Flaming heat burned in her cheeks. She was mortified. And probably going to lose her job. “Captain Crawford, I am sooo sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking . . . well, I do. I saw a strange man chasing my son and I was like, Oh, stranger danger, and you look like—” Her eyes met his, and she clamped her lips closed. Can I make this any worse?
Shirley stifled a giggle, and Pecca shot her a look before returning her focus back to the man she’d just assaulted. “I’m incredibly sorry, and I totally understand if you want to file a complaint. I mean, I would. You came here to get treatment, not knocked out by your nurse and—”
“Captain Crawford”—Shirley put a hand on Pecca’s arm to silence her—“let me introduce you. This is—”
“The defensive end for the Atlanta Falcons?”
Pecca gave an awkward laugh. If Captain Crawford was trying for humor, it was only with his words. Nothing was humorous about the way he was looking at her. This was bad. If Shirley thought this patient was going to be difficult before, Pecca had just made it a hundred times worse.
A chaplain?
Colton sank further into the leather sofa as he stared at the man behind the desk. According to the framed degree hanging on the wall, Dr. Michael Kelly was a retired Army chaplain and a licensed therapist. Colton’s mother and her prayer group would be giddy given this fact. She was always telling him how much she prayed God would prove he was in control and everything would work out.
He rubbed the ache growing in his shoulder, his thoughts returning to the pint-size nurse who had bulldozed him on the Home for Heroes lawn an hour and a half ago. So far nothing about his arrival here was working out.
“You want me to stop taking the medications that help my movements?”
Colton sharpened his focus on Chaplain Kelly, who had to be in his late fifties. He was bald except for wispy hairs that crowned his head. Hands spotted with age held Colton’s file and a pair of silver glasses that he probably only wore when reading off lengthy reports penned by a dozen psychiatrists, psychologists, and therapists.
“I’ve spoken with your neurologist, and she agrees it’s unlikely the medications are really doing anything more than sedating your muscles. We’ll start with a clean slate. Wean you off slowly.”
Colton looked down at his arm. Fingers shaking, his hand curled and uncurled of its own accord, as his whole arm jerked like it was being electrocuted. Hmm, would that help? If it had been an option, Colton would’ve done it. He was willing to try anything to make the movements stop, but going off his meds . . .
“Won’t that make my movements worse? I mean, shouldn’t we wait until we see if the whole CBT thing works first?”
“It is my hope that Cognitive Brain Therapy will be part of the solution.” Chaplain Kelly set down the file. “Given the extent of bloodwork, scans, and specialists, it doesn’t appear that what’s causing your movement is organic, which means the medications might treat the symptoms, but they’re not treating the cause.”
“What do you mean?”
“Psychogenic movement disorders often emerge as the result of a conversion disorder. In my experience with other patients, it’s possible you’re harboring something that’s forced your body to respond this way—”
“You’re saying this is my fault?” Heat surged through Colton’s body. He’d long ago lost count of the number of pokes, prods, and assessments he’d been subjected to, only to leave without a single answer as to why this was happening or how to fix it. But the one thing he knew was that this was not in his head.
“Not at all.” Chaplain Kelly’s demeanor remained calm. “Patients suffering from PMD have no control over their movements. It’s a coping mechanism, usually as a result of suffering from extreme stress or a painful experience. It’s safe to presume that as a military intelligence officer with multiple deployments under your belt, you’ve likely experienced both.”
“Nothing more than the next soldier,” Colton said through gritted teeth. He looked down at his tremoring hand. “My doctors at Reed told me I needed to begin the CBT as soon as possible if I don’t want this to become permanent. That’s why I’m here.”
“I agree.” Chaplain Kelly crossed his arms. “But CBT alone isn’t the answer. We’re going to need to address the underlying cause of the condition—”
“There’s no underlying cause.” Colton’s angry declaration echoed in the room, and he was instantly embarrassed. He blew out a long exhale. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“There’s no need to apologize for the frustration you must be feeling. I can’t imagine what it must be like to have your whole life shift so dramatically.”
