Ask Me Again

by E. J. Noyes

  I knew right away what she was asking. “No. Never,” I said forcefully. I was a lot of things, but I’d never been suicidal, not even during my darkest times after The Incident. “I promise I’m not, I swear.”

  Her exhalation was audible. “Okay. I didn’t think so, but…I…” She stuttered to a stop like a car running out of gas.

  “Maybe at night we could lock the sharp knives in there.” After a shuddering breath, I suggested, “And maybe you should talk to the police.”

  For the briefest moment I saw her mask slip before she schooled her face back into neutrality. “I don’t think that’s going to help, Sabine. It’s already happened. Let’s talk to Collings first, and we’ll take it from there.” She looked down, her jaw working back and forth. “Your CO will help you. Commanding officers always know what to do,” she said tightly.

  “I could have hurt you, Bec. I could have killed you,” I cried. “Do you get that? Do you understand?”

  Her head came up, eyes brimming with tears. “Of course I do, but you didn’t. I know what happened wasn’t really you. You didn’t hurt me, I promise.”

  My gorge rose, and I pressed my mouth to the crook of my elbow, willing my stomach to settle. God, why? Rebecca stood from between my knees, and I slid my chair back to stand too. Before I could, she sat sideways on my lap, smoothing hair away from my face.

  I wrapped my arms loosely around her waist. “I’m so sorry.” I only just managed to get the words out before sobs overwhelmed me.

  Bec’s arms were around my neck, her lips against my cheek, then my ear as she murmured, “I know, darling, I know.”

  I clung to her, crying noisily as all the worry and anxiety and fear of the past few years finally overcame me. Everything I hadn’t done, everything I’d held back from her, everything I’d taken on all on my own. Then the guilt and fear and the gut-clenching horror of what I could have done last night. Burying my face in her neck, I sought comfort from her familiar warmth as Bec soothed me, gently stroking the back of my neck. “Would you take something for the anxiety?”

  I bit my lip and finally, nodded. She drew back slightly, and her fingertips traced over my eyebrows, my cheeks and down over my lips. She cupped my face gently and leaned in for a soft kiss. “I still trust you, I always have. Trust me, please. Let me help you.”

  Dipping my head, I used my shoulder to wipe the sticky tears from my face. “Okay.”

  She cuddled into me so her cheek rested against my ear. Bec’s light, even breathing whispered over my neck as we sat together in silence and I could feel her tears against my skin. After a few minutes, she leaned back, then glanced down to where her new watch had slipped to the underside of her delicate wrist. The edge of her mouth turned down for a fraction of a second and then it was gone. “Will you see Andrew today?”

  “Yes, I will.” The posters in his waiting area were sharp in my mind—the onus was on me to report any mental health concerns. This was a pretty fucking big concern. With every fiber in my body I didn’t want to, didn’t want to have to tell him what I’d done. But more importantly, I didn’t want to admit what I suspected—it was my own fault. Which meant that layered on top of everything was the crushing feeling that I’d failed completely at trying to fix this myself. Perfect. Fuck you, Sabine, for letting yourself get this bad.

  “Would you like me to speak with him? Explain from my perspective?”

  I laughed wearily. “Yes, I would. I wish you could just call him and fix it for me.” More than anything I wanted her to put on her command hat and just make this whole thing better. Make it all go away. “But…I have to do this one for myself too, Bec. But maybe, if he thinks it’s a good idea, later we could have some sessions together?”

  She smiled, a little relief breaking through the tension. “I think that’s a good idea, sweetheart. Let’s just see what he says first.” Bec leaned her forehead against mine, kissed the tip of my nose. “I love you.”

  I turned my head so our lips brushed in a kiss that was so fleeting it could have been imagined. “Love you too.”

  As Rebecca readied to go to work, she gave me a look that told me clearly she wasn’t happy about it. But she left after making me promise I’d call her to let her know what both Collings and Pace said. After I heard her car pulling away, I swallowed five milligrams of diazepam, then took a scalding shower. Wiping steam from the mirror, I leaned closer to my reflection and rubbed the hair at my temples, as though I could smudge the gray away. It was a fairly recent addition and oh-so-noticeable in my hair which was almost black. Bec hadn’t said anything about my streaks. It was just another thing about me that’d changed.

