“Have you talked to anyone about your…” He exhaled and chewed on his lip. “…issues, AJ?”
“Now you sound like a therapist.”
“Sorry.” He brushed another wayward branch aside. He stopped with his prodding.
I awoke from my blankness. “I don’t have PTSD.”
He nodded, slowly.
“I don’t!”
He shifted his gaze from the path for a moment and held mine. I swallowed but didn’t speak.
“What’s PTSD?” Will chimed in.
Never one to skirt the truth, I said to him, “Post-traumatic stress disorder. When something bad happened to you and it still bothers you. Like nightmares and stuff.”
“Ah. Like Grampy?”
“Yeah, honey, like that, like my dad.”
Will scurried ahead, apparently appeased by that explanation.
“My dad was in Vietnam,” I added to Reid.
He nodded with an “ah.”
“I told you that my sister…works with children like Will. Parents sometimes exhibit signs of PTSD or trauma reactive disorder, whatever you want to call it, and—” Reid began.
I wrung my hands together. “Look, I don’t need…I…”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to say…” He heaved a sigh. “I’ve been there before. That’s all I wanted to say.”
Instead of snipping, I said, “Thanks. Sorry.” I detained the rest of my thoughts behind gritted teeth. I understood it—PTSD from war, yeah, that was one thing. Losing your spouse and having a child diagnosed with a disability were different things. I did not have PTSD.
Or did I?
I fell silent, and he did as well. I rubbed my cheek, as the pain seeped to the surface. I could still taste the blood in my mouth. My skin was sensitive to the touch and already swelling. It was going to leave an awful bruise.
“No need to poke it. It’s already puffy,” Reid said.
I gave him the “Are you trying to be funny?” look.
He shrugged. His face grew solemn. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to you guys sooner.”
We’re not yours to protect, I thought, but said nothing. Another minute of quietness passed as we both pondered. “Did you follow us here?” I blurted.
“No. But I do want to help.”
“I’m not a charity case.”
“I know that. And I’m no therapist.”
I shot a look to him. He smirked.
“Why do you want to help us?”
“You seem a nice woman, and you’re traveling alone with your son…I dunno. I just wanted to help. And catch a ride, too.”
His explanation couldn’t have been more elusive, but I didn’t press.
Help. It had poured in after Harrison’s death for a short time, but before then…when I was spinning plates, the help had been minimal. Life had forced me to be the do-all-er in our family.
It’d been a long time since I’d had help…real intentional help. I carried the burden in my own backpack. Had I become bitter? I resented all the work I’d done, unacknowledged by my tender but oblivious husband, who thought he was doing his part by being the provider.
I missed Harrison. I missed him. I also missed the help. A lot of the turbulent emotions I’d experienced this past year with Will were actually about Harrison dying and me running the ship solo.
I had already been missing him before he died.
I plodded ahead of Reid, slapping at tree limbs that dared to get in my path, warmth flooding my head, and my muscles quivering. I passed Will, who had stopped, once again, this time to inspect a log.
Reid closed our distance and said undemandingly, “I will help you if you let me.”
“You don’t know me. I don’t know you.”
“So?”
“Nobody’s ever helped me,” I said, feeling small.
“I will,” he repeated.
I shrugged.
“I’ll help, Mom!” Will chirped, taking my hand.
For the length of this entire journey, as short as it seemed in the scheme of things, I had felt like a ghost of myself. I was floating along, robotic. Doing what needed to be done. I had never truly let it sink in. I wasn’t a superhero.
Was it time I allowed help in?
****
Flashing blue and red lights greeted our return to the campsite.
My chest tightened at the sight of three police officers collecting statements despite seeing Dennis and Clara slumped in the back seat of a police car. The officers approached us. I don’t know why, but I instinctively grabbed Reid’s hand. His palm was sweaty, his hand warm.
One officer locked eyes with me while two others pulled Reid aside, disconnecting our transiently joined hands.
