Day Three

by Patricia Spencer

  He’d tried not to show it in front of Brenna, but the loss floored him. Memories of Joseph Alden flooded back. He would have adopted all the Kavsak children, including crazy little Mr. Fierce. He couldn’t give them a mother, but he could have given them a father. They needed at least one parent, and he wanted children.

  In a fairer world, they all could have gotten what they needed.

  He trudged up the deck steps and turned the key in the French doors. Inside, he flipped on the light, hung his keys on the hook, and set the DVDs down on the coffee table in front of the couch. The remote control for his CD player lay on the table. He picked it up, keyed in the number for a mellow compilation of piano pieces, and pressed Play.

  Under the track lighting, the family room looked golden, inviting. Normal. The first floor of his home was open-concept. Family room on the right as you entered, dining area on the left, and kitchen beyond it. A beautiful field stone fireplace stood slightly to the right of center, and an open hardwood staircase hugged the chimney on the way to the bedrooms and his office upstairs. Behind the family room, off the front-entrance foyer there was a bathroom, and Aya’s old office. Her desk, workstation, and bookshelves were there, but he had turned it into a guest room with a cozy built-in captain’s bed.

  Home had always been at the core of who he was, but now, after Kavsak, it had grown in importance to him. Refuge. Tonight, he needed it. And only partly because Sam Chisolm’s telephone call was preying on his mind. Sam was sensing that he was having trouble getting started with Brenna’s work. Also, that ‘as a friend’ comment kept going through his head. He didn’t know what to make of it.

  He went to the kitchen, filled a water glass half-full from the fridge door, and shook three ibuprofens out of a little jar. He popped them into his mouth, washed them down, and put the glass in the dishwasher.

  The leather couch in the family room was deep and long. He dropped his butt on the edge, kicked off his shoes, and lay back, stuffing a throw pillow beneath his aching head.

  His first year at college, he went to Fort Lauderdale for Spring break, and swam alone, too far out into the Atlantic. He hadn’t realized the distance he had covered until he turned on his back to switch strokes for a while. The shore had become a thin blond line, the people were dots. The ocean had become gradually colder, and he realized he was in the shipping lane. Maine State Champ in 1000-meter Freestyle, fitter than he had ever been, he’d suddenly gotten scared of the water.

  That was how he felt now.

  Out too far. In too deep.

  Brenna’s behavior had frightened him. Valkyries? Valhalla? Someone eating a dead boy?

  He wanted to live in a sane world, where a woman stayed in the moment and spoke cogently, where the skin on her thigh hadn’t been ripped off to raw meat, where she didn’t want to die so badly that she tried to goad a teenager into killing her. He wanted to live in a world where children weren’t the biggest casualties of war.

  But he didn’t.

  He picked up the wireless phone on the coffee table and speed-dialed his mom.

  “Hey, Ma,” he said when she answered. “Tell me everything you know about PTSD.”

  She chuckled. “Hello, dear. My day went well. Thank you for asking. And how was yours?”

  He laughed, already reassured. She had a way of re-establishing order. “It sucked.” He began telling her why. She listened, her quiet presence reaching out to him from his home state, absorbing his shock, his grief, his fears and self-doubts.

  “Now,” she said when he finished, “back to your initial question—and perhaps you can let me grossly simplify ‘everything I know’.”

  “Toothless rebuke, Ma.”

  She ignored him. “Firstly, PTSD is a defense mechanism. A normal response to abnormal events. When you experience a situation where your life is at risk, you go into survival mode. Maybe you’re in an unimaginable situation and you have to do the unthinkable. Kill or be killed, let’s say—a core issue for combat troops. You have to act fast. You can’t afford the distraction of emotion and analysis. You need to stay alive.

  “You act viscerally. You do what you have to do. But the memory is incompletely processed, dysfunctionally-stored in the parts of the brain that process emotion, without being integrated in the analytical centers. Once you’re removed from danger, the last thing you want is to relive the event. So now you’re stuck, fixated on the trauma but simultaneously afraid of remembering it. If your brain gets triggered—by a thought, by any of the physical senses—you re-live the event as though it were happening in the moment.”

