Page 31 of Resolutions

I force my eyes open, expecting my childhood bedroom's familiar walls. Instead, harsh fluorescent light assaults my retinas. I have to blink several times to be able to see. The antiseptic smell hits my nose, making my stomach roll. I feelsomething in my hand. Bringing it into view, I see it's a taped needle with cords. I'm in the hospital. I sigh.

“Charlie, he's awake!” Mom's voice trembles with a mixture of relief and lingering worry.

Dad's face blocks some of the glare as he leans over me, wearing the expression we kids always called his doctor face. That careful mask of professional concern that never quite hides his parental worry. I've seen that expression too many times over the years, usually right before he tells us something we don't want to hear.

“Cameron, can you hear me, son?” He speaks with exaggerated care, like I'm seven again and just crashed my bike into Mrs. Henderson's rose bushes.

“I can hear you.” A smile breaks across his face, years of tension dropping away for just a moment.

“Can you see me alright?” And we're back to doctor mode. Same tone he used after that bike crash when he was checking for a concussion and a reason why I didn't stop before taking out her prize-winning roses.

“I can see you looking at me like I hit my head again.” The memory of that long-ago accident feels safer than thinking about why I'm really here. The events of the last few days flood my brain, overwhelming my care for anything.

He chuckles softly. “I remember that. Gave yourself a nasty concussion and stitches. You ended up having to sleep with Mom and me for three nights. Really crimped my style.” His eyes crinkle at the corners - the tell that says he's looking for a chuckle.

“Oh, hush now.” Mom smacks Dad on the shoulder, and he steps back. She swoops in, hands fluttering like nervous birds. “Oh Cameron, you gave us quite a scare.” Her fingers stroke my hair just like when I was little. “You'll be okay, your dad and brothers will see to it. Everything will be alright.” Her voicecarries that edge of forced brightness she uses when she's really worried.

“Evelyn, he's alright.” Dad's tone gentles as he squeezes her shoulder. “Just passed out from dehydration and not eating. The wrestling with his brothers got things moving a bit too fast, caused a strain on his system. You've got to do better about your fluids, young man.” He gestures at the IV pole. “This is your third bag of fluids.”

“You should have broken it up.” Mom's worry makes her sharp.

“The boys are adults; they can handle their own issues.” Dad quirks an eyebrow. “Plus, dear, I'm not the one who called them over.”

“Well, they were too rough with him!” She bristles like a mother hen protecting her chick.

“Evelyn, we raised three boys. Cameron's seen his share of the emergency room. He's not seven anymore - he's an adult, and he's going to be just fine.”

“Plus, it took both of them to get me in the shower,” I add, trying to lighten Mom's mood. It backfires.

“But got you in, we did.” Colton appears in the doorway, still in scrubs, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Chalk up another point for the older brothers.”

“What are you doing here?” Dad frowns. “I thought you were off.”

“They were short-staffed. Figured I'd cover since I was here to check on the wuss, anyway.”

Dad nods approvingly. “Okay, but get a replacement day. Your family needs to see you, too. That's an order.”

“I know, Dad. I will.” Colton turns to me with an exaggerated doctor expression. “So, how's the patient?”

“Good, awake and alert,” Dad reports clinically.

“Great, glad Mom's doing well. Now, how's Cameron?” Colton's grin would put the Cheshire Cat to shame. I snort out a laugh despite myself. Trust Colton to find humor even now. It's his superpower, making light of heavy moments.

“Colton! Your brother is hurt. This isn't time for jokes.” Mom's protective instincts flare.

“Mom, he's fine. Dehydrated and needs to eat, but he's fine.” Dad shoots her his patented look as if saying, told you so.

“Can I go?” The hospital smell is suffocating me. I hate hospitals. The number of heated conversations about me not wanting to go into the family business adds to the feeling.

“Nope, you're my prisoner.” Colton rubs his hands together gleefully.

I roll my eyes. “Seriously. Can I leave?”

“How do you feel?” His tone shifts to actual doctor mode.

“Good. Fine. I'm...” The words tumble out too fast to be convincing. “I'm alright.”

“Are you telling me or trying to convince yourself?” Colton's eyes narrow professionally.

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