Hello readers! Here is chapter five. Please oh please read and review!
Chapter 5 (Charlie)
The sandwich tasted unnaturally good, Charlie noted. Of course, that might have had something to do with the fact that he hadn't eaten much lately. After all, there wasn't anything special about bread, turkey, and mustard all smashed together.
The food was a good idea, he had to admit. He was a little upset that he'd had to take a break from working—he'd been getting so much done lately, it was amazing. He was a little impressed with his own concentration levels.
It was a great distraction, too, Charlie thought. He'd hardly thought about Don or the accident in—oh, wait, how long? He looked at his watch. 2:45. Hmm. But what was the date today? He shrugged, taking another bite of his sandwich. He wasn't sure when he'd last slept, but that was okay. No nightmares that way.
It was a stretch to say Charlie felt good, but he was certainly okay. He had cut out the nightmares by not sleeping. He'd cut out any thoughts of Don at all by simply keeping himself busy all the time. It seemed to be working. It had to have been somewhere around two, maybe three weeks since the accident, and all residual effects from his concussion were mostly gone. Other than a lingering wisp of exhaustion, Charlie felt physically okay.
He popped the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth, and washed it down with a sip of water. He felt even better now after eating. Okay, so while he didn't appreciate Amita's insistent and un-ending efforts to get him to take a break from his work and go visit his brother, he had to admit—he was glad she'd forced him to eat. Even he could see that not eating was just plain dumb.
Another snack would be appropriate later. For now, though, it was back to work. He stood up and resumed writing on the blackboard.
He stayed in focus for a long while, for an immeasurable amount of time. Although he was at a stage now where he was simply running a lot of calculations and not generating too many new ideas, he didn't allow his mind to wander. Sometimes, it felt good to be in the zone this way.
Unfortunately, he didn't get to be "in the zone" for as long as he would have liked. Eventually he was interrupted by the solarium door slowly creaking open. Dammit, Amita, why can't you just let a guy work in peace? He sighed, but didn't turn around. He continued writing on the chalkboard, subconsciously hoping the clack clack clack of the chalk would drown out whatever his wife was going to try and tell him.
A large hand gently grabbed a hold of his shoulder. It registered somewhere in the back of Charlie's head that it was likely not Amita's hand, but he was already starting to pull back into his zone, the calculations consuming most of his thoughts.
"Charlie," a voice said. He sighed. He dropped his chalk, realizing that he wasn't about to get any more work done until his father was no longer in the room.
"Hey, Dad," he greeted, trying to keep his voice agreeable. He turned around to face his dad.
"How're you doing, son?" His dad's face was studying him. Charlie squirmed a little.
"Fine," he replied quickly. He picked up his chalk again, and started to turn around. His dad wouldn't let him though; instead he was led over to the old greenish-colored wicker couch—another thing that had once been in his former garage.
"Come on and sit down with me, Charlie," his dad was saying. Something about the older man's tone was unsettling to Charlie. His eyes widened. Did something happen to Don? Something else, anyways, other than what Charlie had already caused to happen. He watched his father expectantly, waiting.
"Well, now that I've got your attention," his father began, "there's something I'd like to talk to you about."
"What's up?" Charlie asked. A stab of fear went through him at his father's expression. It was as if the Eppes patriarch was thinking hard, carefully weighing what he was about to say. It took him several seconds to respond—seconds that felt to Charlie like minutes.
His dad sighed heavily. "Charlie, how long are you going to keep this up?"
That's not exactly what Charlie had expected his dad to say. He thought he was about to receive some bad news, or maybe that his dad—with whom Charlie hadn't had a real conversation with since the accident—was coming here to finally admit that everyone blamed the accident and Don's injuries on him. What was his dad getting at?
"Uh, keep what up?" he asked. He racked his brain but couldn't figure out what his dad was talking about.
"How long are you going to hang out here in this room?" his father clarified. "You know, your brother's still in that hospital, and he'd really like to see you. He could really use your support on this."
Charlie stared blankly at his dad for a moment before responding. "Yeah, I'm sure it's my support he needs. That would be helpful." He turned his gaze down to his lap. "I mean, I am the one who got him into this situation, after all."
"No, Charlie, I don't think you realize." His dad's voice held much more patience and love than Charlie deserved. "If you hadn't been there, if you hadn't been with him, holding him and keeping pressure to slow the bleeding, being there for him—" His dad was struggling to keep his composure. Charlie found he couldn't even look at him. "If it hadn't been for you, we would have lost him, Charlie."
"If it hadn't been for me," Charlie spat, "if it hadn't been for my careless driving and lack of attention to the roads, there would have been no need for any of that."