That’s right, you can’t. Anger swelled, and Colton let his gaze travel around the office space where presumably he’d be spending most of his time. Mahogany wainscoting contrasted warmly with the light cream color on the wall. A military print was on one side of the room and on the other were all of Chaplain Kelly’s degrees and certificates. Colton’s eyes locked on one in particular—the “Certificate of Retirement from the United States Army for Major Michael Kelly.”
Major. Colton’s chest seized. He was so close. His board was only a year away. He sucked in a breath. “I want my life back.”
“Captain Crawford, I believe in order to reach that goal, we must work through all aspects of the psychological impact—”
“I don’t have PTSD, if that’s what you’re implying. My mind is fine. I was fine. I was serving my country, and yes, I saw horrible things. But if you’ve got boots on the ground, you’re going to see things you don’t want to and you’re going to try to make sure . . .”
The muscles in his right arm grew rigid. The tremor was building. Colton wiped the beads of sweat dampening his forehead. Standing, he pulled his arm close to his body. He knew what was coming next, and he needed to get out from underneath Chaplain Kelly’s penetrating gaze. “I need to go.”
Colton rushed to the door and out into the hallway. Just get to your room. His pace tripled until he rounded a corner, nearly knocking over the friendly receptionist.
“Well, hello, handsome.” Shirley flashed a bright smile. “Fancy running into you.”
The tightness climbing through his arm and into his shoulder and chest refused him the option of responding in kind. He tried to move around her, vowing to apologize when he—
“Gah!” The painful yelp escaped Colton’s lips as his right arm jerked outward. The muscles in his chest squeezed so tightly he couldn’t exhale.
The playfulness in the receptionist’s eyes vanished. “Hold on, baby. I’m going to get you some help.”
Colton couldn’t have stopped her if he wanted to. He watched her scurry down the hall before squeezing his eyes shut. Please, God, make it stop. But the prayer, like all the rest, did nothing to ease the spasm. He had to wait it out. “You’ve got to breathe, Colton.” Easy for the doctor to say when his muscles weren’t twisting and writhing in pain.
The sound of footsteps approaching pulled Colton’s focus from the breath that wouldn’t come. Strong hands gripped his good arm and shoulder. He opened his eyes and found Chaplain Kelly’s pale blue eyes locked on his.
“It’s going to be okay, Colton. I want you to match your breaths with me as I count.” It took everything in him to comply, but he finally nodded. “Okay, here we go. Inhale, one, two, three . . .”
As Chaplain Kelly continued to count, Colton fought to regain control of his breath, but the chaplain’s words from earlier came rushing back. “We’re going to need to address the underlying cause.”
But just like the doctors, Colton didn’t have a clue. He had no idea what he did to deserve this or why he was being punished—only that if this was his life sentence, he would’ve chosen the alternative.
FOUR
“I’D SAY YOU’RE PART MARINE.”
“Bah!” The gnarled and age-spotted hand of Sergeant Kinkaid swiped the air at Gunnery Sergeant Hugo Flores. “You don’t know anything, Gunny. The lady has
Army grit running in her blood.”
“Hooah!” Two voices echoed in unison behind Pecca.
It hadn’t taken long for the news of her collision with the newest resident to find its way into the hallway of D-Wing.
“I heard the newbie is Army.” Gunny tapped his cane against the floor. “An officer. Only a Marine has the brass to take out an officer.”
“Oorah!” Buddy Collins appeared in the hallway, fist raised in the air.
Great. This was getting out of control, and if she didn’t put an end to it . . . who was she kidding. These guys lived for the challenge of proving who was tougher and which branch of service was more heroic. It had taken her a solid month to memorize the rank for each of the branches for fear she’d accidentally demote someone or, heaven forbid, link them to the wrong one. A flicker of admiration warmed her chest. All the men sitting in the upstairs lounge inspired her. They were all heroes. Equally brave for their service. She’d tell them that, but she knew it would incite another round of measuring that she didn’t have time to referee.