  You pointed a loaded gun at her, Sabine.

  I’d been deployed for Christ’s sake, back to where The Incident had occurred, right in the thick of it. I’d had some issues—okay, I was a mess—but nothing like that had happened. Yet the moment I came home to my safe place everything was all ass-backward again. I wanted nothing more than to collapse into a puddle on the bathroom floor and lie there for the rest of the day. Perhaps forever.

  Stand up, go to work, talk to your boss and the shrink and sort your shit out, Sabine. If you don’t, you’re not going to have anything left. They’ll lock you up. She’ll leave if you don’t get this sorted out. She deserves so much better than this.

  I dressed for work, hastily threw some clothes in a duffel and ran downstairs. As arranged yesterday when I had so “bravely” caught the bus to meet Bec, Mitch would be here any moment to take me to work. It only took a minute to write a note, which I placed on the kitchen counter with a can of Titus’s dinner.

  Then I left the home I shared with my girlfriend.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rebecca

  Gridlock on the way to work had the back of my neck tight with strain, and the headache nestled in my temples had gone from barely there to permanent resident. I scrunched my shoulders and rolled my neck, trying and failing to release the knots. There was not enough coffee in the world to help me after last night’s scant sleep, the waking nightmare, then lying in bed worrying about Sabine. Not enough of anything that would help.

  Though she’d insisted I go in for my shift because she had to go to work to talk to her mental health contact and explain the situation to her boss—both things she absolutely had to do—it felt so counterintuitive. As though I was letting her down and trying to pretend nothing had happened.

  My fear from last night had multiplied exponentially. It was abundantly clear it was all a result of her PTSD, but I didn’t feel better for understanding that. I’d seen her trying with her therapy homework and believed her when she said the things that made her anxious were slowly becoming easier. Stupidly, I’d thought she would get things under control. I gave myself a mental slap. PTSD wasn’t something to get under control. It would always be there, another piece in the wonderful mix of things that now made up the woman I loved.

  An uncomfortable thought stuck with me. After she’d stopped taking her medication in Afghanistan, she’d told me it was because she felt great, the PTSD symptoms were pretty much gone, and she didn’t need it any more. And though I didn’t agree with her actions, I’d understood her reasoning, because I loved and trusted her. But…perhaps the PTSD had never become dormant and she’d only told me it had to ease my mind. To do something like that was so Sabine, to bulldoze through and pretend things were fine.

  She’d shrugged the PTSD off time and time again, rationalizing that she had to complete the remaining time she owed the Army. She was afraid that if she let on how bad it could be they would force her to take long-term psych leave and then they might extend her contract. For Sabine, who was counting the seconds until she finished her active duty, this was unthinkable. I could not convince her of how unlikely that was. Sabine couldn’t stand personal weakness or imperfection or what she regarded as failure and went immediately to the worst-case scenario.

  My knuckles tightened on the wheel. I dismissed the idea that s
he’d skimmed over the truth, because I had to believe she wouldn’t lie to me about something like this. We’d been through too much to keep secrets of this magnitude. I’d handled everything the wrong way, thinking if I pushed too hard, she would push right back and then run right through me to get away. But that approach hadn’t worked. For the first time since leaving the Army, I wished I was still her boss so I could just give her an order and have her follow it.

  Sabine just needed more help. She needed to use the medication that she’d initially found beneficial, continue her counseling, maybe take a real vacation. And I needed to do better. I just needed to do something. It was my fault that she’d had access to a firearm in the first place. With everything that’d been going on since she came home, I’d completely forgotten about removing it from the house. Yet again, I’d failed her, put her in a situation she shouldn’t have been in. She could have taken it, used it on herself—

  No, she’d never…she’d promised, numerous times and I believed her. I had to believe her. I was almost at my limit, and I wanted nothing more than to pull over, bury my face in my hands and weep.

