SAME DISCLAIMER AS BEFORE.
THIS CHAPTER I HAD A LOT OF PROBLEMS WITH AND WITH OUT MY WONDERFUL BETA SERIALGAL I WOULD NOT BEEN ABLE TO GET THANK YOU !
Don paused in the doorway. Charlie hadn't seen him yet, and he stepped inside. Upon entering the room further, he saw his brother struggling with something in his hands. He could not be sure, but it looked to be a pill bottle thought Don, as he stepped up to his brother.
"You okay there, Charlie?" asked Don as he reached out his hand to help Charlie with the object. As he did, Charlie jumped and stared at him with his eyes as big as saucers. Don realized that Charlie was trembling as he looked back at him, waiting for an answer. Finally, Charlie spoke, a little low and raspy, and Don had to lean in to hear him.
"Don - I didn't hear you come in…" Charlie inhaled, trying to get his breathing under control.
Don stared at his brother. "Charlie are you okay?" he asked, knowing that his brother was anything but okay. "You seem a little upset," he prompted as he took a seat next to his brother on the bed. He reached over suddenly and easily snagged the object from Charlie.
"Charlie, what are these?" He frowned as he read the label, Ativan; he knew from past experience with Charlie that it was prescribed to control anxiety. As he read that label, he noticed another bottle on the nightstand. He reached across Charlie and picked up the second bottle, still waiting for him to reply. "Charlie, I asked you a question; what are these?"
Charlie had a look of shame and fear on his face, as he replied. "Don, look, they're none of your concern. My doctor gave them to me after I told him I was having some issues. It is nothing and is really none of your business," Charlie said, as he reached out to take the bottles.
Don let him take them, and spoke as Charlie set the bottles back on the nightstand. "Charlie, one of those is for panic attacks and that other bottle is for depression. Risperdal – that's a pretty serious drug. Charlie, please; talk to me," begged Don. As he looked into Charlie's eyes, he noticed that his brother looked as though he was going to cry.
Charlie jumped up and began to pace. "Don, please leave it alone. We are here to have a vacation. This is not about me. I am fine, I promise, and when I am ready I will talk - just not now."
Charlie continued to pace with agitation, and suddenly Don stood and stilled Charlie's movements, his hands on Charlie's arms. "Listen to me, Charlie, I don't know what is going on, but I want to help you." Don paused to gather his thoughts. "Just answer one question before we let it alone."
Charlie looked at his brother doubtfully. "What is it?" A stubborn note crept into his voice. "Just remember this - you are welcome to ask, but I don't know if I can or will answer you."
Don steeled himself as he spoke, not sure of the reaction or the answer he would get. "Charlie, why did you not tell me you were seeing a doctor, or at least tell me the panic had attacks started again?"
Charlie pondered the question, and simply said, "Don, you had been stabbed - you did not, nor do you now need my problems. I am a grown man capable of taking care of myself. I appreciate that you care, but you have a life and you are not my protector. Now again, I am asking you not to bring this up to anyone. This is my business and I would appreciate it if you left it alone." Charlie's tone was growing increasingly harsh. Just as Don was about to deliver a sharp retort, there was a knock at the door.
"Everything okay in here?" asked Amita, as she opened the door and looked at the brothers.
"Yeah we're okay." Charlie turned, and using his body to hide them, snagged his bottles and slipped them into his sweatpants pocket.
"How are you feeling? How's the ankle?" asked Amita, in rapid fire.
"I feel fine, and the ankle is fine, too. Now can we go eat?" Charlie said a little more abruptly than he should have, he thought, but he was tired of the questions. It was bad enough that Don knew he was taking medicine for depression. Now his brother must really think that he was useless. The trip was not going well, as far as Charlie was concerned. So many people, such close quarters. Did he really expect to keep it secret?
Supper was good; he had to admit. They ate and then sat and watched some old Charlton Heston movies. For the most part Charlie was able to go through the evening with minimal conversation. He did, however, catch Don and Amita looking at him more than once, especially Don. Finally, he had enough, and felt he had stayed long enough to make a decent appearance. He said his goodnights and turned in for the night. He didn't realize that Amita had followed him into their room until he heard her footsteps behind him.
"Charlie, can we talk about earlier today?" asked Amita as she entered the room.
Charlie turned, sighed, looked at her and said, "Amita, I'm really tired and my ankle is kind of throbbing. I thought I would take some Aleve and just catch some Z's."
"No, Charlie it is not okay - we need to talk," said Amita, as gently as she could.
Momentarily surprised by the statement, Charlie sat down on the bed and looked at her. "What is it, then?" When he found his voice again it sounded irritated.
Amita was not backing down. Determined not to be swayed, she edged forward. "I feel like you are somewhere else
"What are you talking about, Amita? I am right here. I don't know what you expect." The words came out snappishly. He was fed up – he was tired, his ankle, knee and head all hurt, and he just wanted to be left alone to work on his case for the LAPD.
Amita looked at Charlie as she sat next to him and watched with concern as he scooted further away from her on the bed. "When I met you, you were a brilliant mathematician who sometimes consulted for various agencies, but you had dreams and aspirations of your own. Now you seem to be heading down a different path." Amita paused and waited, expecting a response. She got a reaction, but not the one she had expected.
Charlie stared at her, and his voice dropped, becoming suddenly eerily quiet. "So, it's acceptable to you if I work on research, or something in the academic world, but not on cases."
"I did not say that, Charlie," Amita said bitterly, trying to keep her voice down.
"Not in so many words," shot back Charlie as he rose and limped for the bathroom.
"Charlie, I'm just concerned about you. I love you and I am allowed to be worried. You seem so different ever since Don was stabbed. You're almost obsessed with crime solving." Amita sensed she was losing her fight. She knew she couldn't reason with him when he was like this.
Charlie walked into the bathroom still steaming over what she had said. He came to the conclusion that this vacation was over for him and he was just going to have suck it up and deal with the eight days that were left. Right now, however, all he knew was that his ankle and head were killing him and his knee was throbbing. He decided he was better off on the couch so after he downed his medicine, he picked up his laptop, limped past Amita with a muttered 'good-night' into the now empty living room, grabbed a chair pillow and placed on the arm of the sofa. He had forgotten to take a blanket when he left the room, so he resigned himself to sleep without one. Even though the days were hot, he knew that in the mountains the night would get cool, so he limped over to the coat rack near the front door and grabbed a jacket. He put it on as he lay down and waited to be sure everyone had gone to bed, so he could pull out his laptop and work in peace. Before he even had time to think, he was asleep.