Title: The Sound of Silence
Author: FraidyCat
Disclaimer: Cats are poor, wayfarin' strangers, passing through this world o' woe with nary a quarter in their claws. A Cat owns only the fur upon its back; even then, it's often bought up by land speculators and flea condos go up faster than you can spit on a mouse.
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Chapter Four: Turning of the Tide
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"Oh, dear."
Don looked up from the untouched sandwich and regarded his father at the other end of the table with alarm. "What?"
"Is there a time difference?"
Don's brow furrowed in confusion. "What?"
Alan propped his spoon in the bowl of soup before him and continued a conversation begun in the middle. "She's in Edmonton at that conference; and Larry, too." He sighed, eyes dropping to contemplate the soup. "I can't believe I forgot to call. Charlie's going to kill me."
Don tried his best to keep up; he really did. Somehow, he even managed to dredge up a sliver of pertinent information that years of observatory technique had quietly gathered and filed for him, even without a direct order. "Larry came by the office to take Megan to an early dinner before he flew to Alberta last night," he remembered. "Some physics thing?"
Alan gave up on the soup and pushed the bowl away as he looked up and nodded. "American Association of Physics Teachers. It's an annual meeting, and this year Larry will be receiving the Mil…some award. A medal, and money. It's a big deal, in recognition of his years of teaching physics. Charlie has a ticket to fly up Saturday and go to the banquet that night with them."
Don frowned, lost again. "Them?"
Alan stood, looking at his watch. "Millie and Amita are at the conference as well." He looked at Don again sharply. "Oh, shit. Charlie's supposed to cover Amita's summer session class tomorrow morning. Who the hell should I call? Everybody I know is in Canada!"
Don was exceedingly grateful to be seated. He had heard his father swear exactly twice before in his life, and the third time was not evoking good memories. He rubbed his forehead, then moved his napkin to cover his food. "What about that Ray-Ray guy?"
Alan shook his head. "Not teaching this summer. I believe by now he should be around Boulder, Colorado; he took his family on a road trip." Alan stood noisily, scrapping his chair across the floor. "I'll just call Millie's number and talk to whoever answers." He shook his head again as he passed Don, headed for the telephone mounted on the wall. "I really feel badly about this. I should have called Amita first thing."
Don bristled, standing himself and perching on the corner of the table to watch his father. He crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. "No, you should have called me first thing."
Alan turned in surprise before he reached the phone. "I did! I don't know if you understand just how serious those two have become, Donnie. You know they're talking about Amita moving in here. She's been helping him 'green' the house even more, now that Ray-Ray got the ball rolling with those solar panels in the roof. She was so exited when she found out one of the workshops at the conference dealt with that very topic!"
Don spoke petulantly, feeling like a child at the sound of his own voice. "I know they're serious, Dad. I guess I'm not ready to vacate my position as the first call, yet."
Alan smiled at his son fondly. "Are you kidding? You'll always be my first call, Don. I can't tell you what it means to me that you're so close now, and that call will bring you to us quickly."
Don straightened his spine and shrugged, a tad embarrassed. "You could have called me in Albuquerque, too."
Alan arched an eyebrow. "I wasn't referring to mileage, son -- although your closer proximity these days is a definite improvement. I was trying to say that I'm proud of you boys. You're closer than I have ever seen you -- and I know that doesn't just happen. I appreciate that you've both made your relationship a priority." He smiled again, and even managed a small snicker. "I never thought you'd be jealous of Amita."
Don reddened furiously and turned on his heel to storm into the living room. "Make your calls," he snarled.
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While Alan had handled the CalSci crowd, Don had considered calling Megan. He finally decided he didn't have enough information; he would wait, before he forced himself to say words he was not sure he could. It was all arranged by the time they returned to the hospital at 4.
Amita had procured a seat the next flight she could, which, to her disappointment, wasn't until the next morning. Millie had wanted to come with her, but Alan had persuaded her to stay at the conference. "Charlie's very proud of Larry," he argued. "It will make him feel terrible if no-one is there to see him get the award. Worse, Larry could come home early himself, with no-one there to talk him down. I think I have him convinced that Charlie is not in any immediate danger and he should wait until Sunday, after the banquet. But it was a tough sell."
