She told herself that she stayed home the rest of the day because she hated having to report her every move. On a deeper, wordless level, however, she had become apprehensive of going anywhere for fear of what could happen. It was irrational since she didn’t even know what could happen…but her growing paranoia created a boundary she was hesitant to breach.
She cleaned her apartment, washed and dried every piece of laundry she could find, and even rummaged through her private storage space to see what she’d shoved in there after her most recent move two years ago. Military members often suffered from a slow growing population of boxes, many never opened from the previous changes of station. The scavenger hunt in a twelve by twelve dimly lit storage space was the only activity that managed to drag her mind from the looming concern about Colonel Roger Sanders.
She tripped on the cord of an old pole lamp, nearly landing on a dusty thirty six inch television, askew on its top sat a VCR. She felt a little guilty harboring these perfectly good electronics, now useless in storage since she’d bought her large flat screen and enjoyed movies on demand.
Further scrutiny revealed boxes containing things she didn’t know how she’d lived without, while others were filled with items which had been unexplainably kept. A large stuffed moose head with padded battery operated lips fell in the latter category. Had she denied herself a “Moose Smooch” for all these years? Shocking. She snickered, wondering how he’d even made the cut for the “packing pile” in the first place.
Johnnie sat on the floor, happily surrounded by half-filled containers of old treasures when she came across a book about World War II with a close up black and white photo of a seasoned veteran gracing the cover. He looked remarkably like her new friend from the cemetery, staring solemnly at the camera.
She stared at his eyes and the sudden charge in her core caused her to drop the book in her lap. The feeling was not bad, in fact, it was like an energized calm, but the suddenness and intensity scared her nonetheless. She shoved the book deep into a box and stood up. She surveyed the mess and decided it wasn’t going to go anywhere, and she needed to just get out of that space. Leaving the items as they were, she secured the outer door and returned to her apartment to decidedly disobey a direct order for the first time in her career.
After locking and blocking the doors – more to keep herself in than to prevent entry – and drawing the blinds, she turned on a movie channel and opened a bottle of beer.
A new sense of gratitude accompanied every morning when she actually awoke in her own bed. Feeling good, Johnnie arose Sunday morning, determined to own the day. While her coffee brewed, she padded barefoot outside to her newspaper box, retrieving the hefty weekend edition. She waved at one of her neighbors, completely at ease with the fact that she sported a lovely “bed head” and still wore her baggy pajama bottoms and oversized T-Shirt. She figured she showed less skin in her night clothes than on a running track and, as usual, was not concerned about her appearance.
Once back inside, she tossed the hefty paper on the coffee table, where it slid and scattered across the table surface onto the floor. This happened every week and it waited in total disarray, just as every other Sunday, as Johnnie fetched her bucket-sized coffee mug to settle in for the majority of the morning. Weekend soirée with her couch, paper and coffee; definitely this girl’s idea of a good time.
Circling the sofa as she balanced her coffee, she scanned news headers and pages strewn across and over the edge of the table. Oblivious to the faces of the first three sections, her eyes fell on the main page of obituaries and she instantly bashed her shin into the table. The enormous mug fell and struck the table top, shooting arcs of hot liquid across the day’s news.
Her ears began to buzz as she faced the handsome and confident image, a young version of Colonel Roger Sanders, United States Army. He looked proud, front and center of the obit page. The modest byline announced that the local World War II soldier had apparently died in peace, of natural causes, while visiting the state veteran cemetery on Friday. For most readers that morning, the story offered a romantic and touching end to the long life a decorated war hero who, leaving no survivors, had passed in a most fitting place and manner.
For Johnnie Carter, there was no romance or comfort as the words nearly seared across her consciousness. She sunk onto her couch, left hand absently resting on the soggy front page of the Daily Times.
In her daze, she completely missed the wet and fading headline, which was virtually at her fingertips:
China and Pakistan Partner in World’s Largest Oil Gas Pipeline Complex – On China’s Dime
Potential Major Game Changer for World Order
“Inconclusive,” “unspecified,” but “honorable.” Two out of the three descriptors were not exactly what Johnnie had in mind for wrapping up over a decade in the military. But, all things considered, the nature of her service and discharge were probably the least of her concerns right now. As she surveyed the fallout in her apartment left by the government contracted movers, she thought it was a perfect representation of the past six weeks; messy, disorganized, and a mere remnant of how it used to be.
Ready for a break after two days of total chaos, Johnnie located her Coke on the kitchen counter. It was the only intact and desirable looking item among partial food packages, crumbs and other small debris either rejected or created by the locusts cleverly disguised as Associated Van Lines employees. She always thought she kept a clean living environment till moving time rolled around. This was when food particles, dust creatures, escapee lids, rubber bands and buttons were inevitably unearthed by removal of larger items. She gave a small grunt as she lifted into a perching position on the countertop, there being nowhere else to sit now that her furniture was gone.
“Inconclusive,” “unspecified,” but honorable. Drawing the lukewarm soft drink through a straw, she allowed herself to consider the terminology.
