it. Before he managed to process the change in what he expected, the surgeon began to peel away the bandage. "There will be some dried blood on your arm, since this has not been done since the surgery. We'll clean that off, inspect the sutures, apply some antibiotic ointment and rewrap," he explained as he was working.

The last of the gauze began to fall away and Charlie looked away. He swallowed. "Take your time," Anna soothed. "We're just cleaning it up, now." Charlie swallowed again, and occasionally felt something wet and cool, but never past about two inches above his wrist.

He felt his elbow propped on the pillows so that his arm was vertical, and he could feel it rotating. "The sutures look good," he heard Trendell murmur. "No sign of infection."

Charlie felt his head turning. He wondered who was making it do that; at no point had he made a conscious decision to look.

Yet look he did.

What a…disembodied sensation. He saw a hand, and it looked like his, but he could feel nothing in those fingers, that thumb, that palm. Nothing would move at his internal command. What shocked him the most was its color. The fact that it had color. He had become used to seeing that white bandage, and without it, his swollen limb was basically bruised as all get-out all the way around, but the right color in the places that weren't purple. Even with the bruising, the fine black rows of stitches stood out, and in his mind's eye he imagined all the rest that he could not see.

"I'm really quite pleased," said Dr. Trendell. "When the bruising and swelling decreases, this will look even better — more natural. In a year, 18 months, hair will cover the scar and most people won't even notice."

Unless it was a useless lump, thought Charlie. People would notice a useless lump. A feeling was growing in his chest as he stared at his hand, and he fought to identify it.

"Dr. Eppes?" He didn't recognize the voice right away, and when he tracked it, he saw that it was Dr. Melman. He was beginning to think the man was mute.

"Write down that the patient took his first viewing well," said Charlie. "Write down that the patient is guardedly optimistic, and grateful for this opportunity."

He had identified that feeling in his chest. Anger. Unbelieveable, undeniable anger. At the person who planted the bomb in the bank in the first place, at himself, for wasting energy on anger, but mostly, at Don, for not believing in him, for not being able to face this with him. He lay there, surprised, and realized he was pissed as hell at Don.

"Most patients experience anger." Dr. Melman had identified the emotion, as well. "As the day progresses, things may hit you in stages. Grief, disbelief, disappointment…"

Great. The 'dis' words were coming back. "I'm done, now," interrupted Charlie. "You can wrap it back up." As Dr. Trendell started to apply an ointment prior to doing just that, Charlie looked at Dr. Melman. "I'll do whatever you say I have to, but when I want to talk, it will be to my father."

The psychiatrist nodded. "Fair enough."

Charlie leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes. When the surgeon had finished redressing his wound, he and Dr. Melman left. Anna stayed a little longer, cleaning up, and getting Charlie re-settled in his nest. She had taken his vitals and was scribbling them in a chart before Charlie opened his eyes, again. He watched her for a moment, then reclaimed the spot on the ceiling that had become his friend. "Anna." He was tired, and it showed in his voice.

She looked up. "Charlie? Do you need something for pain?"

He shook his head. "No. Please tell my father I'm sorry. I just can't see anyone right now. Tell him he might as well give up and go home."

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The taxi let Don off at the main entrance to the hospital, and when he turned around after he had paid the driver, he almost bumped right into his father – who didn't even seem to recognize him. "Dad! Dad!"

Alan looked at him then, and surprise soon gave way to a smile. They walked toward each other. "Donnie. Are you feeling better, son?"

Oh. Right. Don had forgotten about that whole fake cold. "Um…yeah…it was like I thought, the symptoms all cleared away. I think it's safe if I see Charlie for a few minutes…" His father's face fell, and Don's heart began to race. "Dad? Is something wrong?"

Alan grabbed Don's upper arm, and led him toward a bench in front of the hospital. "Let's sit down, son."

Oh, God.

Hospital. Sit Down. Dad outside instead of in Charlie's room. Something must have gone horribly wrong, Charlie hadn't been in any danger…. Maybe everyone had been concentrating on his hand so much that another injury had been missed. Sit down. Oh, no…please, God, no….

Don sank onto the bench and stared at Alan, unable to speak. Alan stared back, frightened by Don's sudden lack of color. He gasped when he made the connection and leaned over to gather his eldest to him. "No, Donnie, no, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Charlie is fine. He's fine, son. Relax." Alan held him until he felt Don shudder, felt his breathing even out a little, felt his son's death grip on him relax a little, and then he pulled back. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I frightened you."

Don took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. "No shit." The two sat in silence facing each other for a few moments, Alan's hand on Don's arm, on the back of the bench. Finally, Don felt a little more grounded. "So what is it? Why are you leaving the hospital?"

Alan sighed, and his eyes were sad when they met Don's. "Charlie won't see anyone, today. Your team was here when I arrived this morning, and he refused to see them. I asked them to wait, I was going to talk to him – and his nurse said he didn't want to see me, either."

Don was shocked. "What?"

Alan shrugged. "She said he has the legal right to do that, and he requested no visitors at all, not even family. I stayed here all day, she said she would tell him I was there, try to change his mind…"

"That's…crazy…" Don was a little perturbed at Charlie. Sure, the kid was going through some stuff, but he had to hurt Dad?

Alan tried to smile a little. "He must have told them it was all right to continue releasing information to me, though. About 45 minutes ago, Dr. Trendell examined and redressed the surgical site, and when he came out he told me that he was very pleased. No sign of infection. There was another doctor with him, a psychiatrist – I guess they always have one there, the first time…he didn't have much to say."

Don wondered if that was good or bad. "Do you think I should go up anyway? Maybe his nurse could talk him into seeing me."

Alan shook his head. "I doubt it would do any good. After he saw Dr. Trendell, he asked Anna to apologize to me, and send me home."

Don looked up at the hospital and felt a little desperate. "But…I should be there."

Alan, his hand still on Don's arm, patted a few times. "Trust me," he said, despondently. "I know exactly how you feel."