Millie harumphed and demanded a compromise. "You will phone me at six-hour intervals," she demanded. "More often if something...acute...happens. I will arrange for the presentation to be filmed, and Charlie can watch it with Amita, when he is feeling better. Yes?"
Alan smiled and swallowed around the lump in his throat, hoping against hope that Charlie would indeed feel better -- and sooner rather than later. "Yes," he finally confirmed in a shaky voice. "I'm sure he will appreciate that."
The tiny spark of hope Millie had planted was fanned into a flame when he and Don paused at the nurse's station, directly outside Charlie's room, to speak with his caregiver. The RN regarded a chart in her hands and looked up, smiling. "He passed the swallow test with flying colors," she announced. "That's very good news. He also seems alert and aware when he is awake -- although he will sleep quite a bit for quite a while. The stroke was a major drain on his body, and it needs to recuperate."
"What about...talking?" Don asked nervously, "or walking?"
The nurse closed the chart and hugged it to her chest. "Charlie is making significant progress with his speech," she noted. "Remember, this will likely continue during this first 24 hours following the incident. We haven't had him out of bed yet, but all extremities are moving well. Right now there is a little right-sided weakness; but that is to be expected."
Don and Alan exchanged a relieved smile. Charlie could swallow; it was ridiculous the relief that came with that knowledge. There would be no surgical procedures to implant any tubes directly in his stomach! Better yet -- or at least as good -- he was described as "alert". Surely there wasn't some hidden meaning behind that word. "Alert" had to mean that Charlie knew who he was, where he was, why he was... Maybe the Eppes family would luck into a miracle.
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Don's emotions had rolled from one extreme to the other all day, and he was beginning to get a headache himself.
Charlie's attempts at words, usually pathetically inadequate, didn't seem to bother Alan, any. Don knew that he should try to hold onto his own optimisim. It had not yet been 12 hours since the stroke, and much more could happen by tomorrow morning. Still, it broke his heart, the way Charlie said "ok" to everything. It also worried him a little, because Charlie said "ok" to things that Don didn't really think were "ok" with him. When his father told him that Amita was skipping the conference and coming home, for example; Charlie said "ok" to that. Was it because that was one of the few words he seemed to have mastery over, or had his personality changed? Typically, Charlie would argue that there was no need for anyone to change their plans and come rushing home on his account, Don was sure of it. Of course, it was always possible that having a stroke at 31 had scared him as badly as it was scaring everyone else. That was not a pleasant thought, either.
So Alan puttered around the room, acting completely and unbelievably normal, and Don sat quietly in the corner, smiling every time Charlie looked at him. His father talked about the stroke as if it was common knowledge, and Charlie said "ok" at more-or-less appropriate intervals.
"We'll do some research about diet," Alan said. "Maybe we can make an impact on this ischemic thing that way. I mean, the drugs are all well and good, but certainly good nutrition plays a part in everything."
"Ok," Charlie answered, and suddenly came up with a second word. Unfortunately, it wasn't quite the right one. "Cheese."
Alan stopped fiddling with the blinds on the windows and approached the bed, smiling. "Would you like some cheese? A grilled cheese for dinner? Or maybe..."
"NO!," Charlie had practically shouted, and Alan had backed away after a quick look at Don.
"All right," he said. "Well. You let me know when you get hungry."
"Ok," Charlie had answered, mellow again.
Alan shrugged and picked up the pitcher of water on the bedside table. He peered inside as if he could tell how fresh it was that way. "The nurse tells me PT will have you up first thing in the morning," he stated, replacing the pitcher on the table.
"Ok?" Charlie asked, looking at the small pump attached to the end of his bed. Inflatable sleeves were encasing both legs, and the pump gurgled softly as it constantly inflated and deflated the devices.
Alan followed his gaze. "I'm sure they'll take those off tomorrow," he guessed.
"Ok," Charlie yawned.
"Cheesecake!" Alan suddenly shouted, and Don wondered if his father was having a stroke too until he figured out Alan was still trying to come up with an explanation for Charlie's earlier comment. "Stan was in this hospital just last month, and when I came to visit I discovered that the cafeteria actually has cheesecake-flavored ice cream. Strawberry-cheesecake. I could ask them to make you a nice milkshake, would you like that?"
