One September Morning

by Rosalind Noonan

  “Shouldn’t the dosage of the sedative be reduced?”

  “It probably should, but then nurses don’t prescribe, and neither do interns. And Dr. Jump does not take kindly to having his orders questioned.” She looks over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening in. “Most of the docs in this ward are sweethearts. They’ll work with you. But Dr. Jump, he’s okay sometimes, but when he’s got one of his funks on, no amount of sweet-talking is going to sway him. He’ll rip you a new one, just like that.” She snaps her fingers.

  In the Day Room, Abby sits beside Emjay and rubs the back of his hand. “Hey, Emjay. Can you wake up? It’s Abby, John’s wife. Do you remember John? John Stanton. You worked together. You guys were buddies in Iraq.”

  There is no response.

  Discouraged, she meets another patient on her list, a young woman named Tara who is fighting an addiction to crystal meth. Only twenty-three, Tara has a little girl, who is currently staying with Tara’s mother. Together they make colored flowers out of tissue paper, while Tara talks about why it makes her uncomfortable to leave Amber with her mother.

  After that, the patients head into group therapy and Abby returns to Emjay’s side. He is still sleeping but restless now, writhing in his seat, pressing against the cloth bindings on his wrists. She feels for him, knowing that just a few months ago he was a healthy, active man.

  She talks to him, telling him how she misses John. “Did you know he set up half a dozen bird feeders around our house? And guess who has to keep them filled with seeds and sugar water for the hummingbirds?” She talks about Suz and Sofia, what they did for Christmas, how they’re adjusting to their new home. She asks him where he would like to go when he’s finished with the army. “Where is home for you, Emjay?”

  His breathing is the steady drone of narcotic.

  “Emjay? I’m Abby. Do you remember me?”

  He opens his eyes, his lids twittering. It seems a struggle for him to focus, but when his gaze meets hers there’s no sign of recognition.

  Emjay Brown is so heavily sedated, it’s a wonder he can still breathe.

  Spotting a physician in a navy lab coat, Abby pats Emjay’s hand and goes over to the doctor. “Excuse me? I was wondering if you could look at the medications my patient is on? He has no record of voluntary movement for the past three days, since he was admitted, actually.”

  The woman, an older physician with ginger-colored hair tied back and a black mole beside her mouth, frowns. “Whose patient is he?”

  “Dr. Jump.”

  The woman—Dr. Holland, her name tag says—holds up a hand. “You really need to contact him.”

  “Please, Dr. Holland.” Abby holds up Emjay’s chart, concocting a quick lie. “I tried to page him, but he’s out of town for a few days. And it would be a shame to keep this patient sedated that long.”

  Sighing, Dr. Holland flips through the chart. “The levels are high…but this patient has a history of violence.”

  “Post-traumatic stress,” Abby says quickly. “He served in Iraq.”

  “I appreciate that. However, we’re responsible for making sure he doesn’t hurt himself or anyone else.”

  “But he can’t receive effective therapy if he remains in a vegetative state.” Abby can barely believe her own nerve, the hubris to talk back to a doctor.

  But Dr. Holland doesn’t appear to be offended as she flips through the chart once again, shaking her head. “That is a high dosage of Ativan.” She flips back to the front page and scribbles something. “I’m adjusting his meds. But make sure Dr. Jump is apprised of this as soon as he returns.”

  “Absolutely. Thank you.” Abby takes the chart back with a mixture of relief and horror.

  Her first day on the job and she’s intervened in a patient’s care.

  She just lied to a doctor.

  And she’s planning to lie again, for as long as it takes to give Emjay Brown a chance to become himself again.

  Chapter 57

  Fort Lewis

  Jim

  The last time Sharice dropped in on Jim’s office at I-Corp was…well, never. At least, not that he can remember.

  So it’s natural that her visit today is causing a ripple of surprise among his coworkers.

  “Well, hey, Sharice. How’s everything going?” Grady Bullard swings by the door on his way back from the coffeemaker, his mug in hand.

