Epilogue

Notes: Started: 24 November 2003 | Finished: 15 September 2015 | That's right. It took 12 years and 10 months to finish this. Do I get a prize for being the slowest writer in the history of writing?

Christmas got postponed.

Adam filled Charlie with as much water as he could to stop him dehydrating while he detoxed. Charlie told Adam where to find every single bottle of alcohol in their home. It took three attempts to own up to the secret bottle, his last reserve, that was hidden at the back of the linen cupboard, but he did.

They both called Casey and Bombay, Charlie simply said he was sick and that he would call back at another time. It sickened him that his mother was so delighted by such a simple gesture. He didn't deserve it. With Charlie's permission, Adam later called Bombay on his cellphone to explain the situation fully. Charlie wanted to tell his mother in person, but wasn't up to it that day – and he didn't want to ruin her Christmas. Adam then called Connie and Guy to cancel their plans and explain why.

The chills and the sickness arrived quite quickly and Adam didn't leave his side until Guy showed up, telling them that Connie was looking after Cassie. For awhile they both took care of him, offering him sips of water, rubbing his back when he got sick, or just reassuring him that he could get through it.

Finally, Guy made Adam leave to get some sleep. He'd found Charlie passed out on the floor at four a.m. and hadn't slept since. Before he slept, he called a doctor and spent a good portion of time desperately begging the doctor to make a house call.

Charlie passed out on the bathroom floor and awoke to find Connie wiping his face with a cool washcloth. She gave him a loving smile when he looked up at her. "There you are, Charlie," she said softly, pitching her voice low as if she knew that every sound went through him, every slam of a door in the building felt like it would shatter his skull, make his eyeballs explode, and more than anything, want a drink to take the edge off.

"Where's Cassie?" Charlie asked, horrified that his goddaughter might see him like this.

"She's with my mother and Guy. I sent him home for some rest."

"You shouldn't be here," Charlie said as he reached for the glass of water.

Connie passed it to him, and stroked his hair away from his sweaty forehead.

"Why not? I'm a mother. I've seen just about all shades, textures and varieties of vomit known to humankind," she replied with a shrug. "Don't go thinking you're special. Cassie's thrown up on me more times than I can count."

Charlie sipped his water. "But you're pregnant," he said. "I'm not exactly a small guy. I'm not ok at the moment. I don't want to hurt you."

Connie's jaw dropped. "You have been oblivious to the entire world for years, but today when you're sick to your stomach you notice I'm pregnant?" She smiled. "Our Charlie is on his way back to us."

"I'm serious, Cons. What if I decide I want a drink and you're in the way?"

"Then I jump out of the way and scream for the boys, damning my feminist virtues to hell." She stroked his hair again.

"I'm not kidding," Charlie said firmly.

"Here's the deal," Connie replied, "you seem quite docile now. If you seem even slightly restless, then I get Adam and stay out of here, ok?"

Charlie didn't get a chance to argue, because his stomach started to roll again. Connie stroked his back and whispered soothing words.

The hours passed in a haze of sickness, chills, dizziness and worry. He thought a doctor was present at some point, but wasn't entirely sure that was real because he remembered so little of it. At some point Adam gave him some pills, saying they would lessen his anxiety, so maybe the doctor was real. Or maybe the pills weren't.

Charlie had no sense of time, just a constant dizziness, a mind-breaking headache, an inability to function and the strongest desire to drink. He staggered to his feet, determined to get a drink to take the edge off. He stumbled towards the door, only to be met by Adam.

"Where are you going, Charlie?" he asked.

For half a second, Charlie wanted to punch him to the floor and race out of the apartment, to get away, to get a drink, to just feel ok again. Then he saw the Adam that could be, the dead accusatory eyes, the blood-splattered skin, the horrifying crushed skull. He put his arms out and pulled Adam into a hug. "I'm sorry," he said.

Another time, he woke up in his own bed, and Bombay was sat in a chair, apparently reading a book, but Charlie felt his attention was fully focused on Charlie. He smiled. "It's going to be ok, son."

Charlie wanted to scream that it wasn't ok, that he felt horrible and that he just couldn't do it. He made himself focus on the wedding band on Bombay's left hand. "Ok, dad."

He passed out again before he could register Bombay's smile.

Eventually – Charlie didn't know exactly when – there came a time when the confusion slowed, when the hell subsided, and he only felt merely ill. He felt like he had a cold. And, of course, he wanted a drink, but that was only to be expected.

When he got up to get a cold drink from the fridge, he noticed it was adorned with a large and colourful picture. "Cassie drew it for you," Adam explained. "Connie and Guy told her you were sick, so she drew a picture of her as a nurse taking care of you."

Charlie took the picture from the fridge and stared at it for a long time. He resolved to have it framed and put it on his bedroom wall, as a constant reminder of why he should fight.

Adam and Bombay took him to a doctor, Charlie tried to pay attention but there was a lot to take in. He was thankful that there was an overachiever on either side of him diligently taking notes.

