On occasion, whenever a movie or commercial depicted two brothers with a close bond, Charlie would find himself playing a what-if game. What if my brother didn’t accuse me of stealing from him things he had never even owned? What if he wasn’t calm one minute, yelling at me the next, accusing me of the most absurd, fantastical offenses against his make-believe world? What if his schizophrenia didn’t terrify me? To have stayed in a close relationship with Joe would have required sacrifices beyond Charlie’s emotional capacity to make.
There were two options going forward as Charlie now saw it. Either Joe would have to move in with him until their mother recovered (and she would recover, Charlie assured himself), or he would hire somebody to look after Joe. At least Joe owned his own car and could drive himself to and from work, which was good for all involved. Charlie ran his fingers across the windowsill in Joe’s room and then blew away the dust he had picked up in the process. One thing was for certain: there was no way Charlie was moving back home to live with Joe and look after him.
On his way out, Charlie noticed the small silver-framed picture of sunflowers hanging on the wall by the front door. Joe took the picture years ago, while apple picking in the quintessential New England town of Hollis, New Hampshire. The trip was one of several Walderman-sponsored outings, intended to foster a greater sense of community and camaraderie among patients and staff. Joe thought the picture magnificent and enlisted Charlie’s help in getting it printed and framed. It had been hanging in the same spot ever since. Charlie took it off the wall. Their mother would like it with her, he thought.
The cabdriver was waiting outside, just as instructed. Charlie’s cell phone rang minutes after they pulled away. He didn’t recognize the number. Might be the hospital.
“Charlie Giles?” a woman asked.
“Yes?”
“Charlie, this is Rebecca Harris. I’m your mother’s attorney. I’m sorry to call so late.”
“That’s not a problem, Rebecca. What can I do for you?”
“I just found out about Alison. She and I had an appointment this evening. When she didn’t show, I called the house. Nobody answered, so I got worried. It’s not like her to miss an appointment,” she said.
“That’s true,” Charlie said.
“Normally Joe would answer the phone if she was out. Anyway, I couldn’t stop worrying, so I started calling area hospitals to check and see if anything had happened.”
“You found her,” said Charlie.
“I had no idea she’d been there so long. It’s just terrible.”
“I know how you feel,” Charlie said.
“The reason I’m calling is to check up on your mother, because the hospital wouldn’t give me any information. Also, I needed to talk with you.”
“With me?”
“Yes. There are reasons. How is she doing?”
“I don’t know, Rebecca. She’s in a coma. The doctors have no idea how long it could last. The only good news I’ve heard is that she doesn’t have any other life-threatening conditions. At least, not that they’re aware of.”
She let out a loud sigh. “Okay … God, that’s such good news. Is it all right if I visit tomorrow?”
“Of course. That would be fine. Was there something else? You said you wanted to speak with me specifically.”
Charlie found Rebecca’s pause uncomfortable.
“Your mother is a very thorough and well-planned person,” she began.
“I know. She raised me.”
“Of course. Well, she left instructions regarding Joe should she ever become …” She paused again. “Incapacitated. It’s her living will, Charlie.”
Charlie’s heart dropped. Instructions regarding Joe?
“Go on.”
“Joe’s schizophrenia is severe,” she said.
“You’re telling me things I already know.”
“He’s in a specialized treatment program at Walderman Hospital. He’s been making wonderful progress. Your mother was so encouraged with the neurophysiologist he’s been working with. The difference has been tremendous.”
“It’s possible,” Charlie said, though after what he’d seen that day, he wasn’t convinced. He softened. “I’m not with him as much as my mother.”
“I see,” Rebecca said. “To get to my point …”
“Please.” Charlie could not disguise the anxiousness in his voice. He wasn’t at all sure where this was going.
“Your mother felt it was imperative that Joe continue with his treatment at Walderman. That his home life not be disrupted in the event something was to happen to her. She knew that Joe wouldn’t trust anyone to live with him—unless, that is, it was someone he knew intimately. She was worried that without the care he needed, he might be remanded to a state institution. That would be devastating to her. Joe can lead a normal, healthy life. He’s getting closer every day. To go into state care … Well, that would just destroy all the progress they’ve made together.”
“What is it that my mother wanted?” Charlie asked.
“She wanted you to become Joe’s legal guardian.”
Charlie hands trembled.
“And she wants you to move into the Waltham house. To live with Joe until she recovers.”
“And if she dies? Does she want me to live with Joe in Waltham forever?”
Rebecca stayed professional. “You would be the only family Joe has left, Charlie. I suppose your mother trusted you to do what’s right.”
The cab sped past the neighborhoods and memories Charlie had struggled long and hard to leave behind. Now he was being asked to return. Moving back into that house would be no different than being handed a prison sentence. Charlie held the phone to his ear but did not say anything to Rebecca. For the first time, he could empathize with his father.
Sometimes running away makes the most sense of all.
Chapter 15
Charlie sat in the dining room of his childhood home. Instead of warm nostalgia, staring at the furniture, drapes, and dishes he recalled from his childhood brought him only a sense of shame. He marveled at how far he had traveled, only to have arrived back to where it all began. Home.
