“Go ahead.”
“For the record,” he said, glancing at the desk drawer. “I’m petrified. I want you to live. Desperately want that. What I said in the hospital about suicide was reckless and stupid of me and I wish to God I hadn’t.” He ran his palm down her cheek and walked out, leaving her alone in the room with the scissors.
She watched him until he turned out of sight. She dropped her eyes to her lap and saw her wrists. She turned them. Daniel Loves Me, he had written on the left. James loves me, on the right.
Love tattoos, lettered over veins that throbbed with every heartbeat.
She lay back and closed her eyes. Daniel Loves Me. How did he do that? Hold her so tightly, with his hands wide open? His kind—not brutal—hands.
Late that night, after James and Gary returned, after he got them settled for the night, Daniel threw a pillow and a light quilt on the family room couch, switched off the lamp, and lay back, hands cupped behind his head.
He was sleeping near Brenna in case she needed him overnight, but the suicide watch was officially over, even though her risk was decidedly not. She was sleeping in the room with the scissors, a house with sharp knives in the kitchen, razor blades in a tool box, poisons under the kitchen sink. A few blocks away, speeding cars shot down Connecticut Avenue. Metro trains whizzed past the platforms. The means of self-destruction were everywhere. She was free to choose.
“Oh, my,” his mom had said when he told her about the day’s developments, and the approach he had taken to get her to come home with him. She was a clinical psychologist. Those two small words were as close as she ever got to saying “Holy shit, have you lost your mind?”
Although empowering a patient was a valid strategy in principle, Brenna was volatile. Twice, she had yielded to suicidal impulse—in the clearing, and with Aleksandar. He wasn’t sure if her refusal for care at the hospital had been despair, resignation, or a third attempt.
Combat photographers experienced PTSD as much as soldiers did, his mom told him. Even more, in some respects. Exposed to the same horrors, they examined them more closely to get their pictures. Soldiers went into war trained for combat. Journalists did not. Soldiers carried weapons to defend themselves. Journalists did not. Soldiers obsessed about getting home. Brenna had no home. And while troops had the support of their buddies, Brenna was a loner.
The risk factors were not insubstantial.
Moreover, once back—after an initial period of respite—combatants often became increasingly estranged from their families and society. Civilians couldn’t relate to what they had experienced. Normalcy seemed banal. They felt empty, purposeless. Depression set in. They missed the intensity, the simplicity of life and death struggle, the camaraderie of survival. Many re-enlisted.
One in five committed suicide.
He scoffed aloud at himself. Against all that, he’d offered her whimsical sandwiches and marker scribbles on her wrists.
Oh, my, indeed.
He punched the pillow, rearranging it under his head.
His mom suggested some concrete things he could do—be sure she ate, slept, took her medications, exercised as much as she could tolerate. “The better her underlying physical health, the better she can cope with the mental and emotional challenges. Also, don’t let her isolate herself. Keep her engaged. She’ll have reduced concentration, less patience, a tendency to irritability, so try small things. Give her flowers to arrange in a vase for the dinner table, seeds to plant in pellet pots, that sort of thing.”
“The sort of jobs you gave me, when I went home?”
“The harder the break,” she went on, “the smaller the shards from which to reconstruct, and the longer it takes to reassemble.”
“The less structurally sound?” He was thinking of himself when he asked.
“Some things just change your life, Daniel. They leave you fragile in certain ways, yes. It doesn’t mean you can’t lead a fulfilling life.”
“Fragile, like having three miscarriages, Ma, and then your only living son goes off to war for specious reasons?”
She hesitated before replying. “Mortality lies at the core of the human experience. Sometimes I rail. Now, very importantly, if Brenna wants to talk about Kavsak, listen. But don’t push her, especially not about the ‘awful thing’ she mentioned to her brother. Tell him too, not to push her. I can’t emphasize this enough—”
“But if that’s what’s eating her, doesn’t it make sense to get it out?” he asked.
“It’s less about revelation than it is about protecting the patient during the disclosure. You have to manage the fall, then help her rebuild. Whatever this is, she’s terrified of fully remembering it. Don’t pick at her psychic wounds, Daniel. You could open something that bleeds her out.”
