At First Light

by Mari Madison

  She gazed at me, her expression softening. “And I love that,” she assured me. ‘It’s just . . . I worry about you. I want you to get better—of course I do! But not because I want it. But because you want it, too.”

  “I do want it. I’m not a fool, Sarah. Of course I want my life back. And I promise you, I will make it happen. I will make that appointment.”

  “Okay. Then do it.”

  “Wait, what?”

  She grabbed my phone off the nightstand. “Make the appointment.” She handed me the phone then reached over to her side of the bed for her handbag. “I actually did some research and found a list of good doctors who specialize in PTSD. They mostly deal with veterans, of course, but I figured your case is so similar . . .”

  “I can find a therapist, Sarah,” I said, cutting her off. “I know how to use Google, too, you know.”

  Her face fell, hurt welling in her eyes. I sucked in a breath, closed my eyes and tried to reset. When I opened them again, I gave her a rueful smile. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’d love to see your list. I’ll go online right now and make an appointment. For first thing tomorrow morning if that works with our schedule at News 9.”

  “I’ll make it work,” she assured me, her face glowing with excitement. “No problem at all. Oh, Troy. Thank you. This is the right choice, I promise. You’ll see.”

  I nodded slowly, pasting a smile on my face. She looked so happy. So relieved. And it caused something inside of me to squirm uncomfortably, though I wasn’t exactly sure why. Of course I should get help. It would be stupid not to get help.

  So why was my noble effort of good faith to prove myself to her becoming more and more terrifying by the second?

  thirty-four

  TROY

  Dr. Remington’s office looked like it had been beamed straight out of a Hollywood film set with its large, built-in bookcases, a cozy plaid armchair, and the requisite couch in the center of the room. As I entered, she motioned for me to take a seat on said couch, then settled into her armchair, grabbing a pen and paper. I obliged, praying she wasn’t going to suggest I actually lie down. I didn’t need to become cliché on top of everything else.

  “So, Troy,” she said, looking down at her notes. “I want to start out with full disclosure and let you know that I have heard of you and your situation. At least what they’ve said on the news. But there’s no judgment here. No preconceived notions. I don’t want to talk about other people’s versions of your story. I want to hear it from you.”

  I nodded, wringing my hands together in front of me. My heart was pounding in my chest and my breaths were shallow. I tried to focus on what she was saying, but the blood rushed past my ears, making it difficult to hear her.

  Dr. Remington gave me a stern look. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Are you feeling anxious, sitting here, talking to me?”

  “It’s not exactly a day at Disney,” I admitted, feeling my face heat. “But I’m fine.”

  “Hm,” she said, taking down a note. I strained to look, but couldn’t read what she’d written down. Then she looked up. “Why don’t you start by telling me what’s been going on in your life the past few months? Since you returned home.”

  And so I did, haltingly at first. The words seeming to stick in my throat. Dr. Remington listened without saying much, taking a few more notes down in her notebook. I tried not to let the idea that I didn’t know what she was writing distract me, but of course it did. I also tried to remind myself that she heard stories like this all the time—many of them, I imagined, much worse cases than mine. She wasn’t going to judge me or think poorly of me because of something I admitted here. That was her whole job, after all.

  Still, I decided not to mention barricading my door against the reporters. That was still a little too embarrassing to admit out loud.

  “Okay,” she said, when I finished up. “Listening to what you’ve told me, I’d completely recommend medication as a start. We could put you on an antidepressant. There are many great ones out there. We could try one and see how it goes and then reassess if it’s not doing any good or giving you too many unwanted side effects. A correct medication should stabilize your moods. Make the anger and anxiety you’re experiencing go away. Help you regulate your sleeping and make you comfortable at work.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I don’t want medication.”

  I waited for her to argue like the first guy I had seen had. Singing the praises of modern medicine and how it had the power to make everything painful in life magically disappear.

  Instead, she surprised me by nodding her head.

  “Okay,” she said. “That’s your choice. And if you change your mind, the option is always there. In the meantime, I would then suggest we look into cognitive behavioral therapy as an alternative. It’ll help you become more aware of your thoughts and feelings and help wrestle them back under control. I’d also like to try some prolonged exposure therapy. That would mean putting yourself in situations that cause you anxiety and stress. The kind of situations you’ve probably been avoiding. Studies show the more you can confront these situations the more your distress will eventually decrease.”

  My heartbeat picked up in my chest. “Like what?” I asked warily. “It’s not like I can just go back overseas and relive the whole cave thing.”

  “No. Of course not. But you can talk about it.”

  I stared at her. “What do you mean?”

  “Have you told anyone what happened to you down in that cave?”

  “Sure. The government. The military. I was debriefed pretty hardcore when they rescued me.”

  “I’m not talking some dry chronological account of the events,” she clarified. “I want to talk about what actually happened to you. And, most importantly, how you felt while it was happening to you.” She shrugged. “Talking through the trauma can work like virtual exposure. It can help you take control of your thoughts and feelings when it comes to the trauma. In other words, the more you can talk through it, the less power it will have over you.”

