Page 40 of Pages of My Heart
Thomas sits up and grabs the book. He settles against the oak’s sturdy trunk, letting Evie rest her head on his lap, and they while away the afternoon helping Detective Poirot solve a murder.
Chapter 24
December 1941
Charlie
It’s three weeks before Christmas when one of Charlie’s worst fears is realized. Thomas comes home from work, eyes vacant, his body moving as if he’s wading through neck-deep water. He follows Thomas to their bedroom as his questions go unanswered, maybe even unheard. His heart constricts when Thomas sinks down onto their bed, pulling his body into the fetal position as a single tear trickles down his cheek.
Since just before Thanksgiving Charlie has been observing the signs seeping in like molasses, slowly dragging Thomas ever deeper into the darkness. He was speaking less, his usual radiant smile coming and then retreating in a rush, his whole body dampened somehow, as if an invisible weight were bearing down upon him. It didn’t seem to matter what Charlie did or said—it was like the wave had already crested, its crash onto the sands inevitable.
A feeling of failure hangs heavy on Charlie’s shoulders, being unable to help the one person he cherishes most in this world. His Tommy. His sweetheart.
The following morning Thomas refuses to rise for work, refuses to eat or dress. Charlie makes the appropriate phone calls to their places of work, citing influenza with a terrible fever. It will give them both a week or two’s reprieve, hopefully bringing them to their scheduled time off for the Christmas holidays. And yet there is no way of anticipating how long Thomas will remain this way. It could be days or weeks, like that first time over two years ago now. It could be longer. Charlie simply does not know.
He checks on Thomas every hour that day, trying to coax him into conversation or into taking just a mouthful of food, but with no success. Late in the evening, he tugs Thomas into a sitting position and then pulls him up onto his feet. As they shuffle to the bathroom, Thomas’s body leans heavily against his side. Then Thomas begins to cry.
“Tommy, it’ll be okay. I’m here. But ya need to relieve yourself.”
“Don’t want . . .” Thomas’s voice breaks. “Don’t look . . . at . . . me . . .”
Ignoring Thomas’s words, Charlie focuses on holding him steady in front of the toilet while he urinates, wondering all the while how he’ll be able to get him to eat and drink.
“After we get ya back to bed, I’ll bring ya some of that pea soup you like. You gotta keep your strength up.”
But as soon as Charlie manages to lead him back to bed, Thomas curls back into a ball and pulls the blankets over his head, refusing even to allow Charlie to see his face.
Days pass and Thomas sleeps and sleeps. In between he cries, sometimes speaking inconsolably of his mother as regret and misplaced guilt twist his face into an anguished mess. Charlie considers the day a success if he manages to wheedle a few mouthfuls of water or soup down Thomas’s throat, orif Thomas’s eyes connect with his rather than stare straight through him. It’s terrifying and lonely, and some days Charlie has to retreat to the spare bedroom to fight back his tears in silence and out of sight.
On December 7th, the unthinkable happens—Japan bombs Pearl Harbor and America commits to joining the war overseas—and yet Charlie hardly has the energy to concern himself with things that still feel so distant when the man he loves is slipping away not ten feet down the hall.
There are visits from Evie and Maggie that provide some relief. One day, he takes the opportunity to go to the store to stock up on some essentials while Evie stays at the house. He knows how close she and Thomas have become as friends, and he trusts her to care for Thomas like a brother. Upon his return, she pulls him into the kitchen and suggests they call a doctor, but Charlie just shakes his head.
“No. Tommy made me promise I wouldn’t let the doctors take him if this happened.”
“But he’s barely eating, Charlie! He can’t go on this way. And it’s not your responsibility. He’s your friend, not your brother. You’re not even working! Whose gonna pay the bills? The rent?”
“Evie, we—I got money saved, okay?” He holds up his hands, trying to placate her. “It’s gonna be okay. He’ll be better soon. And you know what his family is like . . . I don’t want them looking after him. Remember when this happened before? They didn’t even keep him clean!”
Evie squirms in her seat. “But how canyoumanage that?”
Charlie blinks, his body stilling as the meaning behind her question registers. “I—it’s fine. I help him walk to the bathroom, then leave him to bathe. When he’s finished, I help him back to bed. It’s no big deal.”
Evie nods slowly, chewing on her bottom lip. “Right. Yeah, of course.” She smiles weakly. “You’re a good friend. Tom’s always telling me what a great buddy you are.”
Ten days into the episode, it is painfully clear that Thomas has lost weight, and the dark circles under his eyes stand in sharp contrast to his pale, sickly face. Thomas is a ghost of his usual self.
Then things take a turn for the even worse.
Charlie comes in from shoveling the front walk to find Thomas sobbing uncontrollably and babbling incoherently, rocking in their bed like something has possessed his body. He thinks he will have no choice but to call a doctor now, but Charlie knows Thomas will never forgive him if he lets them take him to an asylum. So he does all he can, wrapping himself around Thomas’s weakened body and holding him close to his chest for a day and then a night, stroking him gently, laying kisses to his face, and whispering declarations of love until the sobs finally subside under the dim glow of the weak winter sunrise.
When Bridget finally comes to visit, she stands wordlessly over Thomas as he lies staring vacantly at the wall. If she wonders why her brother is in the big double bed in what she knows to be Charlie’s room, she doesn’t say anything about it. Against his better judgement, Charlie takes the opportunity to pick up some groceries, only to return to find a scowling Bridget standing in the sitting room waiting for him, arms crossed over her chest.
“He needs to be taken to the hospital,” she says without preamble. “He’s been like this for too long, and we’ve seen this before with our mother. You can’t cure the madness.”
Charlie’s reaction is fast and explosive. “He’s not mad!” he bellows, two weeks of pent up worry, anxiety, and hopelessness bursting out of him all at once. Then more calmly, “He—he’ll get better . . . just like he did before. He doesn’t want to go to a fuckin’ nut house, all right? He made me—I promised him I wouldn’t let that happen. So that’s that!”
Shock registers clear on Bridget’s face, but just as quick she’s narrowing her eyes, head tilting to one side. “Charlie, you’re not family.” Her voice is like ice. “You and Tom may be fooling yourselves here playing house, but you don’t get to make these decisions. If he’s not better by the end of the week, Iwillbe calling the doctor.”