His mom offered to help find her a psychologist who specialized in PTSD in the D.C. area, and who had enough experience to deal with a complex patient.
“Dad and I will be there soon for the conference. Once I meet her, I can get an idea of who might be a good match personality-wise, maybe do a little networking for her if she’d like that.”
“Can’t we just find her someone, now?”
“Psychotherapy requires buy-in. She can sit in front of God and achieve nothing if she isn’t committed to the process.”
He sighed. “This is so nerve-wracking. I can’t believe you do this for a living.”
“Over the years, I’ve lost a couple patients, dear. Even when the relationship is professional, it’s devastating.” She paused. “Which brings us to you, and the risk you face in this. If she doesn’t survive, you’re going to free-fall. Are you sure you can take that again?”
Daniel turned on his side and stared out the French doors at the leafy shadows in his garden. No. He wasn’t sure. But as long as Brenna allowed him to help her, he wouldn’t abandon her.
She said she wasn’t a good woman. That she did something awful. James’ words had been marching through his head like soldiers drilling on parade grounds, going back and forth, getting nowhere.
What had pushed Brenna over the edge? In a general way, he knew. Five children had been in their care, and they were lost. But how they had been lost, and how had her saving his life become ‘something awful’?
He was trying to piece the story together, but the fragments didn’t make sense. Voice out of hell. Valkyries. Valhalla. The Valkyries, from Norse mythology, burst through the clouds on horses, selected a worthy warrior from the battlefield, and took him to Odin, god of war, in Valhalla. Brenna had folded her thumb into her palm separately from her other fingers. Valkyries take the boy to Valhalla. Which boy was the warrior? Heckle, Jeckle, or Mr. Fierce?
Mr. Fierce. Had to be. Heckle and Jeckle could scarcely hold their heads up. Mr. Fierce had teeth, and he used them. The warrior.
Good God. Had she seen him be killed?
Okay, he thought, pushing his grief aside, so say Mr. Fierce was killed. By whom? Aleksandar? It seemed doubtful. The boy had resisted Brenna’s provocation to pull the trigger when he already had his gun at her throat. Who was Aleksandar, anyway? Just some kid with a rifle? Or was he a soldier—Nationalist? Separatist?—separated from his platoon?
He ransacked his memory, trying to recall the jumbled story she’d told him that day at the hospital. Dragoslav was going to eat him later. Did someone named Dragoslav kill Mr. Fierce? To eat him? Who in blazes was Dragoslav? When did he appear? If there were two armed men, how did she get away? Did they just come in, kill Mr. Fierce, and depart? What was the point of that? Luc hinted that if she had been captured, the Nationalists could have used her to advantage against her father in the Vienna negotiations. Had they not realized who she was?
And how could Mr. Fierce’s death be tied to Brenna saving Daniel’s own life?
As for the other four children, Luc said: That’s who she went back for. How did she get separated from them? He and Brenna had moved the children from Roza’s apartment. When had Jasha caught up to them? How had
Jasha and Brenna got him to the airport? If Jasha had carried him, say, Brenna still could not have moved four children by herself, even using a sling. Maybe she had been moving them, two at a time, relay-fashion, taking two, leaving two, going back and forth. But if that were true, wouldn’t she have arrived at the airport with two children, and had to go back for two, not four?
He tugged at the quilt, unable to settle his spinning brain. He could conjecture endlessly. Every scenario just led to more questions. Which he couldn’t ask her.
All he could be sure of was that something catastrophic had occurred.
Something that had saved his life, and broken hers.
“Daniel.”
Daniel was in Kavsak. Terrified.
Brenna was running ahead of him, down a dark passageway, disappearing into the night, and he couldn’t catch up. She’s going to get hurt. She’s going to die. His heart was thumping, lungs sucking oxygen, but he was immobilized, his legs snagged, and he couldn’t stop her. She was leaving him.
“Oh, Jesus, Brenna, no.”
“Daniel.” A man’s voice cut through his panic.
