Back to You

by Jessica Scott

  So he said none of those things.

  “You’re doing it again,” she whispered. “Making all these decisions on your own. You think you know what’s best but you’ve forgotten one key point, Trent.” She paused, looking away out over the field toward the distant tire swing. “You don’t know what’s best for me or for the kids. You don’t know us anymore.”

  She walked away, her head down, her shoulders slumped. Her words stabbed him violently in the heart even as the anxiety tightened in his throat and threatened to choke him.

  He lowered his head to the beam in front of him. He was never going to figure this out. He was losing her all over again. But how could he explain to her what he was? The men he’d lost, the choices he’d made? The war was an ugly, evil thing and it had left its mark on him.

  She wanted him to talk to her, to open up, but she was right. He didn’t know how. And worse? He didn’t want to. He didn’t want her to know about the little kids running through the piss and the shit with no shoes on. He didn’t want her to know about the people so fucking poor they’d fight over a candy bar or plant a bomb for ten dollars.

  She was safe here in the States. Their kids would never know what the war was really like.

  And damn it, Trent wasn’t going to be the one to bring the fucking war home to them. He couldn’t let them see the nightmares and the fear that haunted his sleep. That woke him, angry and scared and shaking in the night or worse, sobbing for a lost friend. He didn’t want her to see what he’d become.

  And tonight, he was having a hard time hiding it. So he would stay away. Just once more. Tomorrow. He could go home tomorrow.

  He’d figure out another way. There had to be another way.

  Because the alternative? The alternative was not an option.

  Chapter Six

  Trent sat at his desk, dreading the ticking of the clock on the wall. Fifteen more minutes and he’d have to leave for his appointment. And wasn’t he in a right old jolly mood to sit down and discuss his feelings with the shrink.

  He hadn’t slept last night. He’d lain awake in Shane and Jen’s guest bedroom, the silence sending him crawling up the walls. He’d considered getting up and getting a beer or six and letting the alcohol coax him to sleep but he didn’t think that would have helped.

  “Don’t you look like you’re in a chipper mood.” Iaconelli swung around the corner of the cubicle that made Trent’s “office” and straddled the chair in front of him. “Rough night?”

  Trent frowned, pretty certain that Iaconelli had either just woken up or had never gone to bed. “Not as rough a yours, apparently,” Trent said.

  “Yeah, well, I at least have no idea what happened last night. You look like you remember every single minute.”

  “Just about,” Trent said. He shifted, pushing his glasses higher on his nose. “What are you up to?”

  “Running a range with Captain Montoya. We’re going out to do a site recon this morning.”

  Trent frowned. “I thought we had a burn ban going on and they were limiting ranges.” There had been flooding the previous year when they’d all been deployed. This year? Dry. Really dry. The kind of dry where a cigarette could set off a range fire that would burn for days.

  “So far, range control has cleared us so we’re good to go. Why do you look like someone pissed in your Wheaties?”

  Trent pushed his glasses up on top of his head and scrubbed his hand over his face. “I’ve got to go see a shrink in a little bit.”

  Iaconelli looked like he’d told him he was going to a proctology exam. “You can keep that shit. Shrinks don’t do a damn bit of good. They give the kids with no backbones excuses and they don’t help the kids who really need it.”

  “Strong feelings, much?” Trent said.

  Iaconelli scowled. “One in a long list of failures that have jaded my opinion of the army’s mental health system. And why are you going to a shrink? Isn’t that verboten for an officer?”

  Trent shrugged. “My lawyer wants me to have a clean bill of mental health.”

  “Oh, for your court-martial. Good times. Enjoy yourself,” he said with an evil grin.

  Trent flipped him off but grinned despite himself. “I’m sure I’ll have so much fun discussing how not enough hugs in my childhood scarred me for life.”

  “Yeah, well, watch what you tell them. It goes into a permanent record so if you tell them the war made you crazy, that shit’s going to follow you around.”