They both enrolled him in an AA programme and sat beside him in the meetings.

Bombay had to head home, having told Casey he was on a business trip. He told Charlie to call him at any time. Charlie did.

Charlie called his mother once a week, every Saturday morning at eleven a.m., when she was back from the grocery store and had a cup of hot coffee in her hand. After two months of sobriety, he invited her to stay. His temper was manageable now, the headaches were rarer – he couldn't sleep though, and the medication he was prescribed barely helped.

God, he wanted a drink. But he didn't take one.

Explaining to his mother that he was an alcoholic was as mortifying and terrifying as he thought it would be, but Adam and Bombay sat with him, silently supporting him. She was angry, shaking with rage, she pursed her lips and dug her fingernails into her palms when she turned on her husband and asked why the hell he had hidden this from her. Charlie got up and sat beside her. "He was protecting me, Mom," he said. "Not you, me. And I had to tell you myself, but I couldn't do it until now."

She let him cry on her shoulder, like a small child, while Bombay and Adam tactfully excused themselves for some fresh air.

He quit the hockey team. When he discussed it with Bombay, he understood. Bombay was competitive, he liked to win, and the pressure to win made him want to drink. That was why, instead of practicing litigation, he had moved to probate law. There was no winning in that, only completing a task from beginning to end. Charlie thought about asking how long it would take to get a law degree, but decided he should see if he could stay sober for at least six months before putting himself through more stress.

"I have to tell you something," Charlie said, wiping his mouth. It was a new habit he had picked up since he stopped drinking, and consequently his lips were chapped most of the time.

Adam nodded. "Go ahead."

Poor Adam, Charlie thought. His heart probably dropped every single time Charlie uttered the words "I have to tell you something". But Adam took each revelation in his stride, never once bolting for the door, as any sensible human being should. Every time Charlie opened his mouth he wondered if this would be the last time he saw Adam. Which conversation would be the last one? Most of their conversations were just confirmations of Adam's fears, the stealing of his money, the breaking of his things, but this one could get ugly.

"It's about Emma," Charlie said, convinced it would be their last conversation.

When he was done explaining himself, Adam nodded a few times, but couldn't seem to get any words out.

"I'm so sorry," Charlie said.

Finally Adam found some words, "I think I knew. I just didn't want to be right."

"I'm so, so sorry." Those words were Charlie's trademark at the moment.

Adam forced a smile. "What's done is done, I'm glad you were honest with me."

Adam went for a very long walk after that conversation.

Charlie used the time alone to call Emma. It didn't go well. Emma hung up on him three times, but before the dial tone buzzed in his ear, she made some very unpleasant (and painfully accurate) assertions about his character. Charlie then went to his room, stared at the picture that Cassie had drawn for him for a few minutes, then started writing a letter to Emma.

One day Charlie found a text on his phone from Emma, it simply read, "Thank you for the letter."

It was a start, but it wasn't enough. He texted back and asked to meet up with her.

It took three weeks of perseverance before she agreed.

Christmas finally happened sometime in mid-April. It was a warm and friendly affair, with Casey and Bombay joining them, along with Guy, Connie and Cassie. Every time Cassie looked at him, Charlie couldn't help but remember the spiteful words he'd spat out at her on the Christmas Day that had never happened. He doubled his efforts to be especially kind to her. After only an hour, she declared that Charlie was her best friend.

Connie was roughly the size of a house and needed to pee often. When the baby kicked, Charlie rushed over to feel her stomach. Connie covered his hand with her own, and said, "Yeah, you kick your godfather, kiddo."

Just before dinner was served, Charlie announced that someone else would be joining them.

When Emma stepped through the front door, Adam beamed first at her, then Charlie.

Charlie found a way to manage his addiction. Routine. It was the only thing that made sense. He would get up early and go for a jog to wake himself up (and to lose the unsightly pudge he had gained from drinking himself silly), he would get home, shower, drink a cup of coffee, check if Adam was awake and if so, fix breakfast. Sometimes Emma was there too; her morning routine was to ruffle Charlie's hair and ask him how he was doing.

Charlie would then attend his first AA meeting of the day while Adam went to train, and Emma went to work. He would have a coffee with his sponsor after the meeting, and they would discuss his life. Charlie never once spoke of the strange events that led to him sobering up, other than vaguely mentioning the horrific realisation that he wasn't just killing himself, he going to destroy everyone around him. His sponsor often pushed for more details, but Charlie didn't spill. If he ever told that story, he would tell Adam. It could well be written off as a hallucination of an alcohol-riddled brain, but Charlie knew it was more.

For one thing, on Christmas day he had a black eye from when dead Adam punched him. Again, he knew he would be told that he'd probably injured himself in a drunken stupor.

However, he wasn't sure how anyone could explain how he knew in advance that Connie and Guy would have a son, and that they would call him Evan.