  “I’m fine, Grady,” Sharice says as her fingers flicker a wave to Jim, who’s trying to coax a few last copies from a printer with a dying ink cartridge. “How are the kids?”

  “Good. Playing traveling basketball. That’s my life, one gym to another.”

  “You look fabulous!” Teresa says, peeking over the top of her cubicle. “Took me a minute to recognize you.”

  Sharice’s brows shoot up. “Thanks, I guess.”

  “No, no!” Teresa throws her arms in the air and runs around the cubicle to join Sharice. “I just meant that we so rarely see you here, I couldn’t place your face. And you do look terrific. Did you change your hair?”

  Sharice loosens the scarf around her neck. “Must be my new shade of lipstick.”

  Jim glances up from the copier. Did she really change lipsticks? He didn’t notice that, although he has been aware of Sharice in new ways of late. The smell of violet emanating from her hair. The way she tucks the covers so neatly under her chin. The way her jeans hug her hips, still curvy and trim after all these years.

  In these moments of revelation he sometimes feels that he is married to a stranger, a woman with traits and habits he ought to recognize after nearly thirty years, but somehow, they are new to him. Discoveries. Eye-openers.

  But then, he’s been rediscovering many things in the past few weeks.

  “Did you take lunch yet?” Sharice asks him. “I was hoping we could go for a walk.”

  “Jim never takes lunch,” Grady calls from his desk. “He’s a workaholic.”

  “Then today can be the first.” Sharice smiles at him with lips so silvery pink he’d like to glide right over them like a speed skater. Maybe she did get some new lipstick. “Why don’t you get your jacket? We can split a quesadilla at Madigan Café.”

  Jim holds the door for Sharice, who chooses this time to tell him about how her ladies’ group is working on a list of recommended treats for soldiers in Iraq. “Since people want to help, we want them to know what foods can and cannot survive the trip,” she says.

  While she shares an anecdote about chocolates that were shipped over with calamitous results, Jim latches onto the sights around him. Gardeners blowing leaves from a median strip with a statue of Meriwether Lewis, two women pushing strollers, joggers, a UPS delivery truck.

  The walk from Jim’s office to the café takes them across a picturesque part of the base past the green fields of a park and tidy rows of brick houses with dormer windows, all set off by white picket fences. With the twenty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit and the bold white clouds framing Mount Rainier in the distance, the base could be any small American town fifty years ago. Just beyond the park was a shot of blue—American Lake. On the Fourth of July, this park would be packed with people awaiting the fireworks display.

  Jim sucks it all in, a breath of America.

  There was a time in his life when he thought he wouldn’t live to enjoy a sight like this again. Desperate days and nights. He’s trying to let those memories recede. Not that they’ll ever go away completely, but Dr. Jump says they can draw back.

  The sea at low tide.

  “I just came from the pharmacy,” Sharice says as they cross the street to the walkway along the lake. “Madison needed a refill on her medication from Dr. Jump, and…I don’t know why, but I had a moment of panic in the store. As I checked the medication and glanced at the printout listing all the possible side effects, I got frightened. Really scared, Jim. I mean, we’ve lost the boys, and now our baby needs therapy and serious medication for depression?”

  “She’s under a doctor’s ca
re. Dr. Jump is the best.”

  “But she’s so young. Still a kid, with very adult problems.”

  “Madison has been through a lot for a kid her age. We all have, Sharice, but can you imagine dealing with all this at her age?”

  Old-fashioned lampposts line the waterfront walkway along with benches that face out to American Lake, which today is a sea of dark blue. When the sun moves from behind the clouds, diamonds of light dance in a line on its surface. Jim moves to the left to skirt one of the benches, thinking of how, last week when he was jogging, he ran right over one, up then down, never breaking stride, like Gene Kelly in one of those old-time movies. It’s a testament to the way he’s been feeling since the new year, an affirmation of hope.