As she suspected, the comprehensive medical tests had revealed nothing to explain her memory loss; the word offered to her and her commander was “inconclusive.” She was not ready to address the second term, even in the privacy of her thoughts, but she knew she’d scrounged the “honorable” characterization by the skin of her teeth.
Since the only logical explanation for her second disappearance was excessive alcohol consumption, the commander had given her a Letter of Reprimand for absence from duty; fortunately the first disappearance was written off as incident to shock after the car wreck. Unwilling to share the alternative explanation offered by Jeff regarding the night they’d met, she accepted the L.O.R. Her supervisor never knew about the cemetery occurrence…and, in reality, it hadn’t affected her duties and or anything else, other than her peace of mind.
Sliding off the counter, she further dissected the information, simultaneously exhaling a prolonged, “Soooooooooooooooo…….”
She had a penchant for thinking out loud when mentally processing things which made her particularly ill at ease. She hugged herself, further demonstrating her discomfort, as she thought that she may have been able to salvage her career even after all that had happened if only…. She mashed her eyes shut and shook her head in denial.
She opened and rolled her eyes, thinking, if only she hadn’t “woken up” on a bench in the local bus station, halfway through a Tuesday.
On a bench, covered in dog hair with funky dried excrement on her running clothes. With her head on the lap of a doting homeless man named Shirley.
More disturbing than the old guy’s name was his insistence that she’d rescued his ancient dog and best friend from the train track…. and made him “whole again.” Cringing and pacing the floor, she now recalled how Shirley told her that Colombo (the dog) had fallen asleep near the track and was too deaf to hear the speeding train, and too old to feel it, till after the locomotive (according to Shirley) had smashed his back leg.
She couldn’t even bring herself to mentally articulate the rest of that incident, other than the fact that she had barely
extricated herself from the tattered man and the very intact and affectionate Colombo when the military police came into the train station. They were looking for her, of course.
No, that hadn’t been a good day.
Captain Stass had reported her absence on that fateful Tuesday without delay and the commander subsequently called the military cops to locate her. They’d probably never have found her if the personnel at the train station hadn’t already called the local police to report the strange scene with the bloody dog, homeless man and equally bloody, unconscious woman wearing Air Force physical training gear. What was it they always said about real life trumping fiction?
She was in the living room now, where the couch had been, and she sunk to the floor amidst the rubble. During the past weeks, she’d begun to fall back on a childhood coping mechanism with which she’d isolate thoughts…while conveniently shutting others out. Now, she opened one more portal in her mind. With her weakening emotional stamina, she was probably testing her limits, but she needed to face the facts. All of them.
“Unspecified.” This was the hardest part of her discharge characterization to take, and the only one of the three terms that she was certain was completely out of whack. The mental health examination, required as a last ditch effort to explain her behavior as well as to save her from herself, had resulted in diagnosis of “Psychosis, Not Otherwise Specified” or Psychosis N.O.S. This mental health determination was accompanied by a recommendation for a discharge from the military since it rendered her unfit for duty. Technical Sergeant Johnnie Carter, super troop, unfit for duty.
Now lying back on the floor staring at the ceiling, Johnnie was unaware that her unruly hair acted as Velcro to the scattered litter. Rolling slightly to her right, she winced as she plucked a smashed packing tape roll from underneath the left side of her hindquarters.
Sliding into deeper thought, she considered, in retrospect, the only decent thing about the mental health process was the man who made it happen, Major Jon Benson, clinical psychologist. In an instant, no longer on the wasteland of her empty apartment floor, Johnnie was in his dimly lit office.
After a very thorough examination spanning two days, Major Benson sat opposite Johnnie in his office and pushed her case file into the masses of other paperwork on his desk. While she despised the prospect of receiving a psychological evaluation, she liked this man very much and that had improved her comfort level during the meeting. Fearful of further psycho-probes, she refrained from telling him she was extremely uncomfortable being alone with him. It certainly wasn’t because of anything about him personally, but because during sleepless nights and analysis of her circumstances she’d determined that questionable things only seemed to manifest when she was alone with someone…or in Colombo’s case, something. But she said nothing to the psychologist about any of these private considerations, focusing on every detail of their interaction, lest she “disappear” again.
The doctor was about her age; intent, kind and soft spoken, although clearly weary. The mountains of folders and paper on his desk were indications of his huge caseload, but his direct and personal disposition never let on that the individual opposite him was not the only person in the world. Even if she wanted to distrust this man, Johnnie simply wasn’t capable of doing so. It may have been her imagination, but the sentiment seemed mutual.
Rather than offering one of his usual conversation openers, he just leaned back and looked kindly, but almost regretfully, at her. They must be at a fork in the road. Her road.
The very same lump that had formed in her throat then, was back now. Of course, in her mind, Johnnie was back there…in his office, wearing her uniform…not laying on her floor in sweats. Back at the point of spilling it all.
“So, Doc, how does this work? Do I have confidentiality with you?” She’d asked him bluntly, not belying the nerves that seemed to stand on end throughout her body.