"Charlie!" His dad sounded desperate, and Charlie could feel a lump forming in his throat as he continued to stare at the floor. "Come on, Charlie, you should know as well as any of us that it could have happened to anyone. You weren't driving carelessly, and I know you were paying attention to the roads. It was really wet outside, you hit a puddle, and your car just couldn't respond in time. It could have just as easily have happened with Don driving, or with me, or anyone."
"Yeah?" Tears leaked out of Charlie's eyes. "And how do you think you'd feel if it had been you driving?"
His dad was silent for a moment, and Charlie thought he'd proven his point. He waited, silently hoping his father would retreat now, leaving Charlie to go back to his work—the only thing that he felt was helping the situation at this point.
"I'd feel like I was the most terrible person alive for letting it happen," his dad finally admitted, his voice low and quiet. "But that doesn't mean it actually would be my fault. And I'd know that I'd have to find a way past the guilt somehow, because I'd know that my son needs me. Your brother needs you, Charlie. He needs all of us, but especially you, Charlie, because you were there. I just don't know how to make you see that."
"I can see everything just fine, Dad," Charlie shot back. "Believe me. Every time I shut my eyes, I can see myself losing control of the car, and then suddenly we're flipping and—and the car just lying there on top of Don, and him in pain, and I—I—can't. I can't do this, Dad."
Suddenly, his dad's strong, solid arms wrapped around his frame, and he collapsed into them.
"Charlie, son, I'm so sorry," his dad was saying. "I'm sorry I haven't really been here for you. I just—your brother—I just needed to be sure that he's going to be okay. And I think he will be, with time, but you know what would speed that process along?"
Charlie remained still, knowing what was coming, but still unable to believe his father's words.
"You coming back with me, now," his father continued. "You, coming back to the hospital and seeing Don. He's just started going to physical therapy, and it's just—it's going to be difficult. He needs us all, Charlie. He needs you."
"I'm sorry, Dad," Charlie choked out. "I just can't do it. Besides, I just really need to get some work done. Please."
He stood up, out of his father's grip, leaving the older man sitting on the couch, his face painted with surprise.
"Oh, Charlie," his dad sighed, exasperated. "I don't think you need to get more work done. But suit yourself." He stood up and started to walk towards the door and Charlie was extremely grateful for that.
"But you should know," his dad continued, "that once Donnie's out of the hospital, Amita, Robin and I decided that if Robin ever has to work during the day before the baby comes, Don's going to come hang out here. So I don't know how avoiding your brother is going to work out for you then."
With that, the door shut, and Charlie was alone.
He stood there, shaking like a leaf. He couldn't even muster the energy to pick up his chalk and resume writing. He was suddenly assaulted by a large wave of nausea. His knees buckled, so he sat down cross-legged, right there in the middle of the floor.
See what you've caused?
It wasn't just Don's life he'd ruined. It was everyone's. He'd caused them all so much anguish and pain. And everyone had a right to blame him. Everyone had a right to be angry with him, just like his father had a moment ago when he'd walked out the door, leaving him alone with his own demons.
He could feel the sandwich he'd just eaten start to rise up within him. In alarm, he clamored to his feet. He stumbled to the door, silently praying he'd make it to the bathroom. The last thing he needed was to make a mess all over the upstairs hallway.
By some miracle, he was suddenly kneeling in front of the toilet. Once the sandwich was gone, Charlie kept on retching, but there was nothing left in his stomach to vomit. Finally, he rocked back on his heels and collapsed against the wall. He was shaking so hard and tears were streaming out of his eyes. He couldn't hold back the choking sobs that escaped his throat. And he was still shaking and he could barely even think.
At some point, he became aware of someone holding him and rubbing circles on his back. He leaned into the touch, which somewhere inside he knew he didn't deserve.
"Charlie," his dad's voice was whispering. "I'm so sorry, son. I'm so sorry this is happening. I wish I knew what to do for you. I wish I knew how to make you see that this wasn't your fault, and that you really saved your brother's life."
A life which only had to be saved because I endangered it. Charlie nearly growled out loud in frustration, but held himself back. Why couldn't he make anyone understand that?
"Anyone could have been driving that car, Charlie," his father continued. "And I know any of us would feel awful if we had been the ones behind the wheel. I know that. But it doesn't matter. It was pouring rain, okay? The roads were really wet and slippery. There was nothing you could have done differently. You have to believe that, Charlie, you just have to."
Suddenly, Charlie's emotions all turned to mush. It was like each of his feelings were a bright color of paint, and someone had taken each color and smeared them all together in a dull, brown pile of goo. He didn't have a good handle on exactly what it was he thought or felt anymore. Everything his father was saying made sense. Good old Dad. Alan Eppes was surely wiser than Yoda sometimes. But the fear and the shame were shadowing over Charlie's logical side, which was a rare occurrence for the mathematician.
His dad's reassurances were all well and good, but how could he be sure that Don shared the same sentiments?
TBC