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…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.

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Chapter 6

Don sat in one chair facing the desk, fluctuating between anger and need. Alan sat in the other, hands gripping the armrests tightly. The two hadn't really spoken, beyond breakfast plans and other meaningless details. Don's Morphine high had worn completely off by morning, but he almost seemed to have a hangover, and Alan let him be.

Presently, a door at the back of the office opened, and a white-coated doctor approached the desk. He dropped some files on it and continued past it, and leaned against the front. He offered his hand first to Alan. "I'm Dr. Simpson, a member of the psychiatric staff here. You're Alan Eppes, Charlie's father?"

Alan pried a hand off the chair and gave it to the doctor briefly. "Yes." He indicated Don. "This is my other son, Don."

Dr. Simpson moved slightly to shake Don's hand, and met Don's eyes with his own steady ones when Don glared at him.

"Can you tell me how my son is?" asked Alan, not caring how pathetic he sounded.

Dr. Simpson broke off eye contact with Don and looked back at Alan. "He's having a rough morning. The anesthesia did not agree with him, and coming out of it has been rather…explosive, and slow. I spoke with him about an hour ago, and he's understandably confused that neither of you are there. He has no memory of what occurred yesterday after his first morning class, and he's afraid the three of you were in an accident together and you are both injured; unable to be with him."

Alan's head dropped a little and Don growled. "I told that other doctor that something like this would happen. It's a mistake to keep us away from Charlie."

Dr. Simpson stood and walked back behind the desk. Sitting down, he opened the top file folder of the stack he had dropped on the desk, earlier. "I see here that…" he looked up at Don. "…you are convinced your brother was drugged?"

Don nodded. "Yes. I explained that he does a lot of high-level consulting for various government agencies. He's probably made some enemies. On the roof, he was delusional. He honestly believed he could fly. I know my brother, I spend a lot of time with him. I haven't seen anything in his behavior recently that would suggest he was suicidal."

The doctor's eyes strayed to Alan, and Don's followed. His father looked decidedly uncomfortable, and was staring at his shoes. "What?", Don asked, a little more abruptly than he probably should have.

Alan looked at him a little guiltily. "It's just that you haven't been by the house on a night when Charlie has been home for over two weeks, and I know he hasn't consulted on a case since…the one with the children. Have you two had lunches together, or something?"

Don stared at him, mouth open and working as if he were one of the koi in Charlie's pond. Had it really been that long since the three of them had shared a meal together? He was saved from answering by the doctor.

"Your son lives with you, then?"

Alan turned away from Don and regarded the man behind the desk. "Actually, I live with him. Or we live in the same house. He bought it from me a little over a year ago."

"And how has that arrangement worked out?"

Alan cleared his throat and regarded his shoes again. "Good, for the most part. I've been thinking of moving out into my own condo, to give us each a little more privacy." He looked back up, almost pleading. "My wife passed away about three years ago, and it was very hard on us all. It's been…nice, not having to be alone. I just felt that maybe it's time for us to depend on each other a little less."

Dr. Simpson nodded. "Was your wife ill, or was this a sudden accident?"

Don grew impatient again, and let the anger take over. "Let's cut to the chase. My mother had cancer, and for the first couple of years, Charlie was a trooper. So I've been told. I didn't move back until she lost her remission, and for the last three months of her life he regulated himself to his garage office, unable to face her or be with her, and worked on some unsolveable math problem almost 24/7. We had issues with that." He glanced at his father, daring him to disagree. Alan remained silent. "All of us. But we dealt with it a long time ago. Charlie is much stronger now."

Dr. Simpson regarded him calmly. "You dealt with it, or you've largely ignored it for three years? Charlie is stronger now, or he's just been successful at convincing you of that?" Don went into his koi imitation again, and the doctor looked back at Alan. "You live with him. What have you noticed, the last few weeks?"

Alan sighed, and shifted in his chair. "You have to understand. Charlie has always been…unique. His first genius-level IQ test was when he was only three. He graduated high school when he was 13, and Princeton when he was 16. He has three doctorates, and has been teaching for ten years already. He's written two books. He's long been tenured at CalSci. He goes through periods when life is overwhelming to him. He doesn't eat, or sleep. When it's really bad, he doesn't control the numbers, they control him. Like when his mother was dying. They were extremely close – she even moved to New Jersey and lived there for the first two years he was at Princeton. His last year, he lived with one of his professors and his family."

The doctor made some notations in the chart. "Any intimate relationships in his life?"

Alan shrugged. "He was very attracted to someone, but he put off acting on it for a long time. When he finally did, and told the woman he wanted to pursue something between them, she took a position in Boston and moved away, instead."

"It sounds like he's no stranger to pressure, or disappointment. It also sounds like he hasn't always handled it well. How has he been lately?"