“Please don’t arrest him,” I said, clasping my hands together and speaking quickly as I was taken away from Reid and the two other officers. “He helped me. This guy,” I began, pointing toward Dennis in the car, “attacked me. His wife tried to steal my car. He tried to hurt my son. Reid was just protecting us. They hurt others, too,” I added, reminded of Geena’s husband who had tried to help.
The lanky, gray-haired officer beside me rubbed his chin and jotted notes on his pad. He smelled of strong aftershave and breath mints. He reminded me of an actor I’d seen on a crime drama on TV. “Sit, Mrs. Sinclair, here,” he said, pointing a pencil toward the picnic table.
I did as told while Will darted around the campsite. He was muddy but appeared to be in neutral spirits. I elaborated, my explanation a hurried jumble, as the officer, an Officer Browson, nodded and transcribed. My wary gaze danced between Reid as he was questioned by the other two officers and Will, who settled by a puddle. He dropped a few leaves and twigs in it. A paramedic approached and tended to my face.
A quick search for Geena found her sitting at her own picnic table. Sam was beside her, wiggling foot to foot. I gave Geena a shared maternal nod, and she released her grip on Sam, whispered in her ear, and then Sam scurried over to play with Will.
“You won’t need stitches,” the paramedic said, blotting my face with clean gauze and antiseptic. I winced with the touch.
The officer closed his notebook when I finished explaining. He cleared his throat. “Dennis and Clara Katzmann have a long criminal record. They’re wanted in two states on various charges. Mrs. Sinclair, do you want to press charges?”
I shook my head. I wanted to put these two creeps behind me. “Not really. Do I need to?”
“We’ve got them on other accounts of larceny, assault, and manslaughter. They’re both looking at time behind bars. Your charges aren’t necessary, but I do need to ask.”
“Manslaughter?” I said, shivering. “No, no. You have more pressing things to handle right now.” Did those two even have a son in Kansas or was that part of their ploy, too?
Officer Browson’s countenance remained stalwart. One of the other officers, a woman, approached. She stood by while Officer Browson asked, “What about Mr. Gregory? Did he hurt you? You can speak with Officer Carella here alone if needed.”
I shook my head adamantly. “No. He helped us.”
He helped us.
“You said you met Mr. Gregory on this trip?”
I nodded. “We’re both heading west to find family.”
Officer Browson’s lips thinned. “Travel is banned beyond Kansas.”
“I understand.”
“We need your information, ma’am, in case we need to contact you further.”
I gave it to them.
The third officer had already escorted Reid, who was not cuffed, to the police car. The officer frisked him before placing him in the back seat. He pulled the pocket knife from Reid’s jeans.
“Please, don’t take him,” I pleaded, running to them.
“It’ll be okay,” Reid said. “I’ll go with them and clear it all up.”
“Ma’am, we need to question him further at the station. He’s coming voluntarily.”
I stared, helpless. After all this, and now they wer
e taking him away?
Reid shared a composed look with me. Yeah, the bloody brow and scuffed cheek didn’t give him the look of complete innocence.
I said, “I—”
The door closed. Reid nodded behind it.
Chapter Twelve
Two Truths and a Lie
“Y’all keep in touch, okay?” Geena said, sweeping me into a hug as late afternoon shadows lengthened across the campground. For her petite stature, she had a firm embrace.
The whiff of campfire smoke that resided in her short hair tickled my nose. I wasn’t surprised by the heaviness that filled my stomach at her departure. We’d spent the better part of the day hanging out and waiting. I learned about her family in Georgia and Kansas, and I’d told her more about ours, even Harrison. Her nonjudging, nonpitying vibe was truly freeing. Something I’d not felt in ages from another mom.
“Thanks for keeping me distracted today,” I managed.
“He’ll return. They do have more important matters to deal with,” Geena assured.
I wrote my phone number and e-mail address and slipped the page into her hand. “I will. Thanks, Geena.”
Sam ran to Will. “Wanna hang on to my cat?”
“Nah, I’ve got Douglas.”
She said sweetly, “Yeah, Snow might get jealous.” Sam kicked at the dirt. “Okay. Have a good trip, Will.” She climbed into her family’s minivan.