  Trent wanted to ask what had happened to Iaconelli to make him distrust the mental health system but the big man was already gone. And it was time for Trent to face the judge, jury, and executioner: his new shrink.

  The drive across post was too short. He even had no trouble finding a parking space, something that never happened on Fort Hood. So he had no excuse for being late or stalling or any other way of avoiding the doctor’s office.

  A physical dread uncurled in his stomach as he walked into the R&R Center. His palms were slicked with sweat and his heart pounded in his ears. He checked in at the front desk, rubbing his hands on his uniform, and waited for the admin assistant to lead him back to Captain Lindberg’s office.

  It was strange walking through the waiting room. The highest-ranking person was a rugged-looking sergeant who looked battle worn and broken down. There were First Cav combat patches on his right and left shoulders but it was the haunted look in his eyes, the strain that Trent recognized all too well.

  He felt a rush of sympathy even as he felt all eyes on him from the myriad of soldiers sitting in the waiting room. It was unusual for an officer to be walking through that waiting room. Mental health was something sought by junior soldiers. Officially, anyone could seek mental health without fear of losing their careers. The reality was that officers simply did not go to the R&R Center. Not for themselves, anyway.

  Officers didn’t break under the stress of war. If they did, they ended their careers. Maybe not immediately, but their inability to cope with the stress and the pressure was there, hanging over their heads.

  Trent was leery about using this as a tool for the court-martial. But Patrick had insisted and Trent had known him too long to question his judgment. If he needed to see the shrink and have her tell them he was fine, well then Trent would play along. He could tell her what she needed to hear then move out and draw fire.

  Still, it was a hard thing to walk through the maze of hallways knowing that this was where the army sent its broken and breaking soldiers. With one more wipe of his palms on his pants, Trent pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and knocked on the door.

  “Captain Lindberg?” he said.

  The captain behind the desk stood and Trent was struck by how prim she looked. Most women looked the same in uniform as most men: just like another soldier. But there was something about this woman’s movements that reminded Trent of Jacqueline Onassis. Something about East Coast old money. Something desperately out of place in the army.

  But she stood and stuck out her hand, clearly comfortable in her own office.

  “Please, call me Emily,” she said, sticking out her hand. The handshake was firm, though, shattering his expectations with a single gesture. Guess that’s what he got for stereotyping. “Have a seat. Trent, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We’re the same rank,” she said quietly. “I may not know a whole lot about the army but I do know that captains do not call each other ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am.’ ”

  “Why don’t you know a lot about the army?” he asked.

  “I’ve only been in a little over a year. So I’ve got a lot to learn.” She glanced down at the captain’s bars on her chest. “A special program brought me in as a captain.”

  “Just add water and stir and poof, insta captain,” Trent said.

  “Something like that.” She smiled easily. He liked this woman. There was something about her that made him feel… comfortable. Some of the tightness in his chest from walking through the
waiting room faded.

  “So, how does this go?” he asked.

  “Well, you’re here for me to evaluate you for the defense. My job is to get a feel for your current state of medical readiness.”

  “Can you state that in English?” He shifted against the chair, his back protesting the too-soft seat and back. It made him want to relax further. “I was a company commander and I don’t understand what you just said.”

  She smiled quietly, folding her hands in front of her. “We’re going to do a mental health eval. It won’t hurt a bit, I promise.”

  Just like that, the strain was back. The pressure built above his heart and the scar throbbed over his breastbone. He breathed in slow and deep and tried to keep the panic at bay.

  “It’s not nearly as scary as it sounds,” she said. She was watching him closely. He felt the walls closing in, like he was under a microscope. All his plans about playing it fast and loose slipped right out of his grasp.

  “Sounds terrifying.” He tried to make his voice light. He failed.

  “Trent.” She waited until he met her gaze. “Relax. Nothing I write is going to go in your official file. We’re just going to talk, okay?”