  But I couldn’t.

  I made it to my office, and after changing into scrubs checked my in tray and emails. There was nothing requiring my urgent attention, and I still had ten minutes before rounds, so I signed in to PubMed and typed in three words—PTSD delusions psychosis. An article caught my eye. Psychosis and associated indicators in post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

  …prevalence of psychotic…depression and anxiety…evidence of personality disorder…similarity to clinical diagnosis of chronic schizophrenia…

  Schizophrenia? Personality disorder? Was that Sabine now? I bookmarked the page and kept skimming abstracts and bookmarking. My concern grew with every new abstract, until the buzzing of my pager against the waistband of my scrubs interrupted my research. This would have to wait. Gulping the rest of my coffee, I responded to the page, closed my office door and hurried down the hallway toward the elevator and my first case of the day.

  After two surgeries and a lunch of bland cafeteria food, I was making my way back to my office, hoping desperately for half an hour of solace. Vanessa Moore’s call from behind me had me stop just a few feet from my office door. Almost made it. I waited for her to catch up, marveling that even rushing up the hallway she looked poised. Sabine was right—Vanessa was elegant as hell.

  “Rebecca! Are you free next Tuesday for dinner?”

  Recalling Sabine’s consternation about Vanessa yesterday brought everything else she’d implied to the forefront, and it was on the tip of my tongue to decline. But a niggling thought that I could really use a friend who was outside the sphere of my worries with Sabine stopped me. I nodded. “Tuesday…”

  My personal phone rang as I was about to clarify that I’d need to check my schedule. I glanced at the caller ID. Sabine. I held up an unsteady just-one-moment finger. “Sorry, Vanessa. I need to take this.” I turned and walked a short distance away, leaning against the wall outside my office to stop myself from sliding to the floor in an anxious heap. “Hello, darling. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. I spoke to Collings,” she added quickly.

  I tried to mask my relief. “Oh, that’s good. What did he say?”

  “He’s going to talk to Pace about my treatment plan after I see him this afternoon, but for now it will be psych leave and mandatory counseling. And a mark in my file.”

  Pretty much as I’d expected. “That sounds like the right course,” I said carefully. “How are you feeling?”

  “Sick.” She laughed dryly. “Situation normal. But I’m all right.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Mhmm.”

  “Okay, then…I’ll see you tonight and we can talk some more. I love you. Call me again if there’s anything else?”

  “Mhmm. Love you too.” Then there was nothing but silence in my ear. I stared at the phone as though it could help explain things. I pushed off the wall and took a few steps toward Vanessa. “Sorry, family emergency.”

  “Yes, so it seemed.” She studied me intently, then without preamble asked, “How is Sabine doing?”

  I opened my mouth to respond and was mortified when instead of words, a loud sob came out. Quickly, I clapped one hand over my mouth to stifle it, but before I could control myself I was crying great, gulping sobs. Vanessa’s look of alarm turned quickly to sympathy. We both reached into pockets for ever-present tissues and when Vanessa found hers first she offered me the package with a gentle smile.

  “Thank you.” After wiping my eyes, I balled the tissue into my pocket. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know where that came from.” I did not cry in public, especially not at work.

  Wordlessly, she took my elbow and I let myself be guided into my office. She closed the door and once I’d slumped into my chair and wiped away the fresh tears, Vanessa settled in one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk. She crossed her legs, folded her hands in her lap and studied me with a gently expectant expression. “Would you like to talk about it?”

  I rested my hands on my desk blotter, studying them as I considered what to say, what to share. I’d spent so many years keeping my own counsel, hiding a part of myself from the Army, moderating what I said and did, and still found it unnatural to share things with people I wasn’t close to. But I really needed to talk to someone, and Vanessa was so calm and open. And she was there. “Just a rough night, that’s all. Sabine’s…struggling with PTSD and things kind of boiled over last night.”