“Well, I suck at goodbyes. You sure y’all will be okay?” Geena asked again.
“We will.”
“Good luck, AJ. You’re a momma bear. You’ll find your cub.” She waved a finger at Will. “And don’t you give your momma too many more gray hairs, okay?”
Will nodded.
Geena stepped into her minivan toting their pop-up camper, gave me a final wave, and her family drove out of the campground. For somebody I’d just met, she had left a special place in my heart.
I spent the evening thinking and writing.
News trickled into the campground. There was a huge car pile-up on the westbound highway complete with a fire and oil spill. The campground was abuzz. First, it was talk about Clara and Dennis’s assault on me. Then, it was about the accident. People grumbled about needing to leave, but roads would not be open until nighttime at least. I was stuck. Only the folks traveling eastbound had been able to depart.
Factors compounded, I decided to rest one more night at the campground, as much as the idea made me queasy. Will was tired, although not nearly as rattled as I thought he would be. Tomorrow, I would make up for lost time, I promised myself.
Hell, I needed to rest, too.
And I needed to wait for Reid.
After tucking Will into his sleeping bag, I returned to the fire. I stared at Reid’s bike and pack, which I had brought over after locating them.
“Now don’t you think of taking them,” a voice said.
I startled from my stupor, ran to Reid, and hugged him without hesitation. “They let you go?”
“Yeah,” he said.
“Really?” I didn’t want to say it aloud, but Dennis had been mangled.
“They had bigger fish to fry and a massive accident to deal with. The station was swamped. They barely had room for Dennis and Clara, and the Feds are coming to take them away.”
“I don’t understand. They’re not charging you?”
“Nope,” Reid assured.
“Luck seems to follow you,” I said with a smile. The first one I think I cracked all day. Ouch, it hurt. I yawned. That hurt more. God, and unluck followed me.
“Want to learn a trick?”
“Sure.” I sat by the fire, drawing my hooded sweatshirt closed and zipping it, despite the warmth in the air.
He clicked open his pocket knife and cut a coffee filter into two pieces. “I got a filter from a fella yonder,” he said, angling his chin toward the site beside us. “Got your coffee canister?”
I raised an eyebrow. “You stopped to get a filter before coming to make sure your bike and gear were here?”
“It was on the way. And I knew you’d find them. You’re resourceful, aren’t you?”
I muffled a chuckle. “Okay…yup. So are you.” I pulled my coffee canister from a bin and handed it to him.
He settled beside me on the log. He leaned close, spreading the filter.
“First you take a filter, cut it in half, and then put grounds in it. Just a tablespoon. Then you tie it, like a pouch.” He continued to demonstrate as he spoke. “Here,” he said, handing a twine-wrapped pouch like a teabag to me. I plopped it in my empty cup.
I still had hot water cradled in a metal pitcher in the fire from making Will’s instant mac and cheese. Reid wrapped a handkerchief around his hand and poured water over our pouches. “Steep it for two to three minutes. Presto!”
It was bitter, slightly weak, and could use cream. I dumped in a sugar packet and powdered creamer packet Reid handed me, stirred, and sipped it. “Not the same as an aromatic slow-drip, but it will do.” It was about the same as the coffee in the manager’s office. I pretended it was a delicious pumpkin spice latte. As the sun set, a cool shiver ran down my spine. The fire crackled before us, and I heaved a sigh, feeling somewhat lightened. I tossed a quick glance at my companion. The man with the dark-roast eyes had become my new coffee bearer. An acrid taste filled my throat with that sudden comparison to Harrison.
“Wanna talk about it?” Reid said out of the blue.
“The psychoanalysis continues?” I replied, sipping.
“Don’t mean to prod. Just trying to—”
“Help. Yeah, I know.” I had no desire to talk about what had transpired with the assault if that was the “it” he referenced. Or perhaps it was my meltdown in the woods? Either way, I said instead, “I’m worried. About Finn.” And Will. And my life. I didn’t add those obvious sentiments.
“That’s understandable.”