  “Flashbacks.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Brenna was so bizarre.”

  “It’s frightening, isn’t it, dear? It seems like madness.”

  “Yeah.”

  “But I think that there’s still an internal continuity happening. It’s just that the rest of us don’t have the reference points to interpret what the patient is saying, and the patient is too ensnared to explain. Research from the U.K. shows there’s a correlation between so-called psychotic episodes and the traumas underlying them. Women who have suffered sexual abuse, for instance, experience sexual delusions. People who lose their spouses experience hallucinations involving the lost mate. What gets labeled psychosis may actually be a type of coping strategy.”

  “So how do I help Brenna? That Dr. Lee didn’t impress me. When Brenna told him she had been calm, he got hung up on it, like it wasn’t traumatic if she didn’t act upset.”

  “She was calm because she had already made the decision to die. The boy was her hope for release. Of course she met him calmly.”

  “It’s such an awful thought.”

  “Brenna needs a team, dear. The medical doctors treat the physical injuries. The psychiatrist medicates the brain. A good psychologist helps her process the experience and teaches her some coping strategies. Most of all, family supports her at home. The sooner she works on the issues, the lower the chance the PTSD will become chronic.”

  “You’re here for the D.C. conference on the twenty-third, is it?”

  “I saw that jump, Daniel. A therapeutic relationship is a thing to itself. It can’t be encumbered. I’m your mother. She’s in a relationship with you. She needs to be able to speak freely, to say whatever she needs to say about you without editing herself. The way you talk about her, I’m getting the impression she might become my daughter-in-law.”

  “Half the time, I’m not even sure she likes me.”

  His mom chuckled. “If Brenna Rease has allowed you in her hospital room, Daniel Ellsworth, and she is letting you stay while she falls apart, have no fear. She ‘likes’ you.”

  “Yeah, well. Last night I told you how close she came to booting me out altogether.”

  “Close, Daniel. Did you note that your ‘madwoman,’ in mid-tirade, pulled herself back from the brink of banishing you?” Amusement filled her voice. “Gracious. I don’t know how I raised such a clueless man.”

  “So, if she’s still talking to me when you come for the conference, would you like to meet her?”

  “I’d love to meet her.” She paused. “Your father thought we might drive down together. He wants to see you, too. He got a little spooked by your close call in Kavsak.”

  “Sure. I’ll set out towels for two. If the weather’s nice, we can fire up the barbecue.”

  “You and your dad are going to have to talk about Brenna.”

  “He disapproves of her and he doesn’t even know her. What did he do—go online and read a bunch of old headlines?”

  “Remember your own reaction when Sam Chisolm first ordered you to hire her? You and your father are cut from the same cloth.” She hesitated. “And, Daniel?”

  “Yeah, Ma?”

  “You and Brenna have only had a short time together. You don’t have the foundation of mutual trust that other families coping with this have. PTSD is destabilizing. It makes reality slippery. Emotionally, Brenna’s going to be sliding all over
the place. She’ll be inconsistent, irritable, angry. Connected one moment, distant the next. Honestly, dear, this is the worst possible time to be trying to establish a relationship.”

  He heard what she was saying. “I can’t abandon her, Mom.”

  All through Kavsak, Brenna had covered his butt. He’d been a drag to her, a danger because he was a neophyte. Nevertheless, she had stuck by him, even that last night when she could have saved herself.

  There were periods during any relationship when one of the partners had to hold on for two. He had to do what he did that day in Fort Lauderdale: Not panic. Set his sights on the shore. Swim one stroke at a time. And keep his head above water.

  “Even if she can’t love you, Daniel?”

  “Yeah,” he answered at last. “Even if.”

  The next morning was glorious. The sun streamed through the French doors, and the weather report was predicting unseasonably warm highs in the mid-70s. Daniel threw open the back doors and ate breakfast on the deck, accompanied by the cheerful trilling of courting birds. It was criminal, he thought, to be spending the day indoors. Brenna wouldn’t even get a breath of it, locked as she was inside a box, with no more visual or sensory stimulus than a sterile hospital room, artificial light, and recycled air.