  He swallowed but his throat was closed off, thick. Finally he nodded.

  “Do you want to talk about what’s going on with you right now?”

  He focused on breathing. In. Out. In. Held it until his lungs burned.

  Emily came around the desk and sat in the chair next to him. “Look at me, Trent. Are you listening?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m not a betting woman but it looks like you’re having a little bit of a problem with anxiety.”

  “Is that what this is? It feels like a fucking heart attack.” The words forced their way past the block in his throat.

  “That’s actually a very common misunderstanding,” she said. “Does this happen a lot?”

  Trent leaned forward, pushing his glasses up to the top of his head. He covered his mouth with his hands. “Yeah.”

  “And how long has it been going on?”

  He swallowed, staring into the distance, unable to meet her eyes. “Since I got shot.”

  “Do certain things set it off? Just happens whenever?”

  “When things get too… out of control. When things are going smooth and easy, I’m fine. But the minute I tense up, I have trouble breathing.” He finally looked at her. “Please tell me I’m not crazy. I really don’t want to be crazy.”

  She smiled. “Crazy isn’t really a clinical term,” she said. “Anxiety isn’t on the spectrum of crazy, at any rate. It’s more of an adjustment issue.”

  He frowned. “What does that even mean?”

  “You said you were shot? What happened?”

  Trent breathed deeply as the memories rose up out of the dark, one by one, replaying in front of his eyes in vivid Technicolor. “We were in the middle of a bad fight in Sadr City. A round got between my body armor and my heart. The impact stopped my heart. They thought I died.”

  “If your heart stopped, technically you were dead,” she said. “When did the anxiety first happen?”

  He rubbed his hands over his mouth. “The first time I was getting ready to go back out in sector with our boys.”

  “What did you do?”

  “What could I do? I stuffed it down and went out in sector.” His skin was slick with sweat. His face felt clammy beneath his hands.

  “You’ve been stuffing things down for a long time, huh?”

  “Maybe.” He felt a little peevish. It was just one round and he hadn’t even gotten evac’d out of theater like Garrison. Garrison was fucking fine after getting the shit blown out of him. Trent had gotten one little bullet wound and his world went to hell. What was wrong with him?

  “You don’t sleep well, either, I bet.”

  “Jesus, what are you, a psychic?” He tried to make a joke. Failed badly.

  “Not really. But your body language is pretty defensive right now and you’re presenting some pretty strong indicators of distress.”

  “English? Did you just tell me I look like I’m crazy?”

  “No, Trent, I did not just tell you you’re crazy. But, if you’re willing to work on things, I think we can make things better.”

  He glanced over at her sharply. “You can’t fix this. You can’t make the memories go away or put feeling back in the dead spot inside of me.”

  “Maybe we can’t fix everything but I think we could do better than you’re doing right now.”

  Better than he was doing now? Better so that he could listen to his kids play and not feel the pressure creeping up on him? Better so that he could maybe, just maybe, find a way to fix things with his wife?

  Maybe he could go home and just be still for a moment. Maybe there was a chance he could sit on the couch with Laura and watch a movie. He would never complain about Shane and Jen’s hospitality but there was something to be said for sleeping in his own bed, with his wife’s body curled next to him. A pulse of longing beat through his veins.

  Something so simple. Something so important.

  He sucked in a deep breath. Each step into this room had made his chest tighter, his lungs more strained but each question was… it was lightening the load. Just a little bit, but the pressure around his lungs lessened. Just a little. “Is this going into my official medical record?”

  Her expression softened. “I’ll make sure there is nothing put in there that will negatively impact your future military career, should you choose to continue.”

  He rubbed his hands over his mouth again. What good was a worn down infantryman in the civilian world? There wasn’t a lot of use for men with his skill set. And how would he support his family? His kids would need money for college and clothes and God knew what else kids required these days.

  He needed to take care of his family. What else could he do beyond the military? He’d given it everything he had. Including apparently, his sanity.