“Do you have kids?”
“No.”
I nibbled on my lip. “Despite Will’s challenges, Finn has always been my difficult child. Lord, he ages me. He’s had a hard time finding his place in our family.” He needs me, I wanted to say. “He inherited the brooding, melodramatic, fireball attitude from me, and the inquisitive, engineering brain from my husband.”
“Interesting combo. Sounds like a great kid,” Reid said, sipping his coffee.
“Aside from his emotional side, he loves to tinker with things. He’s always considering what he can do or make with anything. Wicked smart. He exhausts me. Yet…I miss his chattiness.” My fingers prickled, wanting to scratch his back the way he liked it. It was one of his coping mechanisms when his emotions gripped him.
“A tinkering chatterbox! He’s my kind of dude.” Reid moved a few logs around in the fire, encouraging the flames to take the bait. He leaned back. “Finn’s the misunderstood misfit.”
“You could say that. I’m still figuring him out. He copycats Will in many ways, but he has his own unique set of challenges and gifts.” I paused and lowered my voice. “I miss him. I worry about him. I feel like…” I couldn’t say it.
“Will gets more attention because of his needs?”
“Yeah. You’re quite perceptive, Reid.” That admission never sat well with me. Even on this expedition, the purpose exclusively to get my youngest child, my thoughts had been consumed with Will, Harrison, and myself. I could hardly think about my misfit without crying. I recalled my torrential breakdown at Easter this year when Finn accidentally hurt a neighbor’s grandson, who had been teasing him. “Am I going to jail?” Finn asked between whimpers while he sat on his bed and I explained the ramifications for his impulsive reaction. Misunderstood misfit. Yup. God, I wanted to hug him right now. It’d been our first Easter without Harrison. My worst Easter by far. I’d spiraled quickly with Finn’s behavior that day.
“Finn knows you love him.”
I rubbed my nose. “I suppose.”
“Everyone needs you, don’t they?”
“Yeah. I�
�m tired of being so needed.” My hands shook, and I set my coffee down. “I’m broken. And I just want my family to be whole again.”
“We’re all broken or bent a bit. But we’re not irreparable. Even me.”
I eyed him dubiously.
“I’ve my own complicated past,” he said with a dashing look, but there was truth behind the joker’s mask.
“Don’t we all. Wanna tell me?”
He rubbed a thumb over his tattoo, his gaze downtrodden. “Maybe later, okay?”
I cleared my throat, suppressing the pugnacious pain that wrestled to claim me. “What does it mean? Your tattoo. It’s Latin.” I moved closer to him on the log, our thighs touching. Feeling foolish, but not giving a damn, I lifted his hand into mine, the irrational need to touch somebody driving my actions. I wanted to trace my finger over the cursive words “Ne obliviscaris” but resisted the urge.
“Forget not,” he said quietly.
His hand was cold within mine. His reservation caught me off guard. Maybe the tattoo was from his army days…a haunting reminder from his deployment. An intricate tribal tattoo meandered over the rest of his lower forearm. I was surprised he didn’t have an army tattoo. Even Brandon had branded himself in the ritual of a tattoo from his air force days. Yet, I saw only the two. Of course, there could be more…and for the first time in a year, I wondered what lay beneath the shirt of the man beside me. Lord, AJ. Knock it off. Had Dennis knocked my wits, too?
He continued, speaking as if from a sad, far off place, “Perhaps it was part of my own grieving process.”
“You’re enlightened on the process? Like the five stages of grief or whatever it’s called? After your deployment?” I asked as I released his hand with a tender squeeze and wiggled a few inches away.
“Not enlightened. Educated, maybe.”
I stared into the dancing flames. I’d had enough camping to last me my entire life. The smell of fire, although usually an alluring scent, now reminded me of what I was doing. Camping. On my way to save my son. After nearly losing my other son.
We sat quietly, lost in thoughts. I could tell that Reid was avoiding going deeper with our talk, and I was okay with that.
“Ever play campfire games?” he asked.
Will Rise from Ashes Page 19