  For the first time in months, he’s sleeping again. Peaceful sleep, most of the time. Though the nightmares still rattle his cage on occasion, they are rare, and not quite so vivid. Sleep can cure a world of ills, though nothing can bring back a son.

  He turns toward Sharice, thinking of the things they have survived together. It’s a wonder that any marriage survives the twisted road two people must endure. “It’s a beautiful day,” he says. “But you don’t ever join me for lunch. What’s on your mind?”

  She connects with his gaze, her brown eyes full of rue. “Jim, what’s Lexapro for?”

  A wave of sickness washes over him with the question.

  She knows. Dammit, she found out.

  “It’s used to treat depression and anxiety.”

  She nods. “And you didn’t think to tell me you were going to start taking antidepressants?”

  “How did you find out?”

  “The pharmacy. When I went to pick up Madison’s refill, they handed me yours, too. Why didn’t you tell me, Jim? Am I that unapproachable?”

  “It’s not you,” he says. “It’s not even the Lexapro that embarrasses me. It’s therapy. I started seeing Dr. Jump back in December, after the battalion reunion party.”

  Sharice squints at him. “When did you find the time?”

  “He fit me in during my lunch hour so no one would know. Dr. Jump is a good guy, a great soldier, and the Harvard credential doesn’t hurt. The soldiering bond helped me relate, really trust him. He diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder. I know, I know, I’ve always thought that was just a sissy’s excuse to get out of serving. It stems from my tours in ’Nam, and the nightmares and insomnia, it’s all tied in. Do you know that post-traumatic stress can occur years later?”

  “This is good,” Sharice says. “You have to know I would have been supportive. But why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice is thick with emotion. “Oh my God, Jim, how many years have we been married, and you keep something like this a secret?”

  “It’s my own hangup.” Jim wants to kick himself a few dozen times. He never wanted to hurt Sharice this way. “I never believed in all that crap about getting in touch with your feelings. But then I got to the point where my feelings tainted everything I did.”

  “Set off by John’s death, wasn’t it?” she asks. “All the bad feelings, the insomnia…”

  He nods. “John’s death was the catalyst to bring that stuff to the surface, and it also didn’t hurt to lose Noah.” He turns away, not able to go there, not even sure why he mentioned the name that’s never spoken between them. “Anyhow, Dr. Jump says it probably would have been set off by something else at a later time. Good to work it all out now.”

  “I guess.” Sharice takes his hand, lifts it, presses it to her cheek. “I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “I know.” He leans forward and kisses her on the lips, lightly. When was the last time he kissed her in public? It feels scandalous, and downright sexy for a man pushing sixty.

  “When they handed me the prescription, I was so worried. I thought, maybe something was wrong with you. Then…I was just blindsided. In the past few weeks, you’ve been sleeping better, laughing more. You seem, well, maybe happy is pushing it for a surly crust like you, but you seem more at peace.”

  He smiles. Sharice started calling him a surly crust when he was in his twenties; the nickname suited him then, as it still does today.

  “Do you think that’s the Lexapro working?” she asks.

  “Could be. I’ve been on it for more than a month now. That and the therapy. Dr. Jump has gotten a lot of stuff out of me, things I thought I’d forgotten.”

  She lifts both their hands in the air, stepping back in awe. “Look at you! You’re a success story for therapy.”

  “Grudgingly. I still think there are a lot of quacks out there. But Dr. Jump is good people. That’s why I feel completely confident having Madison under his care.”

  “You really trust him?”

  “One hundred percent.”

  Chapter 58

  Lakeside Hospital

  Abby

  Three days after the dosage of sedative is reduced, Emjay Brown once again manages to speak. “What day is it?”

  “Wednesday.”

  He motions for water, and Abby brings the cup’s straw to his lips. But now, for the first time, he takes it from her and drinks.

  Abby watches him attentively, resisting the urge to jump up and do a happy dance in the middle of the Day Room. She has been by his side for many hours during the past three days. At times he asked for a drink, and once he even had her change the channel on the television until she hit on a basketball game. But this is the first time he’s strung words together.

