by J. J. Murray
This is getting to me, too. I have to remain objective. “Did Woodhull pay you that month?”
Timothy looked at Gloria. “Did they?”
Gloria nodded. “They even gave us money for his unused sick and vacation days and kept him on their health plan through the rest of that year and most of the next. They did right by us.”
No compensation there. “From that day on, did you leave this apartment?”
“No,” Timothy said.
I can’t even imagine that. “Do you have nightmares?”
“Yes, but I’d rather not tell you about them,” Timothy said.
“It might help your case,” Matthew said. “It can only help your case.”
“I doubt it,” Timothy said. “I was never in battle.”
“Try me,” Matthew said.
“I already told the army, and they said—”
“I need to hear your nightmares, Timothy,” Matthew interrupted.
Timothy looked at Gloria. “I don’t want her to hear them. I don’t want to give her nightmares.”
“I think she can handle it,” Matthew said. That is one tough woman.
Timothy leaned forward and looked only at his wife. “I should have told you already, huh? So you’d know why I couldn’t sleep.”
“It’s okay, Tim,” Gloria said. “You’re telling me now.”
Timothy took a deep breath and exhaled. “In the dream, I’m in a field of bloody arms and legs and there’s a boy with peach fuzz on his chin screaming at me to find his legs. Only I can’t find any that match and this one’s too long and that one’s too short and this one’s too wide and that one doesn’t have a foot and this one’s missing toes and the boy . . . keeps . . . screaming, ‘Don’t let them take my legs!’ ”
That would drive me insane. “How often do you have this dream?”
Timothy turned to Matthew. “Just about every time I close my eyes.”
“Have you tried sleeping pills?” Matthew asked.
“I won’t let her get me any,” Timothy whispered. “I might take them all. I’ve already put her through this hell. I don’t want to put her through more. I’ve been asking her to divorce me and go on with her life, but she won’t do it.”
Gloria left the couch and knelt in front of Timothy, taking his hand in hers. “And I never will.”
Timothy’s eyes welled with tears. “You’re too good for me, you know? God broke the mold when He made you.”
Matthew saw Angela wipe away another tear.
“Do you really think you can help me?” Timothy asked.
Matthew nodded. “I will do my best.” He turned off the recorder and put it in his pocket. Then he stood and shook Timothy’s hand. “I’m proud to know you, Timothy. Thank you for serving my country with distinction and courage.”
Timothy shook his head. “You shouldn’t thank me. I’ve still got my legs.”
“You helped save a lot of lives,” Matthew said. “And I know you’ll be using your legs again soon.”
Gloria rose and handed him a large envelope. “Here are Timothy’s service records.”
“Thank you,” Matthew said. “I have your number. I will be in touch.” He held out his hand to Angela, and she took it long enough to stand.
Angela nodded at Gloria, smiled at Timothy, and led Matthew to the door. In the hallway, she grabbed Matthew’s elbow, and they descended the stairs. Once outside, she released her grip and immediately headed toward Driggs Avenue.
“You okay?” Matthew asked.
“That was . . . pretty intense,” Angela said softly, glancing back.
“Yeah,” Matthew said, quickening his pace to keep up. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s due everything this country owes him,” Angela said.
“So do I,” Matthew said. “What do you think about their relationship?”
“It’s true,” Angela said. “It’s real.”
“There’s true love there, huh?” Matthew asked.
Angela nodded.
“For worse and for worser.” He offered his elbow again.
Angela took it.
She must have a thing for elbows. And speed. I need to wear my running shoes on our next not-a-date.
At the door to Angela’s shop, she rapidly unlocked the door and held it open. “You could come in for some coffee.”
An invitation. He stepped inside. “I should have some of your decaf. I’m having trouble sleeping.”
“I’ll put some on.” She locked the door behind them.
“You’re a master locksmith, Miss Smith,” Matthew said.
“Funny,” she said.
