Chapter 4
Charlie was so quiet the rest of the weekend that Alan was starting to get worried. He was moving better on Sunday, and didn't have a fever, but he seemed…subdued. On the other hand, he hadn't tried to escape lunch, and was now eating dinner across the table. Charlie always answered when he was spoken to, also. Alan wondered if he should chalk up the six times he had found his son staring blankly at nothing to what must have been an overwhelming experience, getting blown into a wall like that.
Alan was also a little surprised Don hadn't been by the house since Saturday morning. He had called early Sunday afternoon to check on Charlie, and had sounded relieved when Alan said that he was sleeping on the couch. His eyes narrowed, recalling the conversation as he studied Charlie. The boys were avoiding each other. Well, that probably wasn't fair – Charlie had been here all day. Maybe Don was the one avoiding him, for some reason? He lowered his fork to the table. "Did something happen between you and Don, yesterday?"
Charlie looked at him, startled, a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. "What? No. What?"
Alan shuddered a little. "You sound like you did when you first regained consciousness. One-word questions. You're not going to ask me where 'she' is again, are you?"
The spoon clattered to the table and soup splashed on them both. Charlie paled. "What? Who?"
Alan mopped his face with a napkin. "Beats me, son. There was no one here all evening but the three of us. But you wanted to know where 'she' was, as soon as you could talk after the explosion. We had other concerns at the time, so we didn't ask who you meant. Are you all right?"
Charlie used his own napkin to soak up the soup. He studied the table for a long moment, then looked back at his father. "I think…I sort-of…"
A tear dropped out of an eye and Alan nearly panicked. "What?"
Charlie took a deep breath, and said it fast. "I saw Mom."
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Alan sat, stunned. Had his baby been that close to gone, that he had some sort of out-of-body experience? "That's..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't know what it was.
"She seemed happy," Charlie added, awkwardly. He looked down at his soup. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have told you."
Alan felt his own eyes fill, but blinked the tears back. There would be time for that later. He spoke quietly. "No, son, don't apologize. I'm…just a little surprised."
Charlie stood and carried his bowl to the sink. His back to Alan, he shrugged. "It was probably a dream. I'm sure it had to be a dream."
Alan considered. Finally, he spoke wistfully. "There's a lot to be said for dreams."
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Sunday night, Charlie dreamed of meadows, and butterflies. It had to be the most boring dream of his life. All he did was sit in a grassy meadow, waiting for someone he knew would not be coming, even in his dream. When he awoke, at 3 a.m., he lay for the rest of the night and wondered what to do about Don. He wondered if he had misunderstood his mother's message. It wasn't his own forgiveness he had to worry about. Obviously, it was Don's. By the time he dragged himself out of bed to get ready for school, he had a headache worse than the one he took to bed Friday night. His father took one look at his face over the breakfast table, where Charlie was ignoring a piece of toast, and all but ordered him to stay home.
Charlie tried to sigh, but he did not seem to have enough air in his lungs. So he took a deep breath, instead, and choked out a cough. That was going to help him make his point. "I'm fine, Dad, I just didn't sleep too well. My afternoon class has an exam today, the T.A. can handle it. I'll be home early. Consider it a half-day."
Alan wasn't happy. "You need to see your doctor. The one in the ER said you should follow up with your doctor."
Charlie rolled his eyes. "I'll call this morning and make an appointment."
"I know you can forgive yourself."
Charlie blinked. Had he just heard that? He couldn't have just heard that. "Um…what?"
This time Alan rolled his eyes. "I said, I don't know how you live with yourself. I was passing your room this morning and it's worse than when you were 12."
Charlie stood and looked around for his backpack. "I know. I'm sorry."
He sounded so sad that Alan actually felt guilty. "Well it's your house, Charlie, I guess you don't have to be sorry. At least you make an effort to maintain order in the common spaces."
Charlie finally found his backpack on the floor at his feet. He shouldered it and regarded Alan again. "Did you say something about my face?"
Alan stood and walked to his son. He planted a hand on his forehead. "No offense, Charlie, but you're a little more distracted than usual this morning." He felt no fever so he dropped his hand in defeat. "Just take it easy, this morning. For your old man."
Charlie smiled and gave Alan's shoulder a squeeze before he walked out the kitchen door.
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By 11, Charlie was glad he had promised to go home early. His first two classes were at opposite ends of the building, and today it felt like opposite ends of the campus. He wasn't that sore – except for the bruise on his chest -- but he was huffing and puffing like a 2-pack-a-day smoker by the time he got where he was going most of the time.
Now, he sat pathetically inactive at his desk, staring at the white board across the room, trying to take deep breaths and wondering if he could ditch his office hours, too. Before he had decided, there was a knock on the mostly-closed door, and it began to swing open. Guess I'm staying for office hours, Charlie thought, and looked to see which student was in need. He was surprised to see Don come in, and more surprised when he shut the door behind him.
The FBI agent stood in front of the desk as if he had been called in to the principle's office. "Hi. Do you feel as bad as you look?"
Charlie grinned. "Are you disparaging my visage?"
Don tilted his head. "What?"
Charlie laughed, coughing a little at the end. "Never mind. I'm loopy, I'm so tired. What are you doing here? Something up?"
Don put on his affronted face and moved to sit in a chair facing the desk. "Sometimes I just come to see you around lunchtime. Don't I?"
Charlie leaned back in his chair and held his hands in a "V" in front of his face. "Usually, if you want lunch you call first."
Don shrugged. "I felt badly, the way I left things with you on Saturday. I didn't want you to think I was…angry, or anything." He looked at Charlie. His brother hadn't looked all that great when Don had come in, but now his face was pinched a little in pain and he had his hand on his chest. Don stood quickly. "What's wrong?"
Charlie turned frightened eyes on him. "I- I- don't…I c-can't seem to get enough air…"
Don ripped his cell phone off his belt and Charlie held up a hand in protest. "Don't…I'm seeing m-my doctor t-tomorrow…" He was wheezing, now, and Don didn't even bother arguing with him. He just dialed 9-1-1 for the second time in three days.
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A/N: Golly. I feel bad. Some people actually dropped OFF my alert list. If you hate it, I don't have to continue. I'll just leave Ch. 1 as a Oneshot and delete the rest...