  He braces his arms in the chair to take in the surroundings, the plant hanging from the ceiling in the corner, the mural of flowers on the far wall. “I really fucked up this time. I made it to the Cuckoo’s Nest.”

  “You’re in Lakeside Hospital, in the psych ward. Do you know why you’re here, Emjay?”

  He takes another sip, thinking. “I was under attack.” He closes his eyes. “A convoy. A whole mess of armored vehicles. And my gun…it wasn’t my gun. I looked down and all I had for firepower was some lame hunting rifle.”

  “Is that what you remember?”

  “I think so. Or maybe that part’s a dream. I don’t know.” His chin lolls to his chest. “Do you know what happened?”

  “You were found on Mason Boulevard with a rifle in the middle of the night,” Abby says.

  “Jesus Christ.” He rubs his knuckles over the growth on his cheek. “Did I hurt anyone?”

  “A shot was fired from the rifle, but it jammed after that. The police found a slug lodged in a tree by the road.” Abby knows this because she has researched that night, checked news accounts and police reports. She thought Emjay would want to know.

  “A small mercy.” He sighs and scratches his upper arms.

  “How do you feel now?”

  “Like somebody turned the world on slow motion. Like I’m trying to run underwater with lead shoes. Everything is slow.”

  “You’re on medication to stabilize you. Dr. Jump has you on Ativan to relax you, and Wellbutrin for depression.”

  “Well, that explains it.” He scratches his arms vigorously, then falls back in the chair as if the itching has exhausted him. “That explains why I feel so dead.”

  “You feel dead,” she says. “That feeling probably isn’t completely caused by the medications. Have you ever heard of post-traumatic stress disorder?”

  He closes his eyes and nods.

  “Very often, episodes like the one you just had occur months after a stressful incident, a stressor, like an accident, an attack, a violent war experience.”

  He nods again, but this time his dark brown cheeks are streaked with tears. “What’s going to happen to me?” he asks in a whisper.

  “You can work toward recovery.”

  He shakes his head. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Emjay, your episode is a reaction to horrific memories, things you have endured that are difficult for any of us to understand or explain. If you take positive action, one day your reaction to those memories will be less intense. You can improve your a
bility to cope.”

  “Can you make it all stop?” he asks.

  She’s not sure if he’s talking about life or his memories. “Do certain images replay in your head?” she asks.

  “Over and over. I close my eyes but they’re still there. I just want them to stop.”

  “You know, Emjay, you’ll never forget your war experiences. We can’t erase them, and we can’t completely remove the emotional pain you feel when you remember them.”

  “Then what’s the point?” He leans back in the chair and presses his eyes closed. “What’s the point?”

  “The point is that we’re here to help you if you want to make an attempt at feeling better. And I’m not talking about the fuzzy world of medications. We can come up with a recovery plan together. But you have to be ready to make that commitment.” She closes his chart and stands, noticing that his eyes are still closed. He must be exhausted. “You think about what we discussed, okay?”

  She returns to the nurses’ station and grabs the chart for her new patient, a military wife with a history of alcoholism. Bernadette asked to be admitted after she went on a drinking spree and left her six-month-old with a sitter for three days. Her husband, now deployed in Iraq, is not here to offer emotional support and probably doesn’t even know of his wife’s meltdown yet.

  Abby is reading through Bernadette’s chart, composing “therapeutic” questions in her mind, when she hears someone buzz through the door to the ward. Although she’s become so accustomed to the buzzer she barely notices, this time something is different. The air seems to chill twenty degrees, and without looking up, she knows it’s him.

  Dr. Charles Jump.

  She has managed to avoid him in her three days on duty, and she was hoping for a fourth until now. A little research, and she learned he was on the evening shift this week. She suspected that he was covering for another doctor at the moment.

  Don’t let him smell your fear. Don’t back down. Just act normal.

  He doesn’t acknowledge her as he enters the nurses’ station and brushes past her, edging her out of the space where the charts are stored.