Matthew sat in his booth, Angela brought two cups, and they sat beside each other in silence, sipping and sighing.
“That hit the spot,” Matthew said. “I didn’t know decaf could taste so good.”
Angela stretched out her arms. “I’m magic.”
“Yes, you are,” Matthew said. And I mean it.
Angela yawned. “It’s getting so late. I am going to have trouble getting up tomorrow morning.”
I know what that means. “I guess I better be going then.”
He followed Angela out of the booth and to the door. “Thank you for another not-a-date.”
Angela opened two of the deadbolts. “It might have been a date.” She looked up at him. “It was mostly a date.”
“What is your definition of a date?” Matthew asked.
“Time spent with someone . . . you like,” Angela said.
She likes me. Well, she mostly likes me. “But you said it was only mostly a date.”
She unlocked four more locks and the main deadbolt. “You didn’t spend the entire time only with me, did you?”
“Ah,” Matthew said. “No work next time.”
Angela looked down. “If there is a next time.”
Hmm? “I hope there is. Don’t you?”
“Maybe,” she said.
She is so cute when she’s trying to be shy. Matthew stretched his arms, his hands dangerously close to Angela’s shoulders. “I will see you bright and early in the morning, Angela.”
“You look so tired,” Angela said. “Why don’t you sleep in? I can call you if anyone needs legal help. You do free consultations over the phone, too, right?”
That’s no fun. “And miss breakfast? I have nothing to eat in my apartment except last night’s pizza.”
Angela reached out her hand and touched his forearm. “You look worn out. The circles under your eyes have circles. Why don’t you get some extra sleep? I’ll call you if anyone needs to talk to you.”
Matthew rubbed her arm. “What if you need me, Angela?”
“I’ll . . . I’ll call you.” She slid her arm out from under his hand.
“I’ll keep my phone charged,” Matthew said.
“Good.” She opened the door. “Good night, Matthew.”
He turned in the doorway. I want to kiss her cheek so badly, and it’s only inches away. If this was only mostly a date, should I almost kiss her?
He stepped onto the sidewalk instead. “Good night, Angela. See you tomorrow night, right?”
Angela nodded and closed the door.
He watched her finish her routine of shutting off lights, and then he turned and headed home.
If she needs me, she’ll call. I hope she needs me. And even if she doesn’t, I hope she calls.
He flexed his elbow and winced. She has to have the strongest hands of any woman on earth. I may have “Angela elbow.” I may need to wear elbow pads from now on.
Chapter 19
Matthew slept in until noon, and when he woke, he called Angela.
The phone rang twelve times before going to voice mail.
She must really be busy. He left a message: “Thank you for suggesting that I sleep in, partner. I really needed the sleep. I’ll call you later, and I will be there to help you close. Bye.”
He spent the afternoon surfing the Internet and collecting information on PTSD, most of it from the M
ayo Clinic Web site. What he learned reinforced his belief that Timothy had a classic case of PTSD:
• PTSD triggers: war and its effects, rape, child abuse, physical attack, being threatened by a weapon, fire, natural disasters, a mugging, robbery, assault, civil conflict, car accident, plane crash, torture, kidnapping, life-threatening medical diagnosis, terrorist attack . . .
We should all have some form of PTSD from simply waking up in the morning and turning on the TV.
• Flashbacks, fear, nightmares, and overpowering thoughts are symptoms, and memories of the event refuse to go away. Early treatment is imperative. PTSD can show up anywhere from three months to years after the event.
Timothy didn’t get much treatment. I hope it isn’t too late to help him.
• PTSD sufferers ignore and reject other people, feel numb, and avoid doing things they once enjoyed. They feel hopeless. They have difficulty remembering things. They have trouble concentrating and difficulty maintaining close relationships. They are irritable, feel guilty, often drink too much, sleep little, are easily frightened, and hear or see things that aren’t there.
That last sentence could apply to the current Congress.