Charlie made a face of disgust. "Hot," he protested, and Don's heart thudded once more. What kind of sense did that make?
"Hot?" Alan repeated, and Charlie sighed and closed his eyes.
Alan looked a little disconcerted for the first time since they had come back from the hospital. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "You can tell me tomorrow."
"Ok," Charlie agreed, yawning again, and then he was asleep.
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Don was in the room alone when his brother awoke around 5:30. Alan had scored an appointment with one of the hospital's nutritionists, and was pursuing his theory of diet somewhere on the fourth floor. Charlie's eyes wandered to Don, who had just stood to stretch his legs, and he smiled. Don smiled back. "Hey," he greeted, as a food cart rattled by in the corridor.
Charlie gestured toward... the foot of the bed, maybe. Don tried to follow his hands and his eyes took in the pump. "Yeah. The pump is still hooked up."
"No," Charlie shook his head, and gestured again. This time he seemed to be pointing at the doorway. Don looked in that direction and noted that the constant activity at the nurse's station raged on.
Didn't these people ever actually go into a patient's room? He looked back at Charlie. "Do you want the nurse?" he guessed. He took a half-step, then remembered the food cart that had rolled by. "Or dinner, maybe?"
"No," Charlie responded, letting his hand fall to his stomach. "NO!", he repeated, and Don could hear the frustration in his voice.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, repeating his father's earlier words.
"Uuuuhh," Charlie grunted in exasperation, chilling Don to the core as he listened to that sound again. The hand came up, trailing its IV line, and the youngest Eppes made a gargantuan effort. "On," he pleaded, gesturing again.
Don wished his father was there. He finally decided to get the nurse whether Charlie wanted her or not; maybe she could interpret. He turned more fully to the door, and his gaze fell on the light switch just to the right of it. He glanced back at Charlie, who was moving his arm, now. Gesturing at the door, then arcing up toward the ceiling. Don looked up, and saw the florescent light over the bed, and a bulb went off in his head at last. "The light!" he exclaimed, feeling almost as if he was playing a life-or-death game of charades. "You want me to turn the light on?"
Charlie's arm collapsed to his stomach again, and he smiled widely. "Yes!" he crowed. "Yes!"
And Don was happy, rushing to the switch on the wall, at the same time as he was sad. Charlie was trapped. His brother was trapped, and Don couldn't do a thing about it.
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Around 9, Don finally arrived back at his apartment. He and his father had returned to the Craftsman about 7, where Don had left his SUV. He played at eating a bowl of soup, mostly to make his father happy. He still had no appetite, but Alan had enough to worry about without him adding to the burden. He had taken the long way home, driving aimlessly around the city for a while and forcing himself to breathe deeply. He had just settled on the couch, remote in hand, when his cell rang.
Looking at the unfamiliar number, Don answered with dread. Had Charlie taken a turn for the worse? "Don Eppes," he intoned reluctantly.
"Hi," said Charlie, and Don's mouth gaped open. This time he was the one who could not find any words. "So I woke up from a little nap kind-of hungry, and I called the nurse to ask if the cafeteria was still serving food," Charlie went on in a complete sentence, not stumbling at all. "She brought me a menu and I was debating the alternatives when I figured out I was talking. I got my speech back, Don."
Tears sprang to Don's eyes and he rose off the couch to stand in his dark living room. He smiled into the cell. "My God, that's great Charlie! That's good news!"
"Yeah," Charlie answered, trying for nonchalant but falling a little shy. "Yeah. I wanted to thank you for turning on the light, and I wondered if you could tell Dad something for me?"
"Of course," Don agreed.
"Lasagna," came the immediate reply. "When I said 'cheese', before, I was trying to come up with 'lasagna'. Regardless of what he finds out about diet, I'm not giving up his lasagna." Don laughed, but still heard a yawn before Charlie went on. "Really tired, or I'd call him. Good-night, Donnie."
Don squeezed the phone tightly and grinned like an idiot. "Good-night, Bro," he answered. "I'll see you tomorrow. I love you."
"You too," Charlie responded a little shyly. "See you tomorrow."
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End, Chapter 4
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Preemptive Strike A/N: Before you waste your review telling me this could not happen, I swear on a stack of cats that it did. When my father had a stroke last week, he went from "ok" to full-out sentences in three hours.