He smiled quietly, appearing ever so slightly relieved. He had asked her repeatedly over the last two days if there was anything she wasn’t telling him.
“Yes. Unless I have reason to believe you will do harm to yourself, or others, and since you came to me voluntarily, yes. Within those boundaries, you have complete confidentiality.”
She remembered thinking she had nothing to lose and that was when she’d let it go. Everything. She’d started telling her story quietly and haltingly, staring at the dingy floor, dim ceiling or anywhere but directly at him.
After shooting occasional furtive looks at his face and seeing no recoil or signs that he was judging her, she relaxed and told him all of the things she’d kept to herself over the past days. So much of it relied on what others said, not necessarily what she believed, but it was all she had to offer since she didn’t remember what happened, and didn’t know what she believed. Astoundingly, he took no notes and showed no signs of discomfort whatsoever. And he never took his eyes off hers.
She finished it all by telling him Shirley’s story of how he’d set his broken dog down outside the rear of the train station to go for help and returned to find his hairy friend completely healed standing protectively over Johnnie’s prone body. Shirley had carried her to the bench inside… and it was shortly after that she awoke. That was it.
Having said all she had to say, she simply halted. It was as if she had expelled every word left in her soul.
Major Benson could have whipped out the straight jacket right then and there and she would have offered no resistance. The confession left her cathartic and exhausted. And relieved.
And he was spellbound. He looked at her in a way that made her forget his uniform and position. It was as though she had simply confided because she wanted to and he’d listened for the same reasons.
After a very long silence, she said, “I’m not lying…I really don’t remember anything during those times. But just because they said I did those things, doesn’t mean I did.”
“True. And it doesn’t mean you didn’t.”
Still deep in recall while sprawled on her floor, Johnnie felt, again, that if he had sprouted a second head, she may have been less shocked than she had been upon hearing his words.
Recovering from his statement, she’d looked away, wondering if they were both crazy.
“You don’t actually believe all that do you?” She asked cautiously, still not looking at him, but listening intently for his answer.
“I don’t know…I wasn’t there. I can’t prove most things I believe in this job; it’s largely about checklists of symptoms and probability. It is not a science. But personally and professionally I don’t think I need to see something to believe it. That is not to say I necessarily believe things happened the way these people told you. But I believe you and I can discern no obvious signs of delusion or mental illness.” He’d spoken matter-of-factly and without flourish. Then he surprised her by leaning forward, elbows on knees, saying with a smile, “But I must say, I’m intrigued by the possibilities.”
Although she had been grateful that he didn’t handle her with kid gloves or denounce her as a basket case, this last statement just wasn’t what she needed either. “The possibilities” were things she had categorized in her “denial” files and after the past few weeks, she had refused to go near those files.
“Lookit, Doctor, I appreciate more than you know that you aren’t treating me like a nut case. I realize most crazy people don’t think they’re crazy and the fact that I am sure I’m not may appear to make me delusional, so your professional assessment matters to me personally. But even if you COULD go on record with those thoughts, I don’t think I’d want you to. There are a lot of things I don’t know right now. So please give me some absolutes. I’m not ready to think about lifelong implications, so could you please help me sort out short term stuff? Career implications?”
Knowing he’d gone out on a limb with his most recent statements, Jon Benson pursed his lips and looked at this woman whose physical appearance was much more average than her story. But t
o him, she was utterly compelling. He was too much of a professional to allow himself to blur the lines, so he focused and spoke.
“Fair enough.” By his change in posture, she could see him slide back into his officer rank and professional role. She felt a twinge of regret, but also relief. Black and white. She needed black and white; the gray was too frightening.
“Let’s put the cards you’re willing to share, which are frankly the only cards we can play, on the table. The things that can cause the memory loss condition range from Dissociative Identity Disorder to fugues to post traumatic stress disorder. There’s bi-polar, which you are not. There is a very, very remote chance of schizophrenia, but you are older than the common age of onset, not to mention you just don’t have the other associated symptoms. You don’t have the symptoms for any of the likely causes of your behavior, as a matter of fact. Even with what you can remember of your somewhat dysfunctional upbringing and your multiple deployments, I don’t see PTSD as a factor, although I could be wrong.” He smiled with the last addition. “As I said, it’s not a science.”
She hung on his every word, but had a nagging question.
“OK… I don’t believe this, but I have to ask. Especially since you know everything now.” She was petrified, but had to say what was on her mind or she’d wonder until her life got back on track; unless the answer indicated it would never be on track.
“Well, what about multiple personalities…you know, like Sybil? I don’t believe it, but I have at least four people that witnessed me doing things I have no memory of…”
Her intonation went up at the end, posing a lingering question.
He smiled, but not condescendingly.
“I should have covered that possibility more clearly, since general knowledge of that area is so misunderstood. You are talking about Dissociative Identity Disorder, or D.I.D. And I’ll tell you, it is extraordinarily rare, if it exists at all.” He had to laugh at her reaction to his last comment, and he held a hand up, suggesting she let him finish.
The Unlikely Savior (The Unlikely Savior Trilogy) Page 8