“Now, gentlemen.” Pecca eyed each of them. She grabbed a walker and placed it in front of Sarge. “What happened with Captain Crawford was my fault.”
“See.” Gunny slapped his hand against his thigh. “Took out an officer. That’s a Marine.”
“It was a misunderstanding,” Pecca said before they could get started again. “And I feel bad—”
“Nah.” A towering man with rich, dark skin pushed himself off the couch and reached for his walker. “I’d give half my retirement to have a pretty gal like you run me over.” Murmurs of agreement echoed. And Lance Corporal Franklin “Sticks” Bowie smiled. “And I’d give the other half of my retirement to be able to get up and walk afterward.”
Howling laughter filled the lounge.
“Alright, boys. Time to get you downstairs for lunch.”
Lunch seemed to be the magic word. Despite their replaced hips and knees, arthritic joints, and slow gaits, all the members of D-Wing began making their way toward the elevator or, for those who were able, the stairs.
After making sure the men were settled into the dining room, Pecca moved down the hall to the library and found her son slouched in a club chair, flipping pages of a chapter book faster than he could read.
“Good book, huh?”
Maceo rolled his head to the side, his eyes landing on her. He shrugged.
Back to the silent treatment. “Are you hungry? I think they’re serving macaroni and cheese with the chicken today.”
“I don’t like macaroni and cheese.”
“Since when?”
He shrugged.
Pecca took a leveled breath, counting silently to herself. She didn’t want to argue with Maceo, but there had to be an explanation for what was going on in his head that made him so . . . insubordinate. He still had offered no explanation for his behavior at school, and Pecca wouldn’t entertain any possibility that Maceo was exhibiting a natural inclination toward violence. She had moved him away from that environment before he was old enough to see it—or experience it. Something else had to be going on.
“Honey, do you have a minute?”
Shirley’s soft voice made Pecca turn around. She gave a nod before planting a kiss on top of Maceo’s dark hair. “I brought caldo de res if you get hungry. It’s in the staff kitchen refrigerator.”
Maceo barely acknowledged her, and she heaved a sigh. She’d take the ornery arguments of the D-Wing men over her son’s moodiness. Pecca found Shirley waiting in the hallway, a worried expression on her face.
“Everything okay?”
“It is now, but I wanted to let you know that Captain Crawford had an episode earlier, after his appointment with Chaplain Kelly.”
“Is he alright?”
“The doctors checked him out again, but it seems like he is. He’s waiting for you inside the gym.”
Again. It was her fault Captain Crawford had to be checked out the first time. Pecca bit her lip. Had his episode been an aftereffect of her hitting him? She groaned, feeling the weight of guilt pile up.
“I feel so bad, Shirley.” Pecca closed her eyes. “What am I going to say?”
“Start with ‘I’m sorry,’ and then speak your truth.”
Pecca opened her eyes to find Shirley looking at her with curiosity. “To my defense, the man I tackled did not look like the Colton Crawford in the file.” She dragged up the image of his face and the scruffy beard in her mind. “More like Grizzly Adams, but I doubt he’ll share my sense of humor, huh?”
Shirley laughed loudly enough that it filled the hallways. “I’d say that’s probably not the way you’d want to start, but you never seem to have a problem winning over our residents.” She handed Pecca the file she’d been holding. “If your humor doesn’t work, flash him one of your pretty smiles. He won’t be able to resist that.”
“Are you suggesting I flirt with him?” Pecca whispered sharply, checking her surroundings.
“A little flirt never hurts. How do you think I get those old coots in D-Wing to mind me?” And with that, Shirley turned and headed back toward her post, hips swaying the entire way.
Pecca laughed and carried the momentary joy with her like a shield as she made her way to the gym. Humor hadn’t worked the first time.
And she wasn’t going to flirt.