• Symptoms of PTSD come and go, particularly during times of great stress, and many who endure PTSD attempt or commit suicide. Doctors believe PTSD is caused by inherited risks of fear and depression, childhood trauma, and the way the sufferer’s brain works.
In other words, doctors don’t have many clues. It must be hard to gauge how a single event, such as 9/11, might not affect one person too badly while reducing another person to PTSD.
• Females, the depressed, people who live alone, and those who were abused as children seem prone to PTSD. Untreated PTSD can lead to heart disease, chronic pain, arthritis, thyroid disease, bone problems . . .
Okay, what specifically caused Timothy’s PTSD? Prolonged exposure to surgeries on wounded soldiers. Is it a chronic condition? Yes. He hasn’t left his apartment in two years. Does he have flashbacks? Yes. One flashback cost him a good job. Does he have nightmares? Every time he closes his eyes. Is he avoiding life in general? Yes. Does he seem numb? Yes. Does he have trouble sleeping? Yes. Is the relationship with his wife in danger? Yes and no. Is he suicidal? Not sure, but he said he didn’t want sleeping pills. I’m sure he has thought about suicide.
I think we have a case.
Criteria from the DSM—the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders—cinched it. Timothy had witnessed events that involved death and serious injury. He felt fear and helplessness. He relived those horrific events daily. He avoided talking about any of it—until now. Two years of silence! Does he seem “on his guard”? Not sure. He didn’t seem too paranoid. Is PTSD destroying his life? Yes.
Okay, he has it, despite what the U. S. Army says. How do we treat it?
Matthew read down the list of treatment plans. Timothy would need antipsychotics, antidepressants, something to help him sleep, and psychotherapy—both group and individual—to help him cope. Even acupuncture might help. All of these combined might help Timothy break the cycle of his fears.
Matthew thought about Mrs. Simmons. She obviously has “compassion fatigue.” She may need some therapy, too.
Matthew looked back at his copious notes, focusing on the symptoms.
I may have mild PTSD from all these dates from hell. How am I coping? With Angela’s help. She’s making me talk about it. Talking is the best kind of therapy.
And I need to talk to her some more.
He checked the time. Three-fifteen. I hope she isn’t too busy.
Angela answered on the second ring. “Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee.”
“I missed you this morning.” I really missed her all day. “You busy?”
“It’s quiet now,” she said softly.
“I hope you didn’t fix me anything for breakfast or lunch,” Matthew said.
“I didn’t,” Angela said. “I knew you’d listen to me for a change. How much sleep did you get?”
“Twice as much as usual.” Too much. I still feel groggy. I need some coffee.
“What are you doing now?” Angela asked.
“I’m researching PTSD,” Matthew said. “I think Timothy has a strong case. He has many of the symptoms.”
“What are they?” Angela asked.
“Flashbacks, nightmares, emotional numbness, avoiding the world, hopelessness, difficulty in his marriage, guilt, trouble sleeping, concentrating.”
“And what kinds of treatment will you recommend that the army pay for?” Angela asked.
He leafed through his notes. “Antipsychotics for starters.”
“Like Abilify?” Angela asked.
He looked down the list of antipsychotics and found Abilify. “Right. Or antidepressants such as Zoloft or Paxil, and something called Prazosin to help him sleep. None of those are cheap.”
“Should he be seeing a psychiatrist?” Angela asked.
“He’ll need lots of individual and group therapy,” Matthew said. “I’m sure there are others out there who are in the same boat.”
“Are there any other treatments?” Angela asked.
“One study suggested that acupuncture might help,” Matthew said.
“Have you ever tried that?” Angela asked.
“No, but if all else fails—”
“I have a customer,” Angela interrupted.
Don’t go yet! “Did you get my message?”
“Yes,” Angela said. “When are you coming to help clean up?”
Is that eagerness in her voice? I hope so. “I’ll try to be there by seven-thirty, okay? I have some laundry to do.”
“Okay. Bye.”
Click.