  It made him want to break her loose, pull up a getaway car, and drive her the heck out of Dodge.

  He looked up, inspired. Maybe a mini-breakout. He got up, taking his milk glass and cereal bowl with him. He had calls to make.

  “Morning, Sunshine,” Daniel said, entering Brenna’s room, leaving a small wicker picnic basket on the floor in the passageway where she couldn’t see it. James, exiting the bathroom looking tired but freshly-washed, smiled approvingly. Daniel handed him his keys. Change of guard.

  Brenna switched her gaze from the window and watched him approach. The corners of her mouth lifted fractionally, the best a depressed person could muster, he supposed. He bent over her and planted a kiss on her mouth. He made a point of touching her as much as he could during the course of a day—resting his hand over hers, stroking her ankle, petting her hair—anything to keep her connected. Often, he sat next to her on the bed, keeping her accustomed to his proximity, as if she were something wild that needed gentling. “I have a surprise for you today.”

  “What?”

  He held up his hand. “Have to wait.” He wanted the day to warm up more. “This is the anticipatory stage.”

  Daniel remembered the EBS baseball cap tucked under his arm. “Oh! This is for you.”

  She took the navy blue cap with the EBS logo and turned it in her hands. “You’re handing out promotional goods? What are you up to?”

  He pinched his thumb and index finger together, put them to his lips, and twisted them like an imaginary lock.

  Her smile, this time, touched more of her eyes.

  Atta girl.

  “So,” he said. “Scootch over and tell me about your night. Did James snore and keep you awake?”

  Around noon, there was a tap on the door, and it swung open. Brenna’s day nurse came in, pushing an empty wheelchair. “You ordered a taxi?”

  “I sure did,” Daniel said, turning to Brenna. “Surprise time.”

  The nurse, a tall, young, crew-cut Navy man with a name tag that identified him as Kevin Collins, rolled the chair to her bedside, locked the wheels, and swung the footrests out of the way.

  “Wha—?”

  “I’m busting you out for a picnic on the grounds.”

  Her face lit up. “You are?”

  Collins bent over the Wound-VAC, turned it off, and disconnected the plastic drain hose. “Two hours. Not a minute more. Then we have to plug her in again.”

  “We’ll start back a little early, in case there are traffic delays on the footpaths.”

  Collins dropped a pillow on the wheelchair seat. “Okay,” he told her. “Feet over the edge.

  She obeyed, wincing, moving carefully.

  Collins positioned himself in front of her. “Move forward to the edge. Good. Arms around my neck, and…up.”

  She stood, wobbling.

  “Okay, rotate in place. Step back. Hands on the armrests, and…down. Good,” he said, swinging the footrests back into position one at a time, lifting her feet onto them. He pushed the brake levers off. “You’re set.”

  Daniel plucked the baseball cap off the bedside table and set it on her head. “My lady, your disguise. Now, if we put a pillow on your lap, do you think you can carry the picnic basket?”

  “You brought a basket? A real basket?”

  “Better take a blanket, too, sir. Those gowns are thin.”

  “Good idea.” It was warm out, but she was still weak.

  The exterior glass doors slid open automatically. Daniel pushed Brenna out into the springtime, and stopped, giving her a moment to take it in. She tipped her face up to the sun, closed her eyes, and sighed with delight.

  Visitors eddied around them.

  He bent over her shoulder. “More?”

  “More.”

  He rolled forward, smoothly following sidewalks and paved walkways in the direction Collins had described, where there was a secluded picnic table far from the buildings but not too close to the traffic on the major roads surrounding the campus. When he found the table, he parked the chair alongside it and locked the brakes. He took the basket off her lap and started setting things out.

  “Real dishes? Silver-silver? Champagne flutes?”

  “Plus—” He pulled the plastic wrap off a small plate of finger sandwiches with a flourish. Women liked little petit-four type things and he was hoping to get her to eat. He swung the plate down in front of her as if he were the server at a five-star restaurant.