  “Oh my, that’s awful.” Vanessa reached over to clasp one of my hands. “Are you all right? Is she?” After a wry smile she added, “Silly question I know, given your reaction just now.”

  “I’m not really all right, no. And neither is she.” I had to stop and regain control. “I just thought we’d been making progress and now she seems to have regressed.” Annoyed with my careless wording, I shook my head. “Not regressed, because treatment for PTSD isn’t linear but she seemed better and now she’s worse than before.”

  “I don’t believe that’s unusual with that diagnosis?”

  “No, of course not. I know that and so does she, but knowing it intellectually and knowing it emotionally are two completely separate things.”

  “Ah yes. It’s easy to forget everything we know when someone we love is involved.” With a final squeeze of my hand, she released me. “Is she getting help?”

  “Yes, to some degree. She’s never been particularly enthused by therapy in any form, and I’m not sure how honest she’s being, which obviously defeats the purpose of it. I just don’t know what else to do for her. I’ve been trying so hard and just feel helpless really.”

  “Maybe there is nothing else,” Vanessa said quietly.

  “Sorry?”

  “What I mean is, if she’s attending therapy, medicating appropriately and doing all that’s required then all you can do is just support that.” Her smile was gentle. “But if you’re going to support her then you need support, Rebecca. Are you seeing anyone yourself?”

  “I am.” Frowning, I amended, “I was. Before…life, I guess. It’s been a few months.” I’d worked extensively with my own therapist to move past my feelings of guilt and responsibility, but clearly something still lingered somewhere in my psyche.

  “Perhaps it would be beneficial to revisit therapy.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. I know I’m too close to it all.” Glancing up, I spilled one of my horrible truths. “I was her boss, and I sent her on the errand that led to all this, so…”

  “Oh, Rebecca, I’m sorry. I imagine that must add another incredibly difficult layer to an already horrible situation.” She reached for her waistband and after a glance at her phone, frowned and stood. “Goddammit, what crappy timing. I’m so sorry, but I have to go.”

  I pushed myself up and slipped around to the front of my desk. “Of course. Thanks for, you know.”

  “Absolutely.” After a light hug, she
backed away, pausing at my office door. Her gaze was soft, understanding. “I’m here, if you need to talk or cry or whatever. Any time.”

  I could only nod, not trusting myself to speak. I closed my door and sank onto the brown leather two-seater couch against the far wall. Leaning my head back against the wall, I closed my eyes. Just be there. Support her. I’d been doing all that and it hadn’t worked. Hadn’t helped.

  I almost wept with gratitude when my work cell buzzed. Distraction was exactly what I needed. After closing my office door behind me, I pulled out my personal phone and tapped out a quick message. Remember when I told you I love you, no matter what? I mean it. See you tonight.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sabine

  After meeting with my CO and catching Bec up, I finished some paperwork, spent a few hours in the gym then wandered aimlessly around the grounds because Collings had instructed that I was to be hands-off for the rest of the day. After another session of psyching myself up, it was almost 1500 by the time I made my way toward Behavioral Health. My meeting with Collings had gone as I’d expected, and a sick kind of dread had lingered in my gut all day.

  When I knocked on Pace’s open door he jumped, then rose from behind his desk. After a quick glance at his blotter, he looked back to me, an uncertain smile tilting his mouth. “Captain Fleischer. We’re not scheduled until next week, or do I have my days mixed up?” Clearly, Collings hadn’t contacted him yet.

  I forced myself to smile in response. “No, sir, you’re correct. I wondered if you had a little time for me now?” Knowing what I was about to tell him made my mouth desert-dry, and my words sounded strained.

  He closed his folder and gestured that I should come in. “Of course. Take a seat.”

  “Thank you, Colonel.” I closed the door and crossed the floor quickly to one of the now-familiar chairs. No big deal, just going to be honest, honesty is good. Even when honesty means you might lose your job. Great. No, not great. And stop overreacting, you’re not going to be discharged. Plenty of people in the military have PTSD to some degree and they’re still working. They can’t afford to bench too many surgeons. Just going to take some psych leave, that’s all.