Team Charlie

By Mark Lages

Meet one-of-a-kind Charlie Davis, middle-aged and divorced. Charlie no longer lives with his wife and children. Hes been hearing voices in his head for years, and has been living under the protective care of his elderly father. But suddenly his father dies, and Charlie is catapulted into a journey to fend for himself, an adventure that leads him from one fascinating predicament to the next. You will laugh and cry with Charlie as he tries his best to survive in a topsy-turvy real world. You will be introduced to all Charlies voices, including an eighteenth century pirate, a beatnik bohemian, and a lovely heartthrob from his younger days. The story entertains but also explores the remarkable power of human delusion. And while the ending is predictable, it also comes as a complete surprise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481722919

Mark Lages

No ATA

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2013 Mark Lages. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  09/19/2016

ISBN: 978-1-4817-2292-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-2291-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013903874

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 1

Charlie Davis had been well taken care of. His father tended him and looked after him ever since the voices started talking in his head nine years ago, when Charlie was thirty-six. Charlie’s father’s name was George. He was a tall man with a head of thick gray hair, a prominent nose and deep set dark brown eyes; he had good posture and a pair of large, friendly hands. Charlie used to like the way his father would place one of his large hands on his shoulder when he talked to him; it had a calming effect, and what with all the confusion in Charlie’s head, it was a welcome feeling. There was a time for Charlie the voices he heard were manageable, there being only two or three of them, none of them being particularly overwhelming. But as Charlie grew older, the number of voices multiplied, and one of them in particular began to hold a steady role in Charlie’s thoughts. This was the voice Charlie named Bob, for no other reason than the fact Bob was a concise, easily identifiable, and unforgettable name. Charlie knew no one named Bob in the real world, and thus confusion between his imagination and reality would be avoided.

George Davis’ wife (Charlie’s mother), Lucille, died in an automobile accident when Charlie was very young, and Charlie’s memories of her were limited. Most of his memories were the result of stories his father told him, and of framed pictures of her that his father kept on the walls and tabletops of their small home. George Davis had been looking after Charlie since Charlie began hearing the voices, the year Charlie had been diagnosed. George never complained one iota about his responsibility to his son; he loved the boy dearly, and the boy’s condition was not a burden. It broke his heart, but it was not a burden. George and Charlie lived in a small three-bedroom, two-bathroom house in the city of Santa Ana, on a jacaranda-lined street in an older, established neighborhood. George had spent his years working as an engineer for the city public works and had retired when Charlie turned forty-two. That was three years ago. Just one year ago George Davis had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, and just last week he succumbed to his disease, forever leaving Charlie to the care of others. Just before he died, he asked his younger sister, Emily, to take over the care of Charlie, and Emily, being the stalwart Christian soldier she was, agreed to do her best.

It’s important to me Charlie doesn’t become institutionalized, George said to her.

I’ll do my best, Emily promised.

I’ve never trusted psychiatrists and all those funny little pills they prescribe, George said. They have only their own interests at heart. I don’t think that would be good for Charlie.

No, dear, of course not.

I’ve done the best I could to make him independent, but he’ll still need someone to look after him, to keep an eye on him.

I can do that, Emily said.

This conversation took place in front of Charlie, who was seated in his father’s bedroom on a chair against the wall. They were speaking as though he wasn’t there. This happened often to Charlie, others speaking in front of him as though he wasn’t there. Sometimes he would look at his arms, hands and legs, just to be sure he was actually visible. His father was in bed, and Emily was sitting at his bedside. His voice, Bob, interrupted the conversation.

Your life is about to change, Bob said to Charlie.

Yes, I know, Charlie thought.

It’s about to change drastically.

I don’t think it will be so bad.

I don’t trust that woman, Bob said. I’ve seen her kind before. I’ve seen these born again Christians—they’re all alike. She’ll drag you to church, and she’ll probably make you pray.

God bless you, Emily said to George. She brushed his gray hair from his forehead sweetly.

My primary concern is for Charlie, George said wearily.

I understand that.

Once you get used to him, he’s really rather easy to take care of.

Oh, I’m sure—

You just need to be patient.

Don’t fret, dear. We’ll look after him like he’s one of our own.

Like he’s one of our own, Bob parroted. "You really want to be one of her own?"

She’s going to do her best, Charlie thought.

We’ll see, Bob said.