Alan considered. "The last few weeks, I've known something was wrong," he finally admitted, and Don's head whipped around to stare at him. "Ever since he consulted on a case with the FBI almost three weeks ago involving children, that did not end well. Unfortunately, I also picked that time to start talking about moving out, and I questioned his acceptance of his homeowner responsibilities." He had that pleading look, again. "I wanted to distract him, help him understand that it was time to concentrate on something else. I'm afraid now it just added pressure. I go to bed, around 11, and he's still out in the garage, or not even home yet. When I get up, at 7, he's at the kitchen table, or he's already left for school. I don't think he's sleeping. He's lost weight, so I don't think he's eating, either."

Don spoke before the doctor did. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Alan looked at him apologetically. "The case was hard on you, too. You stopped coming over as much, and when you did, you were obviously down. I didn't want you to add guilt to your plate. Charlie is an adult, he consults on these cases by his own free will; but sometimes, you forget that. You assume too much responsibility for him."

The doctor coughed a little and ruffled through some papers, and redirected the conversation back to Charlie. "Okay. So he's a genius, and a tenured professor at CalSci; he consults regularly for government agencies; his love interest left him; he's a new homeowner; and he's recently had what is clinically defined as a 'complicated grief' experience. I received a call this morning from a Dr. Fleinhardt, a colleague of Charlie's."

"Right," Don managed. "He was on the roof. He's known Charlie for years. Since Princeton."

"Yes. He wanted me to know what transpired directly before Charlie decided he could fly. Apparently he lends his considerable talent to fact-checking the mathematical theories and results that colleagues include in their publications?"

Both Eppes nodded. "He's got two right now," Don offered.

"Dr. Fleinhardt spoke with the Division Chair, a Dr. Sorenson. Charlie had a late lunch meeting with him, yesterday. Dr. Sorenson admits reminding Charlie that tenured professors are expected to publish themselves, and that he expressed disappointment in the fact that Charlie hasn't for almost two years. He strongly encouraged him to escalate his private research projects. A little more pressure."

The doctor leaned back in his chair, and Don felt some of the guilt Alan had been talking about. Yes, Charlie made his own decisions, but there had been times he had tried to tell Don he was busy; times he had made it clear he didn't want a consulting gig. Don had always played the "isn't saving lives more important than anything else you could be doing?" card, and got what he wanted, eventually. Saving lives was important, yes – but the theories Charlie developed and then took into a consulting job were what saved those lives. He needed time for his research if he was going to remain effective as a consultant, as a teacher, as a mathematician… Don was pulled from his dark thoughts by the doctor's voice.

"I have two reliable witnesses telling me that Charlie believed he could fly. Actually, more – the LAPD officers confirm this story. No-one, at any point, ever heard Charlie say anything remotely related to suicide, although I understand he did mention some of the stresses he has been under, in a disjointed way. I have two separate, tentative conclusions, here. One, the difficulty Charlie is having pulling himself out of the anesthesia fully, his inability to truly focus on a conversation or stay awake for any length of time, combined with what you tell me about his last few weeks: I believe we are dealing with a psychotic break largely instigated by sleep deprivation. That's good news, believe it or not. Some serious sleep, and things will start to make sense to him again."

Alan felt both relief and fear. "There's bad news?"

"It's not really bad news, per se. It's just that I also believe Charlie has significant issues and stressors in his life that he is not dealing with successfully. I will strongly recommend some therapy. For any of us, life does not get simpler as we travel through it; he needs to learn some coping mechanisms, and he needs to learn them now."

Don felt a little sick. "Are you going to commit him?" Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alan pale at the question.

Dr. Simpson smiled. "No, nothing like that. I'll recommend outpatient therapy, probably twice a week to start. I'll provide the names of several competent therapists, and he can find one with whom he connects. This is all preliminary – I still haven't had a decent conversation with Charlie himself. I'll try again late this afternoon, after he's had a few more hours to pull himself together. If that conversation goes as I suspect it will, I will lift the 72-hour hold. I don't expect to find that he is a danger to himself or others."

"Thank God," Alan breathed. Then he pushed for more. "Will you let us see him?"

The doctor looked at him kindly, and not without sympathy. "Not yet, Mr. Eppes, not before he and I have really talked. I will continue to reassure him that you are both fine and waiting to see him. It will be an honest conversation. I will explain to him where he is, and why. It will be difficult for him to hear." Dr. Simpson stood. "This meeting has been very helpful. Thank you both for your time, and honesty. I will call you later this afternoon, after I have talked to Charlie."

Both Eppes murmured their understanding and stood as well. Don rubbed the back of his neck with his good hand while they watched the doctor leave through his private entrance. Don sighed, and spoke almost casually. "Well, I should go see Merrick, about this." He held up his broken arm. "Maybe go by CalSci and pick up my car. Talk to Larry."

"I'll go with you," Alan said, tentatively. "If that's all right."

Don dropped his hand from his neck and draped it over his father's shoulders. He had known Alan would say that. He had wanted Alan to say that. He had set Alan up so that he could say that. His father should be with someone today, and Don had to admit, he wanted the comfort of his father sitting next to him today, himself. "Of course it's ok, Dad," he grinned. "How else am I going to get anywhere?"