He woke, gasping, his chest rapidly rising and falling. Blinking against the brilliant light, he glanced around the room. He was home.
James’ partner, Gary, was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, elbows on his knees, hand on Daniel’s shoulder. In his early fifties, Gary was slightly older than James, a trim, sandy-haired, clean-cut man whom Daniel had liked instantly. Gary was remarkably positive for a man who spent his days helping people die.
Daniel sat up, glancing in the direction of Brenna’s room, unable to shake off his apprehension.
“She’s fine,” Gary said. “James is with her.”
Daniel released a noisy breath, trying to calm himself.
“Did you sleep at all?”
“A few hours, I guess.” He scrubbed his face with his hands. “Last time I looked at my watch, it was three-fifteen.”
“Brenna’s a fighter, you know.”
“Have you ever seen her this low before?”
“Sure. After Ari.”
“Every time you get knocked down, it’s harder to get up. I’m scared for her.”
“Me, too. But James tells me she’s soft-hearted for you.”
“I dunno, Gary. It’s so on and off.”
Gary waved off his protest. “Oh, that’s just Brenna. Love spooks her. She doesn’t trust it to work out for her. Someday I’ll tell you the mess she made of poor Ari’s courtship. Oh. My. God.”
Daniel sat back, groaning.
“Oh, honey, trust me. My man knows his sister. If he says she’s in love with you, she is. The point is, when Ari died, she had nothing to live for. Now, she’s down, but she has you. Lead with that. It’s your strong suit.”
He gave Gary a half-smile. The man had a way of giving a person hope. “And in day-to-day terms, any suggestions?”
“We keep her engaged ’til the meds and the psychotherapy kick in.”
Daniel set his bare feet on the cool floor.
“Meanwhile,” Gary continued, “I’m going to need some toiletries for her—also, a fresh pair of pajamas, and a leather belt.”
“I’ve got a nice pair of silk pajamas she can use. Let me say hi to her, and then I’ll go get them. The little bathroom beside her room is stocked with toiletries for guests. Just take whatever you need.”
“Okay.” Gary gave his arm a friendly pat, and stood up. “Come on. Let’s go poke the bear.”
Daniel followed Gary to Brenna’s room. James was sitting on the edge of her bed, chatting with her. She had fallen asleep before Gary arrived last night, so Gary hadn’t disturbed her when he came in. Seeing him this morning, her face lit up. “At last!” She sat up, held her arms out for a hug. “My Fairy Godmother!”
Gary leaned across James and embraced her warmly. “Hey, girlfriend.”
All the bedside spots were occupied so Daniel leaned against the doorframe, wishing she’d embrace him with the same enthusiasm she showed Gary. A kiss would have worked, too. But he was never sure how much physical contact she’d accept. Reaching for her was a bit like sticking your fingers inside a cage.
Casually evaluating her, Gary eased his hands down her outer arms to her wrists and gently turned them upward, exposing Daniel’s writing. “Autographs without a cast?”
Brenna bit her lower lip. “Daniel’s idea.”
Gary nodded. “Daniel,” he said, glancing over to him, “you mind if I add my name to the artwork?”
“Knock yourself out. Marker’s in the desk drawer.” Daniel aimed for a light tone. He and Brenna had not had a moment alone since he’d written on her wrist, and he wasn’t sure how she’d taken it. He tipped his head for a glimpse of her between James and Gary.
Brenna’s eyes slid to his, unreadable.
He pushed off the doorframe, found her ankle in the bedcovers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “Right after I shower and dress,” he said, “I’m making waffles. Home-made.”
While Gary helped Brenna wash up and change, Daniel spread a pound of bacon on a broiler pan, popped it in the oven, fired up the waffle iron, and mixed the batter. James set the table, squeezed fresh oranges for juice, and cut up a fresh fruit salad. They worked amicably but quietly, both of them tired.
Soon, the colorful serving plate that Daniel was keeping warm in the oven was piled high with waffles, and the table was prepared.
Gary and Brenna emerged from the little guest bathroom.
