The Disclaimer Continues. Ad Infinitum.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Chapter 8
Alan had taken the call on the cordless phone, which he had wandered into the dining room to use. When he disconnected and turned back to the living room, he saw Don sitting up on the couch, staring at him. He tried to smile and went back to the recliner. Sitting, he relayed all the information to Don.
His son was silent for several minutes, staring at his lap. Finally he ran a hand through his hair and turned suspiciously bright eyes to Alan. "I know you're right. Charlie makes his own decisions…but he's my brother, and I know which buttons to push so the decisions are the ones I want him to make. You said I take too much responsibility for him. I don't think I take enough. He's not a trained agent, he's not equipped to deal with things like that last case. I get so focused, so…obsessed…I stop seeing him as my brother, and he becomes just another resource. Even when he tries to tell me he's too busy, I browbeat him into consulting."
"Well, if we're assigning blame, don't forget me," Alan answered. "I raised the boy. Remember the panic attacks during high school? No-one knows better than I do how personally Charlie takes things, how overwhelmed he can get. And my solution to his distress over the case was to convince him he was doing a terrible job with the house and was impossible to live with."
"All that work," Don mused. "He takes on too much. You can't force a 32-year-old man to eat and sleep, Dad."
Alan sat back in the chair a little. "I know. He just loves it all so much. The teaching, the research and development, the consulting…" He looked miserably at Don. "At least, I thought he did."
"Me, too," mumbled Don, and wished very hard for a beer.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
When Don and Alan finally approached Charlie's room at 9 the next morning, they met both doctors in the corridor. "Ah," said Dr. Simpson. "I thought I read you as punctual, Mr. Eppes! I managed to snag Dr. Graham to meet with us all."
Alan shook hands with both men, as did Don. "Thank-you," Alan told them both, and the four spilled into Charlie's room en masse.
Charlie had almost been asleep. The morning had started early, and the change in rooms had been exhausting. He had been gotten out of bed again for breakfast, sat up for a while, and then been wheeled to his new home, where he waited another 15 minutes for someone to help him in the bathroom and put him back to bed. Now, half out of it, he saw them all enter at once and became unaccountably frightened. He recognized Don and his father first, and saw how sad they were. He tried to push himself up in bed and got nowhere. "I'm sorry," he said, pleadingly. "I'm sorry."
The physical impact of Charlie hit Alan like walking into a wall, and he froze. The laceration on Charlie's forehead was close enough to his eye that the eye was swollen half shut, and almost a quarter of his face was bruised. The white bandage peeked out from behind his curls. One arm was tethered to a board, an IV line taped to it, and the other was propped on a pillow in a pristine white cast. Another cast encased his left leg, knee to foot, and it also was propped on pillows. Don pulled him forward, finally, and Alan was able to keep moving until he reached the head of the bed. He was afraid to touch Charlie, but he did it anyway, leaning over to gently kiss the top of his head. "Don't worry, son," he said, with more confidence than he felt. "It'll be all-right, now."
Charlie leaned into Alan and looked at Don behind him. "I'm sorry," he repeated, whispering.
Don smiled over Alan's shoulder, wishing his Dad would give up his brother for a minute. "Dad's right," he said, with what he hoped was conviction. "Don't worry about it."
Dr. Graham spoke next. "I hate to interrupt. I know this is the first time you've seen each other, but I'm due in surgery soon. I just wanted to provide a quick prognosis. Your arm should heal well, and fairly quickly. A physical therapist will come up this afternoon and teach you how to use crutches with a cast on one arm. Once you've got the hang of that, probably tomorrow afternoon, I'll release you. No work for at least two weeks – I'll see you in my office again, then – and no weight-bearing on that ankle for at least eight."
Alan had straightened and everyone was looking at Dr. Graham. Don's attention was brought back to Charlie when he began to speak, as if he were frightened. "No, that won't work. Finals are in two weeks. I have an office full of term papers to grade. I have to go back to work." He looked up at Don, then glanced quickly away, again. Alan's hand crept to Charlie's shoulder, which he rubbed absently.