His résumé flickered on the screen of his laptop computer. It was opened as a Microsoft Word document. He had converted the dining-room table into a makeshift desk; the dining room itself was now a temporary office, complete with newly installed wireless Internet access. Unable to concentrate on work, or the lack thereof, he opened a Web browser and resumed his online research of hypertensive en-cephalopathy, brain swelling, and comas. As usual, much of what he read was discouraging. He knew better than to share his grim findings with Joe. His brother seemed to power through each day, fueled only by the fumes of hope.
A few hours ago Charlie had been by his mother’s bedside. The regret he felt for having let their monthly dinner dates lapse as his work obligations took more time had been palpable.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” he’d whispered to no one as he held her hand. “I promise I’ll make more of an effort when you wake up, okay?”
Only the ventilator had replied, its ceaseless, rhythmic drone not only her breath but also her voice.
Charlie visited his mother every day, at least for an hour, sometimes more, and kept her room freshly stocked with flowers. He brought her sunflowers mostly, and when he could, peonies since they were another of her favorites, though harder to come by in the off-season. He bought her a Bose SoundDock and an iPod, which he refreshed with new songs on each visit. There was some research he’d come across suggesting improved outcomes for coma patients who listened to music. Though the results from the study, the authors repeatedly pointed out, weren’t conclusive.
As for her treasured sunflower picture, Charlie had hung it on the wall across from her bed, hoping it would be the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes. If she opened her eyes, he remembered thinking while hanging it.
On the end table adjacent to her bed he’d placed a picture of the three of them, their m
other sandwiched between her two smiling sons. It was one of the few photographs he could find where they were together and smiling. Knowing Joe would want the picture, too, he had scanned a copy and hung it on the refrigerator door with the help of a pineapple fridge magnet. He’d also given his mother a framed picture of Monte, her beloved granddog, resting on his belly on the green grass of the Boston Commons, facing the camera, with his paws extended. Alison’s friends visited often and were sometimes there when Charlie arrived. They would exchange strained pleasantries and share what little information they each had learned. Charlie preferred to visit alone. To grieve for his mother privately. As he did most things.
It had been nearly five days since he’d last set foot in his own apartment. His clothes were still packed in a large suitcase resting on top of the living-room sofa, which, unfortunately for his back, also doubled as his bed. Bone-weary from the awkward living arrangements and with no change in his mother’s condition, the coma still deep, Charlie contemplated the possibility that this could morph into something more permanent. The thought was worrisome.
Monte was apparently adjusting to his new life on Cleveland Street in Waltham far better than Charlie. He had Maxine to thank for that. Monte’s interest in Mrs. Cummings’s poodle, Maxine, was bordering, he feared, on obsession. Despite having been neutered before Charlie brought him home, some part of his little doggie libido had clearly been left unfazed. When he wasn’t hovering by the window, paws resting on the sill, trying to sneak a peek at his beloved Maxine, he was whimpering by the door, begging to go out for an illicit rendezvous. In a way, though, Charlie was proud of his furry little friend’s undaunted resolve. Mrs. Cummings, however, was far less enthralled.
“If I catch him humping my Maxine again,” she had scolded on the day they moved in, “there will be consequences.”
“I’ll make certain he’s aware of your feelings on the matter,” Charlie had replied.
Monte dropped from his windowsill perch and trotted under the dining-room table to rest at Charlie’s feet. Charlie felt him start to gnaw at his right shoe but made no attempt to stop him. With his reputation severely tarnished and his mental health questionable, he doubted he’d have much use for a good pair of work shoes for a while. Letting Monte nibble away at the leather in a way helped him to accept the situation for what it was. Still, what it was wasn’t an all that easy thing to accept.
Making matters worse, Charlie’s one attempt to contact Mac at SoluCent had been met with a terse reply from the company’s legal department. As much as Charlie hated it, he was an outcast, both with the company and himself. If working on his résumé could provide even a brief respite from the fear about his own mental health, he’d go at it all night long.
Discouraged by his medical research, Charlie thought he might make some headway on the career front and opened his résumé again. But he could only stare at the jumble of words for a minute or two before the anger took hold and he lost concentration. The frustration and hurt that his days at SoluCent were over, that he had lost his brainchild to a multinational conglomerate, were still too raw. He couldn’t plan his next move when he couldn’t yet accept his fate.
He replayed his conversation with Randal at Chaps a dozen times, haunted by the catch-22. The only explanation for his crazy behavior was that people were out to get him, but just thinking that was true would be enough to make someone think he was crazy.
He had made a call to a neurologist, wondering if Rachel’s theory about a brain lesion might be worth investigating. The office was booked solid. Since it wasn’t a medical emergency, it would be at least three weeks before anyone could see him. That left him alone with his résumé and his thoughts, living back home with his brother, Joe, as if he were once again a twelve-year-old boy with dreams of a better life.
He pushed through his malaise and continued tweaking his ré-sumé. Ten minutes had passed when he heard a drumroll from upstairs. As he typed, he read over each sentence for clarity and structure. But the drumroll morphed into a steady beat, and Charlie’s concentration waned again. Between Joe’s playing and Monte’s chewing, progress was simply unattainable.
