The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.
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Chapter 7
Although he still felt horrible, Charlie was yanked out of bed that afternoon and propped up in a chair, more pillows than he had ever seen in one place stuffed around and under him. He leaned his head back, looking around, and wished he wasn't so confused, and so alone.
This was the strangest hospital room he had ever seen. There was no television, no cords of any kind. He couldn't find a clock, anywhere, and there was no closet hiding his clothes. The bathroom was really only a stall with a toilet and sink. There was no shower. The door to the hallway had a window in the middle of it, and there was a video camera high in the corner, pointing at the bed. Someone was watching him.
Charlie shivered, and waited, and eventually the door with the window opened, and the doctor he thought he may have seen that morning was back. He wished he could remember the guy's name.
As if he had read his mind – which would have really freaked Charlie out, if he knew he was on a psych ward – the doctor re-introduced himself as he dragged a chair a few feet away from Charlie. "I'm Dr. Simpson, remember?" He sank into the chair, facing Charlie, and crossed one foot over the other knee. "Are you feeling any better?"
Charlie looked at him, distrustingly. "I think so. My leg hurts."
The doctor nodded. "I'm sure. You really did a number on that ankle. It's full of hardware, now. How's your arm? Your head?"
Charlie had managed to get his IV-restrained arm up to his head, earlier, far enough to feel the gauze over his eye. "Stitches?", he asked now.
Dr. Simpson nodded. "15. Part of your nausea and dizziness earlier was the concussion, no doubt. Is that better?"
"A little."
"Good. We'll get you some more anti-nausea medication if you need it. Your left arm is broken, too."
Charlie glanced at the cast. "I figured that out," he answered.
The doctor smiled. "Do you have any questions?"
Charlie really didn't want to trust this guy, but he was apparently the only option. "What kind of hospital room is this? Where am I? Where is my Dad, and my brother?"
The smile broadened. "I guess you do. Last one first. Your father and brother are fine. I spoke with them both this morning, and they are anxious to see you. Right now, you are in the psychiatric ward of UCLA Medical Center." He watched Charlie's eyes widen and fill with fear. He kept his tone gentle, and friendly. "Now, I have a question for you. What is the last thing you remember doing yesterday? Thursday."
Charlie thought for a moment, even closed his eyes in concentration. When he opened them again and spoke, his voice wavered. "M-My Theories and Applications seminar, at 10." He glanced at his arm. "How did I hurt myself?"
The doctor answered with another question. "Do you remember the last time you ate, or slept?"
Charlie looked at him nervously, as if he was afraid he was being tested and would get in trouble for the wrong answer. "M-My Dad made stew, Tuesday night. I wasn't home for dinner, but I heated some up after the faculty meeting. It was late, so I wasn't hungry for breakfast on Wednesday, and I had a student who needed to see me during my lunch break…I had a banana, when I got home at 10. I w-worked late in the office. Finals are coming. I think I had some tea with Larry yesterday morning."
He wound down, the recitation at a standstill. He didn't seem to remember the second part of the question, so the doctor reminded him. "How about sleep?"
Charlie refused to meet his eyes and looked instead up at the camera. "I get insomnia, sometimes. I don't really remember. I think it's been awhile."
The doctor uncrossed his legs and leaned forward a little, elbows propped on his knees, hands dangling between them. "Charlie, I believe that sleep deprivation was a contributing factor to a psychotic episode you suffered late yesterday afternoon. Do you remember the roof of the Math & Sciences building at CalSci? Do you remember thinking you could fly?"
Charlie was assailed by a wave of nausea as he stared at the doctor in speechless horror. He choked a little on the bile rising in his throat. He looked again at the cast on his arm, the cast on his ankle, propped on several pillows. The bile rose. He looked up at the doctor, and his eyes filled with tears. "I jumped off the roof?"
"Not exactly," Dr. Simpson answered. "Your brother and your friend Larry say you flew."
Charlie tried to curl forward a little, but pain from everywhere stopped him. "They were there?", he managed to whisper. "Don was there?"
Dr. Simpson nodded affirmatively, and years of experience kicked in. He managed to straighten in his chair and shove himself backwards a little, and when Charlie threw up, he didn't even end up wearing any.
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After Charlie was cleaned up and nurses had transferred him back to bed, before the additional anti-nausea medication put him to sleep, the doctor explained to him all that he knew about how Charlie had sustained his injuries. Nothing triggered any memories for the mathematician, and Dr. Simpson decided he would speak to him again in the morning about some of the things he had learned from Don and Alan. He scribbled some orders in Charlie's chart at the nursing station and then returned to his office to call the Eppes.
After Don's visit to the office, where he was granted a week of leave before being scheduled to return to light duty, and a stop to pick up his SUV, the two had returned to the house and fallen asleep in the recliner and on the couch. The ringing of the phone woke them both, and Alan got to it first. "Yes?"
"Alan Eppes?"
"Yes, Yes. Dr. Simpson?"
"Yes. I've just spent some time with Charlie, and I feel confident having him transferred to the hospital's main population. I'll be visiting with him again at least once a day until he is released."
Visiting. Alan wasn't sure what question to ask first. He finally settled on, "When will that be?"
"That's up to his surgeon, Dr. Graham. Patients usually only remain in the hospital a few days after surgery these days, though."
"Is he being transferred this evening? When can we see him? Is he all right?" Once he got started on the questions, Alan couldn't stop.
The doctor chuckled a little. "Charlie did the same thing. At least now I know that's hereditary, and not from his head injury. As I warned you, the conversation was very upsetting to him. He still does not remember anything, and he was very disturbed that his brother and his friend were witnesses to the incident on the roof. I had to give him more anti-nausea medication, but I didn't sedate him. It really wasn't necessary, he's still so exhausted. Believe it or not, the psych ward is actually one of the quieter places in the hospital. I'd like him to stay here tonight so he can rest better. He'll most likely be moved right after breakfast. I think it would be best if you'd wait until, say, 9 a.m. to see him? He is anxious to see both you and your other son, but now that he knows what happened, he's worried about it, also. He could use some time to pull himself together."
Alan gripped the phone, thinking. As much as he hated it, he knew that he and Don were still in so much shock, they weren't ready either. He finally admitted it. "Charlie's not the only one who needs that," he sighed.
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