Just then Captain Patch chimed in. Captain Patch was one of Charlie’s other voices, a pirate from the eighteenth century. Captain Patch first made his appearance in Charlie’s repertoire years ago while Charlie was watching an old pirate movie on TV late at night; Charlie often watched old movies and shows on TV, and often the characters would come to life, or new characters would be inspired by the movie. They would speak to him and stay with him for extended periods. Captain Patch had been a part of Charlie’s repertoire for several years. Captain Patch suddenly said, "Aye, a fine, large aft has this woman; I’ll bet she be an excellent cook to put on the pounds like that."

There’s more to life than eating well, Bob warned.

Aye, but there’s a lot to be said for good meals, three times a day. And snacks in between. I’ll bet this woman can cook up a bloody storm.

My mom was an excellent cook, Charlie thought.

And how would you know that? Captain Patch asked.

Dad told me so. Whenever he made meals for us, he would tell me what an excellent cook Mom was, how good she used to be in the kitchen.

Aye, Captain Patch said.

His father never lied to him, Bob said.

Never, Charlie thought.

While Emily and George continued to talk, arranging the way things were to proceed when George passed away, an event that seemed more imminent with each passing minute, Charlie suddenly interrupted their conversation, saying to Emily, Are you a good cook?

Emily looked over at Charlie, half amused and perhaps half irritated over the sudden interruption.

Go ahead and answer the boy, George said.

Why, yes, Emily said kindly to Charlie. I haven’t had any complaints.

That’s what Captain Patch said.

Captain who? Emily asked.

It’s one of his voices, George said softly. You’re going to need to get used to this.

Captain Patch, Charlie said. He says you’re an excellent cook on account of your large aft.

"My what?"

Charlie, George said, laughing quietly. Why don’t you go to the kitchen and fetch me a glass of water.

Okay, Charlie said. He stood up and stepped out of the room.

You sure you’re going to be able to handle this? George asked Emily. A lot of the things he says will seem to come out of left field. If we could spend time up there inside his head, we’d probably understand why he says the things he says, but we can’t. Just be aware everything he says makes perfect sense to him, and if he seems rude or insulting at times, it isn’t his intention. He doesn’t know any better.

Yes, I see, Emily said.

He needs to be loved.

Emily nodded her head in agreement. "Don’t you worry about that, George Davis—there’s no shortage of love in my household."

I’m counting on you.

Here’s your water, Charlie said upon returning. He handed the water glass to his father and took a seat back on the chair against the wall. Charlie’s father sat up in the bed and took a sip.

Do you think he’s going to die? Charlie thought.

Of course he’s going to die, Bob said. What do you think this is all about?

I mean, do you think he’s going to die right now?

Probably not right now. Maybe he’ll die later, in his sleep, if he’s lucky. Maybe later this week.

What do you suppose it feels like to die?

I have no idea, Bob said. I think maybe it’s like being bathed in light—you are weightless, and then you just go away. I don’t think it’s uncomfortable, if that’s what you’re worried about.

I don’t want him to feel any more pain, Charlie thought.

Aye, he’s suffered long enough, Captain Patch said.

I think it might be like fainting, Charlie thought. Like when you stand up too fast and the blood rushes out of your head—there’s that electric rush that hums and washes your soul clean, and then everything just vanishes from the senses. Except, unlike fainting, you never wake up. I mean, I guess you wake up in heaven.

That’s probably a pretty good guess, Bob said.

I’d like to think that’s it, Charlie thought. I’d like to think that’s how Dad will feel, like he has fainted. No pain, no trauma—just the blood rushing from his head, just vanishing from the earth and waking up in heaven.

It’s hard to believe he will soon be gone, Bob said.

I don’t like to think about it, Charlie thought.

Aye, and you being his sole progeny.

I never thought about that, Charlie thought.

You have something to live up to, Bob said, agreeing with Captain Patch.

But how can I live up to anything? I mean, given my condition?

Ah yes, the condition, Bob said thoughtfully.

You need at least to remember him, Captain Patch said. No matter what happens from here on out, you need to keep his memory alive in your heart. You need to live each day as though he were at your side as your compatriot, your confidant, your closest friend. You owe him at least that bloody much.

Yes, Captain, Bob agreed. Well said.

But you have a long voyage ahead of you, Captain Patch said. And before you know it, you will be setting sail.

He can take a memento, Bob said.

