by S L Shelton
She chuckled mildly and then tipped her head to the side. “What did you come up with?” she asked.
“To be honest, it kept getting wrapped up in the jumble of memories from my childhood,” I replied almost apologetically. “Every time I tried to think about it, I kept getting derailed with trying to figure out what happened to my family when I was ten.”
“Why do you think my question got mixed up with all that?” she asked with a knowing expression on her face.
“I'm not sure,” I replied. “I don't remember enough about it to put it together.”
“I thought you had perfect recall,” she said with a grin.
“Obviously not that perfect. My dad died, my mom went nuts, and I lost most of my memories—all on the same night. I've never been able to sort it all out.”
She opened a folder on her desk and peered into it. “How did your father die again?” she asked.
“Car accident,” I replied. “I woke up in the hospital three months later and found out my mom had been institutionalized and my father was dead.”
“So you were in the car with him?” she asked.
“No. I was home in bed, according to my aunt…the one who raised me and my sister,” I replied as I once again dug into the void of memory. “The police came to the house to notify my mom that Dad had been in an accident, but when they got there, she was wandering around the yard in her nightgown, screaming at the ground. My sister and I were upstairs in bed. According to the police report, they couldn’t wake us… They thought Mom had poisoned us.”
“But that's not what happened,” she recalled, confirming parts of the story from another session.
“No,” I replied. “It turned out that there was some sort of well contamination or something. The whole family was affected. That's what they figured caused my dad to have his accident.”
Even as I was saying it, the words felt wrong. The whole thing had never made sense to me.
“You don't believe it,” she concluded, reading my expression.
“I don't know what to believe,” I replied with a sigh. “My aunt raised us on the farm, telling us what great people our parents were and how we owed it to them to be the best we could be.”
“That's a pretty heavy burden to place on a child,” she observed knowingly.
I shrugged.
“So why do you think my question gets tangled up in all that?” she asked again.
It dawned on me that I hadn't answered it before.
“See what I mean?” I replied, grinning. “I'm not sure. I've got these broken memories…just pieces really…of my father and mother. But one sticks out...no, two.” I adjusted myself in my chair, my mental discomfort suddenly becoming a physical discomfort. “I remember on my eighth birthday, my dad caught me getting into his liquor, and—on another occasion—I remember my dad chasing me through the woods…though that might just be part of that recurring dream I told you about.”
“Your dad,” she highlighted, forming a new line of thought. “Those two memories intrude. So how did his bullying affect you?”
“What makes you think he bullied me?” I asked her, not taking the time to adjust my flow chart to incorporate the new flow of information.
She shrugged. “We’ve all been bullied, Scott,” she pressed. “It’s a matter of degrees and how we deal with it. I’m simply asking you how it affected you.”
I knew it was a loaded question. There is no single correct answer. As with anyone, much of the answer depends on personal responsibility. Taking it or not.
“He didn't bully me,” I said mildly.
“You said last week your father used to hit you,” she reminded me.
“I said I remembered him hitting me…the incident with the liquor,” I corrected her. It was a muddled and clouded memory of vague feelings interspersed with flashes of imagery.
“So you maybe got a spank when you broke a window?” she asked.
“Perhaps,” I replied. “But I don't remember anything like that.”
“A slap when you were disrespectful?” she continued.
I shrugged.
“A punch when you upset him?” she asked.
I paused, thinking about that last one. “I don’t ever remember him punching me,” A half-truth.
I clearly remembered being hit on my eighth birthday—but it wasn’t closed-handed. I had been snooping around in Dad’s study, looking for my birthday presents or something. I came across his “stash”—a small bottle of liquor. It looked kid-sized so I tried it—though to this day I’ve never tasted liquor anything like that…it was acidic and metallic-tasting. I’d only taken a few swigs of it before he came in and saw me.
He had hit me so hard I flew across the room. I still don’t know if it was the hit or the liquor, but I got so sick that I was in bed for weeks. That was one of the few vivid memories I had of my father. The rest was a strange soup of kind patience and the rage of his “episodes”.