Dr. Graham crossed his arms, all business. "This isn't a negotiation, Dr. Eppes. Perhaps you can do some grading at home, as you feel able." He glanced at Alan. "Under strict supervision. You have a lot of sleep to catch up on, and you need rest to heal. Frankly, I'm happy to hear finals are in two weeks. That means you can take the entire summer off."
Charlie shrugged his father's hand off, and Alan looked at him, surprised. "No, please," he begged, growing more upset. "I said I was sorry."
Dr. Simpson took up the conversation. "Charlie, I'm going to recommend some pretty intensive behavioral therapy during the summer. You'll be busy, don't worry. After talking to your family, and hearing some of the things you said on the roof, I feel that it's important. I can't force you. You're not sick, you don't need to be committed. You do need to develop some coping mechanisms, however."
Charlie's breathing rate increased, and his eyes darted from one man to the other, never staying anywhere long enough to focus. "I just need some sleep. It was sleep deprivation. You said so. You said so." There was a note of panic in his voice.
Dr. Simpson spoke to him calmly, looking only at Charlie, as if he were the only one in the room. "We don't have to decide all this right now, Charlie. I just wanted to take advantage of the break in Dr. Graham's schedule while your family was here. I understand this is a lot to process. I'll be back later, and we'll talk more."
Charlie squeezed his eyes shut, which Don knew had to hurt the right one, and he saw one tear slide out. His brother spoke thickly. "I'm sorry. Don't punish me. Please don't hurt me. I'm sorry."
Dr. Simpson stepped quickly to the head of the bed and unceremoniously pushed Don and Alan to the side. He leaned over the rail and spoke quietly to his patient. "Charlie, I need you to relax. Concentrate on breathing. There's nothing to be upset about."
"They're angry," Charlie sobbed, his eyes still closed. "I can see it."
"They're not, Charlie. They're concerned, they're your family. They love you. Can you match your breathing to mine? Take a deep breath with me."
Don and Alan stood back, and watched Dr. Simpson perform a miracle. Without additional drugs, without a hammer, without anything but his soft, almost melodic voice, the doctor soon had Charlie's breathing slow and regular again, his eyes open and fixed on the doctor. Dr. Simpson smiled. "Good. You're doing well, Charlie. How do you feel?"
"Tired," he answered, his voice small. "Bad."
The doctor pressed for details. " 'Bad' how? Are you in pain?"
Don saw another tear roll down Charlie's face, and felt tears pressing the backs of his own eyes. "I-I'm making everybody feel bad," Charlie tried to explain. "I didn't mean to. I just need some sleep."
The doctor nodded. "Yes, you do. Several days' worth. Sleep will help. Is it all right if your father and brother stay here while you sleep? They've been waiting a long time to see you."
Charlie hung his head a little. "They don't have to," he almost whispered. "They're busy."
Don had heard enough. He pushed past his father up to the rail and touched Charlie for the first time, squeezing his shoulder. "This is the only place I need to be right now," he said forcefully. "Dad, too. We want to be here. Please let us stay."
Charlie lifted his head to look at Don, but his eyes fell on the cast on his arm first. When his eyes got to Don, they were wide, full of fear. "You're hurt. Oh God, you're hurt."
Don smiled. "It's nothing. Look, I'm standing here, I'm talking. I just wanted to match casts with you for a while. Same arm, and everything." He winked at Charlie. "You're on your own with the whole ankle thing, though. Maybe you can talk Dad into joining you on that one."
Charlie's serious demeanor cracked for an instant, and he almost smiled. He leaned heavily into the pillow. "I'm really tired," he said, and his eyes began to drift shut.
Don squeezed his shoulder again. "That's okay, Buddy, you sleep. Dad and I will wait right here for you."
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………