A memento? Charlie thought.

Something to continuously remind yourself of your father, his love for you, the sacrifices he made in taking care of you for all these years.

But what would I take? Charlie thought, now looking around the bedroom and surveying his father’s very sparse belongings. There was a lamp, an alarm clock, a tray on the dresser holding his wallet and some paper money and loose coins, and a picture of Lucille. Nothing seemed suitable as a memento.

His wristwatch, Bob said.

Aye, the wristwatch, Captain Patch agreed.

It was an excellent suggestion, Charlie thought. Dad had been wearing the same wristwatch for as long as Charlie could remember. It was a Timex, from back when a Timex was something to own with pride. It takes a licking, and keeps on ticking! It would remind Charlie of his father—heck, it was his father. He would wear it on his left wrist for as long as he lived; his father would always be there, close to him, ticking away the minutes and hours, always busy, always alive, never having left him alone.

Ask him for it now, Bob suggested.

Aye, now is the time, Captain Patch agreed.

While all this chatter had been going on in Charlie’s head, Emily and George had been ironing out some of the details of the move, the transfer of Charlie from George’s house to Emily’s, the boxing up of Charlie’s minimal possessions, what to do with the TV, and what to do with George’s stuff. Emily’s husband, of course, would still have to approve the new living arrangement and feel comfortable with having Charlie as a permanent guest. Emily’s husband was an architect and was often busy at work rather than at home, so Emily didn’t think it would take much to convince him. He left most household matters up to Emily and seldom questioned her judgment. He was a good man, a good Christian with a kind Christian heart. Of course, he knew Charlie and seemed to have taken a general liking to him. He brought home a handsome salary from the firm at which he worked, and another mouth to feed probably wouldn’t have a tremendous effect on the family budget. I’ll talk to Samuel this evening, Emily said. We knew this day might come, and I think Samuel will be okay with it. He’s a kind Christian man, and I’m sure he’ll want us to do the right thing.

I hope so, George said.

Don’t be worried about it. You have enough on your plate as it is.

George turned his head and looked over at his son, who was still seated in the chair against the wall. How are you with all this, Charlie? Are you looking forward to living with your Aunt Emily?

Can I have your watch? Charlie asked.

* * *

Charlie looked at himself in the mirror, in the bathroom, and he held up his left hand so he could see the watch his father had given him, the watch he had strapped to his wrist. It looked good on him, this memento from his father, and he was pleased he had asked for it. He then dropped his hand to his side and looked over the rest of his image in the mirror. He had gained weight over the years; he wasn’t obese, but he certainly wasn’t the trim Charlie Davis who had once been married to Gloria Graham, who had fathered two children (a boy and a girl), and who had worked for years at the Armstrong Insurance Agency. He remembered himself as a happy man who played tennis and the piano in his spare time, who worked in the yard, and who vacationed with his family several times at nearby national parks, and a couple of times in Hawaii. Things had changed so drastically over the years, all due to his condition, due to the voices he now heard with such astonishing clarity. His wife, Gloria, divorced him just a few years after he’d been diagnosed and remarried a real estate broker who lived in Mission Viejo, and he hadn’t seen her or the children for quite some time. They used to visit him at George’s house every now and again, but the visits had dropped off when it became apparent to Gloria that Charlie was too far into his mental illness to conduct any meaningful conversations.

Charlie was talking to himself. He was talking out loud in the bathroom, still looking at himself in the mirror. Charlie had learned over the years it was okay for him to talk to himself, to respond and speak with the voices out loud as long as he was alone. He had learned to communicate with the voices quietly, in his thoughts, when others were around. He had discovered other people found his conversations disconcerting, and so whenever he was with others he would communicate silently. Right now, since he was alone in the bathroom, he spoke aloud.

Look at my hair, Charlie said.

You’re getting a little gray, Bob said.

It makes you look distinguished, Julia said.

Julia was Charlie’s sole female voice. Julia was a girl Charlie had dated when he was in high school, just before he met Gloria. She was a redhead with long eyelashes, plenty of freckles, and a very shapely body. She was always sweet to Charlie, and he often wondered why he had broken up with her to date Gloria. He still felt guilty for the breakup.

I guess I look distinguished until you see me talking to myself. That sort of throws a wrench in the works.