He saved and closed his résumé, quit Word, pushed the chair away from his makeshift desk, and marched upstairs. Monte, of course, followed close behind. By the time he reached the practice studio, Joe was in the middle of an inspired solo. That Joe could practice his drums freely, while Charlie couldn’t even hint at playing jazz guitar while living under his roof, only aggravated him more. Charlie banged on the closed door as loud as he could.
“Joe! Joe! I’m trying to work downstairs. Could this wait until, oh, I don’t know … sometime when I’m not here?”
No answer. Charlie tried the doorknob, but the door was locked. He banged again with his open palm. Monte barked in solidarity.
“Joe! Please stop playing for a moment!” He kicked at the door. Charlie had played drums in the high school marching band; he was kicking a counter-rhythm to Joe’s bass drum beat.
After several seconds of both Charlie and Joe banging away, the drumming stopped. Joe opened the door.
“Hey!” he said, smiling. “Is it nine fifty-five already?”
Joe had left Charlie with explicit instructions to come get him five minutes before 10:00 p.m. There was some show Joe watched religiously, and their mother had served as the alarm clock. Charlie wasn’t sure what would happen if Joe missed that show, but he suspected it wouldn’t be good.
“No. You still have an hour,” Charlie said.
“Okay, then,” Joe said with a grin. “More time for me to rock!” He turned away from Charlie and went back to his drums.
Charlie kept the door open and stared at his brother in disbelief. His brother’s mass overflowed down the sides of the small drum stool. He wore a grimy white undershirt and his boxers. It looked as if he hadn’t bathed in days, even though Charlie had heard him singing in the shower a few hours ago.
Charlie sighed deeply. He wasn’t certain he could survive living here until his mother recovered, even if he had a moral and arguably legal obligation to fulfill. If it came down to it, Charlie had already earmarked Randal to get him off the hook.
“Joe!” Charlie yelled over the rhythmic pounding of the tomtoms.
Joe stopped a moment. “Yeah?”
“Why do you think I’m at your door?” Charlie asked.
Monte, sensing an opportunity to explore, darted into the cramped practice studio and proceeded to smell a pile of clothes heaped on the floor in front of the kit.
Joe looked puzzled. “I don’t know. You want something?”
“Yes. Yes, Joe. That’s an accurate statement. I do want something. I want some freaking quiet around here so I can work.”
“Ohhh … you want quiet,” Joe said. He reached behind himself and pulled a pair of brushes out of a small box. “Is this quiet enough for you?”
Joe proceeded to play a soft rhythm, the brushes making a smooth washing noise as he glided them over the snare drum.
Charlie nodded. “Yes. That is quieter.”
Joe nodded in return. “Good. Because after I finish practicing with the sticks, I switch to the brushes.” Joe dropped the brushes and picked up the sticks. He hit the snare with a quick roll, landed a hard snap on the tom, and drifted into a steady four-four groove.
“So you’re going to keep playing?” Charlie shouted over the beat.
Joe stopped and stared back at his brother. “No, Charlie. I’m not going to just keep playing,” Joe said in a teacherlike tone. “I’m going to keep out of my head and keep my reality in check. And if this is what I need to do that, then I guess that’s what I’m going to do.” He did a few more quick pelts on the snare for emphasis.
Joe continued talking as he drummed. “The noise helps me to stay present and focused,” he yelled over his own playing. “Dr. Evans suggested we each take on an activity that creates some noise—singing, woodworking, anything that has focused action and noise. If yo
u don’t like it, you can go work lots of other places. Starbucks or, I don’t know, some coffeehouse somewhere. But in the meantime, I need this, okay? I’m in a heightened stress phase with Mom being in the hospital, and I appreciate your being so understanding.”
For an instant Charlie was the younger brother again. Joe wasn’t sick at all. They were back in high school. Charlie wanted something from Joe, and Joe had a reason why Charlie couldn’t have it. It was as simple as that. Score one for the big brother, Charlie thought.
“Sure, Joe. I understand. Listen, I’m going to go out for a while. Get some air. I’ll be back a little after midnight. You’re an adult. Do what you want. Play as loud as you want. Go to bed when you want. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Joe gave him a mock salute good-bye. Charlie left the room. Monte stayed behind.
“Come on, boy,” Charlie said.
Monte looked up, cocked his head slightly, and went back to sniffing around the room.
“He can stay,” Joe said.
“Suit yourself,” Charlie replied, more to Monte than to Joe. He closed the door behind him and never felt more alone.
Two brothers, Charlie thought. Both desperate to stay out of our own heads because of the stress. Both afraid of what we might do if we can’t. In that instant Charlie understood his brother better than he ever had. And that scared him the most.
The day had caught up with Charlie. He felt exhausted and drained of life. With Joe’s playing and what soon would be some obnoxious TV show blaring in the living room, the house could offer him no solace. Maybe he’d get a beer at Chaps. Perhaps even call Randal, see if he’d want to meet up. Heading to the bathroom in his mother’s room on the second floor, Charlie turned on the shower and let the warm water wash over his body. For a few blessed moments Charlie found some peace. The rushing water drowned out all sound, including Joe.
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