  She burst out laughing. “They’re cut out like…bunnies?”

  He jiggled his eyebrows. “The ears are a delicacy.”

  With two fingers, she plucked one off the top of the stack and bit off the ears. “Mmm.”

  “Good, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she said, chewing, using her little finger to cover her mouth while she answered. She swallowed, and popped in the rest of the sandwich.

  “And—” He set down the sandwiches and pulled out a bottle of Evian, which he held over his forearm like a sommelier for her to inspect the label. “Madame approves?”

  “Fresh water. A classic.”

  He had seen her marveling when the techs placed fresh pitchers of ice water at her bedside morning and afternoon. Water, appearing miraculously, abundantly, without gunfire. He filled the champagne flutes, then brought out fresh pineapple, kiwi fruit, strawberries, pieces of cheese, crackers. Things that were healthful and rare in a place like Kavsak, but little, manageable bits that weren’t as overwhelming as a full meal.

  She pieced contentedly, a nibble here, a nibble there, with pauses to enjoy the open space, the fresh air, the sunshine.

  At the end, when he thought she had eaten all she could, he proffered chocolate. “Dark, or milk?”

  “Dark,” she said, accepting the small square he held out. He watched her mouth as she ate it slowly, visibly delighting in its smooth sweetness. When the last bit was gone, she licked her fingers, and dropped her hands into her lap.

  He popped a bunny, whole, into his mouth, enjoying the peace, glad he had gotten her outdoors.

  “Listen,” she said.

  He lifted his chin, tipped his head, and identified the ambient sounds. Distant traffic, sparrows chipping in the trees, the ever-so-faint rustle of new leaves in the merest breeze. “No artillery,” he said.

  She caught his hand, pulled it against her chest, pressed her lips against his fingers, and closed her eyes. Her contentment turned to melancholy. “This has been so lovely. Thank you. This is something to remember.”

  A ribbon of fear fluttered through him. You’re a nice guy, but.

  “I was thinking,” he said, racing toward the precipice. “There’s no reason for you to convalesce in the hospital, closed in. I found out they have
portable Wound-VACs. You could come home with me. We can arrange for a visiting nurse. I can bring you in for physio, and whatever appointments—”

  She cut him off. “Daniel. I recognize courtship when I see it.”

  He lowered his head, pressed his fingers against his eyelids. Wipeout. Too much, too soon. He lifted his face, tried for a grin. “Shouldn’t have strutted the peacock tail, huh?”

  “You’re more like those Australian birds that weave elaborate bowers and seed them with shiny things to lure the females.”

  He thought of his silverware, his picnic basket, his effort to get her home. She was right. All he had to do was dance for her. Oh, wait. He had. In Kavsak.

  She studied him. “This is a mistake for you. A beautiful, charmingly-executed mistake.”

  The bottom fell out of his heart.

  “I made a mistake too, that night in Kavsak. I trapped you. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

  He shook his head, knowing where she was taking him. This was the prelude to goodbye.

  “I was scared. I needed connection. I asked you not to leave me, and that wasn’t right. Not during sex, when a man isn’t thinking right. It was heat of the moment—for me, when I asked, and for you when you promised. I’m not holding you to it.”

  “I’m not—”

  She overrode him. “You need to think this through, Daniel. I’m broken. Used up. Crazy, for god’s sakes. This is the real world. Can you honestly picture yourself walking into your church with me on your arm? Or the Broadcaster’s Association dinners with the Queen of the Billiard Ball setting off waves of bawdy stories? Tell me you see yourself down the road with a woman who won’t give you children.”

  But I love you, he wanted to say. I love you anyway, despite all that. “Hon—”

  She plowed brutally onward. “Cut your losses before you get in any deeper. Run. Take your head start. A few light bruises now will save you the beating you’ll take if you stay in this. There are perfectly decent women who would love your sandwiches, and not disappoint you the way I will. Because I will, I assure you. I’ll embarrass you. I’ll shame you. I’ll hurt you. Personally and professionally. We’ve only known each other a few days. You have no idea who I am or what I’ve done.”