I always thought you were handsome, Julia said. I still think you’re handsome. Your hair is still mostly black, with just a nice touch of gray; you still have such a nicely proportioned face. And you have good posture, like your father. I think you could have been a movie star.

Not likely, Charlie said.

You have the sort of face people trust, Julia said.

It took me a long way in the insurance business.

"Oh, yes, remember that racket," Bob said.

There was a knock, and Charlie opened the door. His Aunt Emily was standing in the doorway, holding her purse with both hands just below her ample bosom. Her cheeks glowed red from an abundance of rouge, and her lipstick was a shade too red. She was whispering, I’m going to leave now, dear. Your dad is asleep. Be careful not to wake him; he needs his rest.

Okay, Charlie whispered back.

I’ll be back around suppertime to make you something to eat.

Okay, Charlie whispered again.

Charlie followed Emily to the front door and said good-bye to her as she stepped along the little concrete path toward her car, which was parked in the street under one of the large jacaranda trees. He then shut the door and walked to the kitchen to the refrigerator, where he surveyed the cold shelves for something to eat. Nothing appeared particularly appetizing.

Your dad hasn’t been to the grocery store for a couple of weeks, Bob said. You’re running low on supplies. Maybe you can talk Aunt Emily into going to the grocery store for you.

What time is it? Julia asked.

I don’t know, Charlie said. The clock on the wall has a dead battery, and the clock on the oven hasn’t worked for years.

Look at your watch, Bob said.

Oh, yeah, my father’s watch! Charlie lifted his wrist and peered at the watch. It’s two seventeen.

What do you suppose Aunt Emily is going to make us for dinner? Bob asked.

I have no idea, Charlie said.

I could sure use something in the meantime, to tide us all—

I’m going to make a peanut butter and honey sandwich, Charlie said. He removed a jar of peanut butter and a jar of honey from the cupboards and opened a loaf of white bread that was sitting atop the refrigerator. The bread was moldy, and he threw it away into the garbage basket under the sink, wondering if there might be something else he could eat.

"Do you suppose there really is a heaven and a hell," Charlie asked to no one in particular, looking around the kitchen for food.

I think there is, Bob said.

Why do you ask? Julia said.

Well, I mean I’m worried about my father—where do you suppose he might be going, I mean, given there is such an alternative? He’s a kind man and a giving man. He seems to treat people right. But he has never been to church, at least not that I can remember, and I’ve never seen him pray. Do you have to pray to get into heaven? Do you have to go to church?

You got me, Bob said.

What do you suppose heaven is even like?

I don’t know, Bob said. I guess it’s a place where people no longer do bad things.

Yes, Julia said. That makes sense to me.

That’s it? Charlie asked. That’s all there is to it? Would we eat in heaven?

No, Bob said. We no longer have our physical bodies. We’re just souls, sort of floating around. We no longer need to eat. We won’t have mouths or stomachs.

I would miss eating, Julia said.

I would miss those big, juicy steaks, Bob said.

I would miss chocolate, Julia added.

It’s hard for me to imagine this, Charlie said.

Aye, Captain Patch suddenly intervened. It would be a place of boredom and inactivity, everyone floating around in the clouds, all being bloody nice to each other. I can’t imagine living out eternity in such a cream puff existence.

But doesn’t everyone want to go to heaven? Charlie asked.

Not I, Captain Patch said. It is man’s wretchedness that makes life interesting; without it, life’s an intolerable bore.

Speak for yourself, Captain, Julia said. "I would love to go to heaven. I would be bathed in God’s love for eternity.

Spoken like a true female, Captain Patch said.

I have to say, Bob said, I kind of agree with Captain on this one. I mean, heaven does sound a bit on the boring side.

If there is such a thing as heaven, I want my father to go there. It’s the place we’re all supposed to want to go to. He’s supposed to go there. I don’t care if it’s boring.

Listen, mate, Captain Patch said. No one is really so squeaky clean as to deserve heaven; we’re all soiled in one way or the other. We’re all sinners. Every preacher will tell you this. Even your father had his faults.

Lots of people try to be good, Julia said. You’re not even trying.

Well, let he who is without sin caste the first stone, Captain Patch said.

Oh, I think there are people in heaven, Bob said. They may be boring as a high school civics teacher, but they are up there.

Aye, I suppose you may be right. Captain Patch reluctantly agreed. There may be a few of them.