“Okay,” he said to the static. “See you soon.”
Matthew did two loads of laundry, showered, and shaved, arriving at Angela’s a little before 7:30. He immediately put on his apron and got to work, mopping the kitchen floor, sweeping the dining area, and polishing tables. At 8:00, Angela locked the front door, and Matthew mopped the dining area. At 8:04, she finished counting down the register and looked at Matthew, who had already taken off his apron.
“That was a record,” she said. “Four minutes.”
“We’ll beat it tomorrow,” Matthew said.
Angela nodded and walked to the front door.
That’s it? No decaf? No conversation? “I’ll be here bright and early in the morning.”
“Good.” She extended her arms, took a step forward, and gave Matthew a fierce hug.
Matthew put his hands lightly on her back.
Angela stepped back and fumbled with her hands, staring at the floor. “I’ll have your breakfast ready. What would you like?”
She’s shaking. Her whole body is shaking. Why is she shaking? “Surprise me.”
“I’ll try.” She looked up briefly. “Bye.”
Matthew stepped outside.
Angela closed the door.
Matthew waved.
Angela nodded, then swept through the dining area, turned off lights, and disappeared into the kitchen.
That was completely unexpected. It was very nice, and as hugs go, that one . . . wow. Her shoulders pressed into my chest, her arms squeezed me like a boa constrictor, her head rested on my shoulder, and her hips locked onto my thighs. It lasted so long I could feel her heartbeat in my stomach. Or was it my own heartbeat? Maybe a little of both. And such heat! She kind of smelled lemony, too. Lemons and coffee and pastries. She smells as sweet—and sour, but in a nice way—as she is.
She missed me, too.
I should not see her more often.
Maybe if I stay away for two days, I can get a kiss.
Chapter 20
Matthew beat Angela to Smith’s Sweet Treats and Coffee, arriving at 5:55 AM and peering up at swollen, black storm clouds moving through the gloom overhead. We are going to have a major snowstorm.
Angela opened the door and cocked her head toward his booth.
“French toast?” Matthew said, entering and ripping off his coat.
“You said you liked variety,” she said. “I hope you like blackberry syrup.”
Matthew looked at his plate, powdered sugar floating on a lake of syrup. “I like.” He sat. “The clouds out there look pretty ominous today. And the temperatures seemed to drop the closer I came to the shop.”
“Ha ha.” Angela sat across from him.
What did I say? “Oh, I didn’t mean it got colder—”
“I know what you meant,” Angela interrupted, glancing at the window. “I’ve already turned up the heat twice. We’re supposed to have quite a storm. Maybe even a blizzard. They’re predicting up to two feet.”
“We’ll still be open for business, no matter what, right?” Matthew asked.
“Right.” She glided out of the booth. “I have to check on the coffee.”
Matthew reached for her arm and missed. “Angela?”
She turned.
“Thank you for the hug last night.”
She nodded.
“It kept me warm all the way home,” Matthew said.
“Me, too.” She sighed. “I’ll get your coffee.”
Matthew dug into his French toast, and the second Angela tried to join him in the booth with her coffee, a serious rush began.
“This always happens just before a storm,” she said. “You have work to do, right?”
Matthew nodded. “Thank you for breakfast, Angela.”
“You’re welcome,” Angela said.
Matthew took out his notes and listened again to Timothy’s interview. In the old days with SYG, he would unleash a media firestorm on television and the Internet to force a plaintiff to do the right thing. He knew he couldn’t do that with this case. I have to go in low-key. The U.S. Army probably doesn’t like to be blindsided. I know they’ll put up a wall of silence, but if I keep pushing gently, I may get somewhere.
I have to make friends with the enemy this time.
He sifted through Timothy’s files and found the name of William Wick, MD, the psychiatrist at the VA hospital in Manhattan who last treated Timothy.
Time to start some noise, but not as a lawyer. That’s a surefire way to get nowhere. I’ll have to become a potential patient instead.