  “Okay,” he said after a while. “So how does this work?”

  “So let’s talk about this not sleeping thing,” she said. “Not sleeping well is the number one cause of some of these issues. I think if we can address that, everything else, especially the anxiety, will be a lot easier to deal with.”

  Trent took a deep breath and held it. He’d never thought about avoiding the R&R Center because of how other people would judge him. It was because he’d had work to do. He was a good infantryman, a good soldier. He had tactical skills. He’d needed to be in the fight. It had been the most important thing in the world to him to prove that he hadn’t been slacking, that he’d been doing everything he was supposed to be doing.

  Because the day he’d gotten shot, his soldiers had died. And while intellectually he knew that wasn’t his fault, if he’d been there, if he’d been a little bit faster, a little more prepared… maybe they’d still be alive.

  He closed his eyes. But they weren’t. And nothing he’d done for the last four deployments had made a damn bit of difference to the army. To the individuals he’d served with? Yeah, that mattered. But to the army?

  He’d been ready to sacrifice his entire life to that institution and this is where it left him: sitting in a shrink’s office, talking about not sleeping.

  He’d lost his marriage because of his choices—because the army had needed him. Or at least that’s what he told himself.

  And he’d let Laura slip further and further away.

  He glanced over at the doctor, sitting patiently while he waged his own private war. “I have to go home,” he whispered. “And it absolutely terrifies me.”

  * * *

  Laura opened her e-mail and stared at the words scrawled across the screen, her mind foggy from lack of sleep and too many things at home.

  Her phone vibrated on her desk. Laura flipped it over. She didn’t feel like talking to Jen. It was nothing against her closest friend, but Jen’s love for Shane was still so new and shiny that Laura needed sunglasse
s to protect herself from the brilliance of it. She would never say that to Jen, though, because it would make her feel bitchy and small.

  Two days had passed since Patrick had asked her to put on a happy married face. Two days and Trent had found excuses to not come home.

  And each day had reaffirmed her belief that whatever demons he was facing, he was going to face them alone. The way he always had.

  Just then, as if her thoughts had somehow summoned him, Trent appeared in the doorway, his shoulders filling the narrow entrance. He gripped his beret tightly in both hands, twisting it like he wanted to strip the color from the black wool.

  “Hey.”

  She stopped typing and looked up, wishing she didn’t see the worry, the lack of sleep in his eyes. “Hey.”

  “Can I talk to you?” he asked. His voice was hoarse, deeper than she remembered. It grated over her skin like a callous and she wondered how often he’d had to shout over smoke and gunfire for it to get this gravelly.

  Bracing herself, she swallowed the lump that rose in her throat, squeezing out the air along with her ability to speak. She cleared her throat. “Sure.” Wariness in that single word.

  He glanced at her desk, then his black gaze met hers. He cleared his throat roughly. “I just wanted to see if you could get away. To be alone for a few minutes? It’s early. We can go get coffee…”

  She heard what he didn’t say. He was asking for her. Just her. A chance to be alone with him. To try and talk to him without a thousand things going on around them at once.

  It was a risk. But she could do this. She could have coffee with the man and still stick to her guns about ending things. Couldn’t she? She picked up her purse and cell phone. An unfamiliar ache pounded through her and for a moment, she couldn’t place it.

  She stopped short as she recognized the feeling. A latent desire swirled through her belly. Funny how her body recognized him when her heart refused.

  He didn’t move as she approached. She stopped, stood close enough to see the corded scar running along his jaw. It ended just beneath his left ear, a hard slash through the shadow of his nearly black stubble.

  That had happened almost two years ago. He’d called home to tell her about the injury. If she really thought about it, she realized she hadn’t ever seen it up close. He was always in motion whenever he’d been home, before she’d sent him the papers. The few times they’d had sex, the lights had been off. She hadn’t seen him close up like this for a long, long time. Curiosity tugged at her.