If there is such a thing as heaven and hell, I want my father to go to heaven, Charlie said. I don’t care how boring it is. I don’t care how few people there are up there. That’s where I want him to go. It’s where he belongs.

Aye, the captain said, All said, he was as good a man as any.

You know, I think he needs a Bible, Bob said.

A Bible?

Do you have a Bible around here? Bob asked.

I don’t think so. I’ve never seen one.

You need to get a Bible and tuck it under his arm, so when it’s his time to go, and when God comes to take him, he will see the Bible and send his soul to heaven. If anyone has a chance to go to heaven, it’s your father. But he needs a Bible, to better his odds, to tip the scales in his favor.

What difference will a Bible make? Charlie asked.

It just looks better that way, Bob said.

Won’t God know we just stuck it there?

God is a very busy guy, Bob said. He won’t have that much time to spend making a decision on your father’s soul. He’ll be busy with all the world’s problems, busy with sorting out all the other souls—do you have any idea how many people die each day? Can you imagine what it takes to pay attention to all this stuff? I mean, he just shows up at your father’s deathbed for a split second and makes his deliberation. In a flash he runs down the events of your father’s life, and out of the corner of his eye he sees the Bible. Presto, he sends him up to heaven. The Bible can only help. Give your Aunt Emily a call and have her bring one over tonight when she makes you dinner. She’s probably got a whole closet full of the things.

Charlie? his father suddenly called from the bedroom. He had awakened, and was sitting up in the bed. Charlie, is that you talking in there?

Yes, Dad. It’s just me.

Can you come in here a minute?

Charlie stepped to the bedroom. The blinds had been closed, and Emily had turned off the light. It was dark in the room, and difficult for Charlie to see his father in the darkness. Open the blinds, his father said. I want the sunlight.

Would you mind if I called Aunt Emily and had her bring a Bible over tonight?

You’re suddenly interested in reading the Bible? his father asked.

Not really interested in reading it. I just think you ought to keep one with you. You know, for when you go, so God will think it’s important to you, so God will think you’re a good Christian.

Well, go ahead and call Emily, and have her bring one over. If it makes you feel better, I’ll keep it here with me on the nightstand.

Okay, Dad. I’ll call her now.

And Charlie?

Yes, Dad?

You’re a good son. Don’t you ever forget that.

Okay Dad.

Charlie left the room and picked up the phone. Emily’s phone number was on an index card full of phone numbers, next to the small scratchpad on the bulletin board above the toaster. There was the plumber, the oncologist, the family physician, an appliance repair company, and right below the repair company was Emily’s phone number. As he dialed, Bob spoke to him.

Hey, Charlie, he said. After you’ve asked for the Bible, see if she’ll tell you what we’re having for dinner tonight. We’re all starving.

CHAPTER 2

Samuel and Emily Massey had one child, a thirty-seven-year-old daughter named Jean. They lived in a spacious four-bedroom house in a nice upscale neighborhood in Newport Beach, not high enough in the foothills for much of a view but not far from the Pacific Ocean and its beaches. Emily and Samuel occupied the master bedroom suite, while Jean, who lived in San Francisco, occupied one of the other bedrooms when she visited. The third bedroom was Emily’s sewing room, and the fourth bedroom, a guest room, would now be Charlie’s room. It was nicely furnished with ample closet and drawer space to contain Charlie’s wardrobe and small collection of books and knickknacks. There was the TV on the dresser for Charlie to watch, the same TV Charlie watched at his father’s house. Emily helped Charlie with organizing everything in the room, and she made up Charlie’s bed with fresh linens. Charlie would discover the bed was firm and comfortable for sleeping, much better than the bed at his father’s home. Unlike his father’s house, the rooms were all large and well appointed. Emily had hired an interior decorator years ago to adorn one end of the house to the other with tasteful pieces of furniture, expensive doodads, and reproduction oil paintings, the sort of reproductions whose originals hung in famous museums. In the living room was a black grand piano near a bay window that looked out over the colorful flower garden in the front yard, the garden itself having been designed by a well-known local landscape architect. Emily and Samuel had provided Jean with piano lessons when she was a child, but she never developed an interest in playing, so the piano just sat there. Charlie looked forward to being able to play this piano; it was a great step up from the small upright he had been playing for all these years at his father’s house. Charlie liked to play jazz and popular songs; there was hardly a song Charlie hadn’t picked up on his own and learned how to play and improvise. When he lived at his father’s house, he often filled his days playing the piano. When he wasn’t playing the piano, he would watch TV or work in the yard.