Grunting met her at the door. She slipped in and through a reflection in the mirrors caught sight of Captain Crawford bent over a barbell weighted on both sides. She stopped at the door. His shirt was off and muscles rippled across his back. Not in a bulky way like bodybuilders. His muscles were long and lean—the kind that reflected agile strength.
With another grunt, he pulled the bar up to his hips in a dead lift, giving her a good look at his face. Dark brown hair fell over his forehead almost to his brows. His beard covered the lower half of his face but didn’t hide the strong angles of his jaw. She noticed the wireless earbud in his ear, which she thought accounted for why he hadn’t heard her enter, but as soon as the thought crossed her mind, the barbell dropped to the ground with a loud thunk and his steely gaze shifted, pinning her beneath it.
Maybe she did need to flirt her way through this. “Uh, hi, Captain Crawford.” She walked toward him and almost tripped on a mat someone had left out. Righting herself, she looked up and smiled. And then stopped. Was that a flirty smile? Ugh. Shirley had gotten into her head. Squaring her shoulders, she continued forward.
He tugged an earbud out of his ear but didn’t respond.
Okay.
“I see you started without me.” She felt her eyes drifting down to his bare chest. Pecca blinked and forced herself to look anywhere but there. Unfortunately, her eyes were drawn to his right arm. It twitched and shook so much that he dropped it to his side in an attempt to hide it, and she felt bad. Good job, Pecca! She chastised herself as she moved to a counter and set his file down. “That’s okay. This first meeting is really an assessment to see what you can do.”
“Does your assessment normally include running down your patients?”
And there it was. She pivoted around and found him walking toward her, earbuds hanging over his still bare shoulders, shirt in hand. “I’m really, really sorry about what happened earlier. I don’t know what came over me. I think it was just seeing you chase after my son, and he told me you were just playing ball with him but—”
“Stranger danger.”
Pecca swallowed, her gaze lost beneath his penetrating one. “R-right.”
“I’ve been hit lighter than that by guys who play in the NFL.”
Was that humor? His expression was unreadable. Pulling a clipboard off the wall, she grabbed a pen out of her pocket and clicked it. She needed to turn this around. Be the professional she was and do her job. She turned on her heel and offered a wide smile that was definitely not flirtatious.
“First thing I need to ask is if everything is okay after your, um, episode?”
“I’m fine.” His
lips pressed into a thin line. Gripping his shirt, he started to tug it over his head but was having trouble.
“Can I help?”
“I’ve got it,” he growled as he pulled the shirt the rest of the way over his torso. His right hand clenched and jerked to the side. His eyes flashed to hers and then down. He tucked the arm to his side as it continued to jerk.
Pecca put as much cheer as she could into her voice. “Captain Crawford, I’m really sorry for what happened this morning, but I’d like to start over again. I’m here to help you in any way possible—”
“Great. Let’s get started.”
She blew out a slow breath, her eyes finding Captain Crawford’s rehab schedule. Great. Eight weeks. Eight excruciatingly long weeks. This was going to be painful.
“Arghh.” The handlebar of the weight machine snapped out of Colton’s grip and crashed against the panel with a loud crack.
“Why don’t we take a little break.” Pecca handed him a bottle of water, but when he reached for it, his arm jerked and knocked it to the ground. “I’ll get it—”
“I’ve got it.” The words escaping his lips were harsher than he had intended. Colton twisted around, keeping his right arm close to his side, and used his left hand to pick up the bottle. When he straightened, he avoided meeting her eyes. Partly because he was embarrassed he’d been unable to hide the way his movements prohibited him from doing even the simplest tasks, but also because it was becoming clearer just how weak he was.
“You’re doing really well.”
Colton opened the bottle of water and brought it to his lips to avoid responding. What was he supposed to say, thanks? He had nothing to be grateful for when his body was failing him. He glanced at the clock and realized that maybe he did have something to be thankful for—their session was over.
“That’s him!”
Colton and Pecca turned to see Maceo pushing his way through the door, a man limping in behind him.
Silent Shadows Page 3