  I bit my lower lip. “Okay. I guess.” My pulse thrummed uncomfortably at my wrists. Really not liking the idea of having to air my dirty laundry to a complete stranger.

  She’s just trying to help you, I scolded myself. Just like she’s helped soldiers coming back from the war. That’s her whole job. It’s nothing personal.

  Besides, what else could I do? If I wasn’t willing to take medication, this was the only other option, as far as I could see.

  For Sarah, I told myself. You man up for Sarah.

  “We can try right now, if you’re up for it,” she said, pulling out a tape recorder and setting it on the desk. I eyed it warily.

  “What’s that for?”

  “I tape your stories,” she said. “And I give you the tapes at the end. Then you’ll go home and listen to them from start to finish. Not just once, but every day. While you listen, I want you to record your anxiety levels on a scale from one to ten. The idea is the more times you listen, the more control you get over the narrative. Your anxiety should start to lessen. In the end, if we are successful, you should be able to talk to your loved ones about what happened over there and feel very little distress by doing it.”

  “But . . .” I shook my head, now completely unnerved. “I don’t want it to mean nothing. It changed my life. I can’t just let it go and make it nothing.”

  “If you can’t, then you’ll never be able to move forward with your life,” she said sternly. “Is that what you want?”

  “No. Of course not.” I raked a frustrated hand through my hair. What I wanted, at this point, was to get up and walk out that door and never come back. But I’d promised Sarah I’d do this. I couldn’t bear the disappointed look I knew I’d see on her face when she learned that I’d failed.

  “Okay then. Now, before we get started, how is your anxiety level right no
w?”

  I squirmed in my seat. “On a scale of one to ten? About fifty.” I snorted.

  She gave me a sympathetic smile. “Understood. And that’s fine. But let’s try to bring it down a notch before we get into this. I want you to think of something, now, that makes you happy. That makes you feel peaceful and calm. It could be a beautiful sunny day. An adorable little pet. Even a pleasurable sexual experience might work. Whatever it takes to bring that level down. Not to zero, necessarily—you’re going to feel anxious the first time you tell your story—that’s pretty much a given. But if it starts to feel like too much, like your skin is crawling and your heart is pushing through your chest, you can stop. You can think about this good thing again, dial it back down. You have that power.”

  I swallowed hard. She made it sound so simple. And maybe it was. Maybe I’d been overthinking this whole thing all along. Maybe this could actually work.

  A thin strand of hope seemed to wind its way through me and I breathed in deep, searching my mind for something that made me peaceful and happy.

  Or, more precisely, someone.

  “What are you thinking about?” Dr. Remington asked. “What’s brought that smile to your face?”

  I felt my cheeks redden. Had I been smiling? I let out a nervous laugh. “There’s this girl. She’s my ex, actually. But we’ve been talking a lot since I’ve been back. Well, sometimes more than talking . . .” Now my face was burning red.

  “Do you want her back in your life?”

  “God yes. I want her to be my life. But I’m not worthy of her. Not like this. I need to get better. To be the man she needs me to be.”

  “That’s a great motivation, Troy. Okay, think of this girl for a moment. Think of her arms wrapping around you, holding you close. Maybe stroking your hair. She loves you. She will keep you safe. No matter what you say, no matter where your memories take you, she will be there. And you will be safe. Okay?” After I nodded, she pressed record on the tape recorder. “Okay. Now tell me about the day you were kidnapped.”

  “I was delivering a news broadcast,” I said slowly, each word taking an effort to form in my mouth. “I was reporting live on this attack of Damascus. The network had told me not to go to the area—that it was too dangerous.” I made a face. “But I laughed at them. I told them we’d be fine. I knew the area. I knew the people. I thought . . .” I let out a breath. “I was stupid and cocky and reckless.”

  Dr. Remington nodded. She didn’t make a note this time, thank God. “Go on,” she said instead.

  “As I was doing my live shot, this guy came up behind me and grabbed me. He was wearing a mask. I tried to fight, but he put a gun to my head. Told the folks back home that I would be executed tomorrow if the government did not agree to their demands.”

  When I paused, for breath, Dr. Remington looked at me. “Okay,” she said. “Those are the facts of what happened to you. Now, I want you to dig deeper. What was going through your mind? What emotions did you feel?”

  I squirmed in my seat. “I was fucking scared, of course,” I blurted out after a moment. “I mean who wouldn’t be? I thought I was going to die!”

  “You were scared,” Dr. Remington repeated. “What else?”

  I raked a hand through my hair. I could feel my heart pick up its beat. “I was . . . angry, I guess. And annoyed in a way. Like I kept thinking I had this dinner that night with the network brass. And I wasn’t going to make it.” I gave a brittle laugh. “How stupid is that? I knew I was going to probably be killed and I was mad I was missing a dinner date.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What else did you feel?”