“How old were you the first time he closed his hand to hit you?” she asked gently, without accusation.
I thought again for a moment. “I’m not sure he ever did,” I replied with a little frustration. I felt like we were rehashing the same frustrating dead end over and over. “Mom dealt with Dad when he had an episode. We weren’t usually around…from what I remember anyway.”
“I see. What did your mom say about this?” she asked, again sounding like she was just gathering data, not making any accusations.
Sometimes Mom would wake me and my sister Carol up in the middle of the night and load us into the car. I remembered hearing my dad screaming in their bedroom, smashing furniture and talking—no…arguing—with someone. Those things I remember through a fog.
“She would say that actions have consequences and that even heroes have internal demons to fight,” I replied quietly. “She said much the same thing when I got hit.”
“So you do remember being hit?” she accused.
“I remember being hit once. I just don’t think he ever punched me,” I replied.
Dr. Hebron nodded and looked into her folder again. “Was your dad ever in the military?” she asked as she flipped pages in my file. “It almost sounds like he was suffering from PTSD.”
I shook my head. “Not that I'm aware of,” I replied. “I only ever remember him being a farmer.”
“Perhaps the ‘poisoning’ from the well was a more significant issue than the authorities suspected,” she offered.
I shrugged. “I thought about that too,” I replied. “It could be, but there isn't even any documentation left on the blood tests from back then…I've looked. It would all be speculation.”
This was very hard for me. It had taken me many years to balance my feelings for my parents, and I was being purposely asked to risk upsetting that balance, something I preserved mostly through a perpetual state of denial.
My mom was in the loony bin, so it was sort of pointless talking to her. She never recognized me on the few occasions I showed up anyway, so I saw her less and less frequently—it did nothing but confuse her and sadden me.
“I’ve dealt with those things,” I continued. “I’ve moved past them. There are no answers for me there, so I had to let it go.”
“Did you let it go?” she asked with an accusation in her voice. “It seems like it’s present enough to distract you from dealing with a simple question about bullies.”
“It’s all data,” I said, detached. “You can’t change something that’s happened in the past. By its very nature as a past event, it becomes data.”
“True,” she conceded. “Logically, past events are history, and they contain lessons and information that help us or hurt us moving forward. But when an emotional state is frozen in time, the feeling is recorded as data too—in its entirety—threatening to re-emerge and play itself back—in its entirety—when that data is accessed.”
A few months earlier I would have dismissed that statement as hollow psychobabble, expressed to elicit a
response. But after having anxiety after anxiety well up within me over the past eight weeks, I accepted her professional observation for what it was.
“If that’s the case, then you never get over it,” I said. “You can never move past it.”
“I disagree…and so do you.”
“How do you get that?” I asked, raising my eyebrow.
“For example: When you first started climbing, how did your fingers feel?” she asked.
I could see where she was going with this.
“They hurt. Blistered, achy. But I developed calluses over time,” I replied.
“Not by the second time you climbed. Not by the third time you climbed,” she pointed out correctly. “And when you spent a lot of time in water and your calluses peeled off, or when you went a long time without climbing and they softened—how did they feel the next time you climbed?”
“They hurt again, but not as bad,” I replied, rubbing my fingertips with my thumb, feeling the sting from my most recent climb. “I guess I got used to the idea of there being pain and learned to work past it.” I suddenly saw her point. “Does that mean I have to keep opening all these closed wounds until I’m used to them?”
She nodded. “That’s the hard part…going back and re-experiencing the pain after you’ve forgotten about it,” she offered sympathetically. “On a positive note, though, once you learn to face it all the time, it loses its power over you.”
“So you are saying I have to go back and relive all the painful things that have happened to me in my life, over and over again, until feeling the emotions they elicit is so common, they don’t bother me anymore?”
“Well…” she said, smiling. “Let’s start with being tortured and shot.”
“And killing,” I added.