When Emily, Samuel, and Charlie returned to the house following the service for Charlie’s father, the first thing Charlie did was to step to the piano. Charlie sat down on the bench and began to play his father’s favorite song, Vince Guaraldi’s Cast Your Fate to the Wind, and as he played tears began to well in his eyes and then fall over his cheeks. The memory of his father was still so fresh in his mind—the man’s handsome face, his prominent nose, the baritone sound of his voice, the way he smelled of Old Spice cologne; it all was a little overwhelming.

It’s a nice thing, for you to play this song, Bob said.

Your father loved it, Julia said.

"Your father loved you," Reverend Kennedy said.

Reverend Kennedy was another of Charlie’s voices, a deep, gravelly voice. This voice often made an appearance when Charlie was sad; he offered up his religious precepts as a means to breaking out of the doldrums. It was odd Charlie had this particular voice in his collection of personalities, since he himself wasn’t all that religious; he hadn’t been to a church or read a passage from the Bible for as long as he could remember. His father never apologized for keeping organized religion out of Charlie’s life, and he never took Charlie to church, saying a man’s religion was in his heart, not in a concrete or wood frame building.

I thought you might show up, Charlie thought.

Your father’s in a better place now, Charlie, the reverend said. There’s no cause for tears. He was a good man.

"If he’s so good, why did he leave me? How was that a good thing to do?

God works in mysterious ways, my son, the reverend said.

You guys always say that, Bob objected.

One door slams shut, the reverend said, and another door opens. It is the way of God’s universe, the way of life. It is God’s way. You are entering a new life, son. And from what I can see, and what I know of your Aunt Emily, you are entering a righteous life; perhaps God wanted this for you. Perhaps it wasn’t so much a matter of taking your father away as it was of bringing you into this righteous household. You will learn to pray. You will learn to read from the Bible. You will go to church. You know, Charlie, not everyone has such an opportunity placed right into their lap, the opportunity to develop a one-on-one relationship with our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I see only good things coming from this.

Bob said, I said it before, Charlie, and I’ll say it again: I don’t have a good feeling about any of this.

You should have a more positive attitude, Julia said. You don’t even know that much about Emily and her family. She seems to mean well.

I can just say, beware of good intentions, Bob warned, and just as he said this, Emily stepped into the room. She had changed clothes, having stepped out of her frumpy black funeral dress and into a pair of orange polyester slacks with a colorful striped blouse. She was a short, round woman, and she sort of waddled as she walked to the large bay window where Charlie was seated at the piano bench, placing her hand on Charlie’s shoulder.

Look at her, Bob said. "She looks

Reviews for Team Charlie

[jeffrey_hatcher-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Team Charlie follows the life of a man who began to hear voices in his head starting in early middle age. Formerly in sales and successful, he lives with his father up to the year that the book begins at. His father passes away, and we accompany Charlie on a long walk - about. He has become very disconnected from his previous life.Our society remains depauperate in quality works on mental illness which promote empathy. Mark Lages fills one of numerous gaps in an intimate manner. The book reads in third person, primarily, but we never venture away from the main character. The source or cause of his mental hallucinations is never specified though it brings to mind schizophrenia. He has a stable cast of named characters in his head, and at least one is present almost all of the time hence the book's title.Most are benign at worst and likeable at best. Team Charlie moves us further away from the 20th century notion of associating mental illness with criminality or a kind of collapse in maturity. It also highlights the manner in which healthcare for patients with mental illnesses can be precarious and deficient. In Charlie's case, effective medical outreach could have saved him half a lifetime of trouble. Lages makes a timely jab at the retrogressive religious community whose belief systems are too preponderant in America and antithetical to optimal healthcare. The book should be in the library of most colleges of theology.In a future edition, Lages will do the reader a favor by adding a section with links to professional organizations. While he seems carefully non-committal as to what disease afflicts Charlie, adding some general, non-fiction descriptions of illnesses involving auditory hallucinations might be valued by the reader. Such material should be used in an afterword. The story needs none of it incorporated. Team Charlie gives people more breadth for understanding the human condition in a sensitive and personable way. It has an engaging storyline, and Lages' uses a writing style that gives the main character's personality continual development in ways which might not readily be seen. The reader will feel fortunate for having read it.