Seeing her, Daniel froze, empty batter-bowl in hand.
She was leaning heavily on the walker, arms trembling, legs wobbling each time she shuffled forward. Gary was walking behind her, steadying her with the leather belt he had buckled around her waist to hold her if she started to fall.
James, who was setting fresh yogurt and maple syrup on the table, looked up. A flicker of sadness played across his face. Another Rease who knew how to hide emotion, he quickly schooled his expression.
Her progress across the room was so slow, so obviously labored, Daniel’s heart sank. He turned away. Not wanting her to see his sorrow, he set the bowl in the sink and ran water into it.
Finally, she drew near the table. “Shall I sit anywhere, Daniel?”
He glanced at her, busying himself transferring the bacon to a serving plate. “Wherever you like.”
She chose Aya’s old spot, back to the kitchen, facing the full view of the garden through the French doors.
Gary helped her get seated, set the walker out of sight behind the couch, and pulled out the chair across from her. James sat beside him. Daniel set the bacon and waffles down in the middle of the table, tossed his navy blue pin-striped apron onto the kitchen peninsula, and sat beside Brenna.
“This looks great,” James said, sticking the serving fork into the topmost waffle while Gary used his fingers to pluck bacon onto his plate from the platter. James handed Daniel the waffles.
“Want to split one?” Daniel asked Brenna.
She nodded.
He pulled one off the stack onto his plate and handed the platter off to Gary. Using his knife and fork, he separated a quarter for Brenna, not convinced she could handle much more. He pinched the cut-off segment between his utensils and transferred the portion to her plate.
She stared at it, crestfallen.
It was golden, steaming, perfect, by his measure.
She held her hands in her lap, her thumb rubbing over his writing.
“Something wrong?”
“It’s square.”
“It’s delicious,” James said, covering his half-full mouth with the back of his wrist.
“What did you expect?” Gary asked, heaping yogurt and fresh fruit onto his waffle.
She darted a sideways glance at Daniel. “A design.”
His fork hesitated midway to his mouth, then continued. He took the bite, chewed. “Too risky,” he finally said. “Cut-outs are jinxed.”
Under the table, her fingers perch
ed briefly on his thigh, then fluttered off. “‘Once’ isn’t a pattern,” she said. “How could we be sure if we didn’t try again?”
She was asking for a second chance. “All right,” he relented. “But you have to eat the trim as well as the design.”
“Deal.” She straightened expectantly, while he reached in front of her.
He regarded the waffle a moment, then started cutting. “Okay,” he said. He rotated the plate, pulled the trim away, and a butterfly revealed itself. “Eat.”
She smiled, a hint of shyness at the corners of her mouth, and picked up her utensils. “Now it’s right.”
“Cheesh,” James bemoaned to Gary. “He’s going to turn her into one of those spoiled princesses.”
Gary flicked imaginary tresses with an exaggerated gesture. “Well, if I deserve it, so does she.”
“Ha.” Brenna retorted in her brother’s direction.
“Brenna, darling,” Gary said, continuing his parody. “Is my tiara still on straight?”
He was so outrageous, so full of good nature, they couldn’t help but laugh.
Fueled by Gary’s foolishness, breakfast purred smoothly along. While the men told stories and competed good-naturedly for the last waffle, the last slice of bacon, Brenna ate slowly, drank all her orange juice, and even accepted the two pieces of fresh kiwi fruit that Daniel slid onto her plate and declared out of bounds to everyone else.
Over coffee, she nose-dived.
“Gary.”
He broke off in mid-sentence, instantly alert to her.
“I need to lie down,” she whispered. Her forehead was sweaty, her skin pale. She had sat up too long.
Gary pulled the napkin off his lap and was at her side with the walker and the belt in the time it took Daniel to pull her chair back from the table.
“The couch okay?” Gary asked, threading the belt around her waist.
She nodded.
Daniel took the belt ends from him and buckled it while Gary clicked the walker open and positioned it for her.
James went to the bathroom for one of her pain killers and was back with a glass of water before Gary and Daniel eased her onto the couch.
Day Three Page 38