  “I don’t know.” Now my heart was pounding in my chest. I tried to remember that moment as it happened. “I guess . . . damn.” I sucked in a breath. “I guess I felt lucky, okay?” I stammered at last. “And guilty, too. They killed my producer. My cameraman. Right then and there. They weren’t valuable enough to take I guess. I don’t know. I was the big bad celebrity reporter and they weren’t shit.”

  My voice cracked. “Except that they were. They were awesome. They were my friends. They were fathers. They had children waiting for them to come home. And I was the one who put them in danger.” I could feel the tears stream down my cheeks now but didn’t bother to brush them away. “They didn’t want to come. They wanted to do what the network said and play it safe. But I dragged them there anyway. I even teased them that morning, calling them cowards.” My voice broke. “But they weren’t cowards. They were brave. They were so brave and they died because of my arrogance. And I’ll never be able to forgive myself for that.”

  “Okay. That’s good. That’s really good,” Dr. Remington said.

  Rage exploded inside of me. “That’s not good!” I cried. “I might as well have pulled the trigger myself. They died and I was able to walk away unscathed. How is that even fair?”

  I lurched to my feet, knocking over a nearby potted plant. It crashed to the floor, dirt and pottery flying everywhere. Broken, destroyed, because of me. Just like Tom and Joe had been. Because of me.

  Because of me.

  “I need to go,” I said.

  “No. You need to sit down. Get back to your safe place.”

  “My safe place?” I repeated incredulously. “Are you even kidding me right now? Why should I have a safe place? Tom and Joe didn’t get a safe place. They got their heads blown off. Why should I even be here? No one even cares that I’m alive. They had kids, damn it. Kids and wives and families. They should have been the ones to survive, not me!”

  My mind whirled, my stomach cramped. I leaned over, wondering if I was going to puke. I had to get out of here. Now.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to go.”

  And with that, I ran out the door.

  thirty-five

  SARAH

  How’d it go?” I asked, rising from my seat as Troy walked into the entertainment office late that afternoon. I’d been on pins and needles the whole time, waiting for him to return. Wondering how it would go with the psychiatrist I’d helped him line up. I knew Rome wasn’t built in a day, and that it would be a long time, likely, before we saw any solid results. But it was a step in the right direction. And I was so proud of him for taking it.

  The rest of the day in Mexico had gone by in a delicious blur. We’d made love a few more times, then actually gone downstairs to check out the pool. We swam for a while, then walked the beach and had dinner at a little seaside restaurant that served the best fish tacos I’d ever eaten. After that, we headed back to the room, both exhausted. We tried to continue watching Sunset Boulevard off of my iPad, but we both fell asleep almost immediately. I had a feeling we were never going to finish that movie.

  In short, it had been the perfect day. But when we woke up the next morning, things felt a little weird again. I guess it was the idea of going back to civilization. We’d successfully hidden out from our problems, in this little pod of paradise south of the border. But that didn’t mean they had gone away. Ryan was still out there. My home was still unsafe. Troy probably still had reporters camped outside his front door. And he had to go back to work.

  But he was going to get the help he needed. And that was a victory in and of itself. One major concern, taken away. And so we packed up our bags and headed back north, grabbing the rental car outside his apartment and promising to rendezvous at work after his appointment.

  He flashed me a smile now. One that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “The session was great,” he said. “Well, I mean as great as it could go, being what it is.”

  My shoulders dropped in relief. A part of me—a very small part—had worried that he would chicken out at the last minute. Refuse to go. In fact, I’d almost volunteered to drive him and wait in the car for him to finish. But I didn’t want him to think I thought he was some child who cou
ldn’t follow through with his promises. Plus, he had to do this on his own, for himself. Otherwise it wasn’t going to work in the end.

  I placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m proud of you,” I whispered. “This is a huge step. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” he said, stepping backward, out of my reach. I frowned, a small thread of worry winding through me. But I pushed it back down. Again, it wasn’t as if he’d just returned home from a morning at the beach. He was bound to be a little emotionally unstable, maybe a little stressed out, too, after being forced to bare his soul to a stranger.

  I wanted to ask him everything. How it went, what she said, what her plan of treatment would be? Did she bring up medication? Did Troy refuse it once again? Did she offer an alternative plan? And was he more amenable to that?

  But I kept my mouth shut. This was not my business. Therapy was a very personal thing—between him and his doctor. If he wanted to share it with me, he would. Otherwise I needed to just be grateful he was going in the first place.

  I decided to change the subject. “So,” I said, “we have a screening to go to this afternoon. One you might actually like. They say it’s a reimagining of Vertigo. Initial reviews have been extremely positive. Charlize Theron is playing the Madeline character.”

  He smiled. “That sounds pretty cool, actually. Maybe we can even smuggle in some popcorn.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed, feeling my body relax. See? It was all going to be okay. We could go to the movie, eat our popcorn. Maybe even cuddle a little in the back row, just like old times. It sounded like heaven.

  Almost a bit like a happy ending at last.