“And killing,” she agreed, as if in passing, but for some reason I didn’t get the impression she was as worried about that.
“What type of person would I be if those things didn’t bother me?” I asked incredulously, letting her know I had noted her dismissive response.
“You’d be you. The culmination of your experiences, beliefs, and skills,” she replied firmly.
“But would I still be the ‘me’ that everyone knows—the ‘me’ that I know?” I asked, suddenly panicking about the reality of her statement.
She paused, seeing my distress, and formulated her words carefully. “You can only be you. Events that alter us happen every day. It’s not a matter of if we change because of our experiences—they will change us…the better question to ask is: Will we allow those events to be bigger than us?”
Whoa! That is some seriously deep shit, I thought. I wonder if I should tell her about my other voice.
NO! came the resounding, emphatic answer from my hitchhiker.
Big surprise there, I thought sarcastically.
She must have taken my silence as acceptance of her assessment because she abruptly changed subjects on me.
“How’s it going with you and Barb?” she asked.
“It’s going okay,” I deflected flippantly.
Dr. Hebron gave me the “look”—the one that said, “That wasn’t small talk. I need details.”
“Well, I’m having difficulty dealing with the superficial pandering to my health.” I expanded. “Both my physical and mental health.”
“Are you still finding yourself suppressing anger with her?” she asked.
I paused for a second, almost embarrassed to admit it, and then nodded.
“Have you talked to her yet?” she asked. “Last week, you said you would work on expressing yourself when that happened, rather than just letting it build.”
“Not much luck on that front, I’m afraid,” I responded.
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” she replied sharply. “It requires a conscious effort.”
“I know, Doc,” I admitted defensively. “But tomorrow will be the two-month anniversary of the hostages being freed and only the fourth day since I was given permission to work out. How much strength do you think I have to face down my girlfriend over her forcing herself into my life?”
“How much strength does it take to hold down the anger?” she asked with a knowing glare.
Damn! She is being brutal today, I thought.
I sighed in frustration. She smiled at me.
“I know,” she offered. “Guilt drove you to Amsterdam to find her. She read your motivations wrong. But you have to understand, that was a pretty mixed message you sent. Not every ex-boyfriend would face mercenaries, torture, and gunfire to help a girl. It really sets you up to be the knight in shining armor.”
“More like the frog and the princess,” I corrected. “I was a horrible boyfriend before she left. I’m not sure why she thought that would change.”
“Because, Scott,” she said, leaning toward me to punch her comment up a notch. “You died in the process of saving her. In her mind, that is the real you…the rest is just you recovering from the trauma.”
I nodded my understanding. I already knew it, but it helped to hear it said out loud.
She watched my face for a few seconds before sitting back in her chair again.
“Monday,” she chirped, snapping me out of my internal review of her previous statement.
“Yes,” I said with a smile. “Monday. Back to work. I’m excited.”
“Good,” she replied. “But don’t build your expectations too high. Everything changed when you left for Europe. You'll have to accept that.”
I nodded.
“And you can call me any time next week if it becomes too overwhelming,” she added with a smile. “But I have a feeling you're going to nail it.”
That simple expression of confidence changed my mood to the positive.
“Thanks, Doc,” I replied. “I’ll do my best.”
“Of that, I’m certain,” she said, rising from her chair and extending her hand. “Next week.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied and then made my way out of her office suite and down to the garage.
On the way, I created an affirmation in my head to help remind me to be honest with Barb. Stay calm and then speak the truth, I thought.
I felt better already.
four
Saturday, July 17th
9:35 a.m.—Washington, DC
HEINRICH BRAUN was concerned about the new queries into the Combine accounts and the payments to the politicians and agency heads. He had thought for certain that once the Justice Department investigator had been eliminated, the snooping would stop—he had been reassured by individuals high in that agency.
Justice Agents don’t disarm mercenaries with their bare hands, Braun thought as he sat in the back seat of his sedan, driving toward the US Capitol. It made him uncomfortable having the unknown wildcard running around—especially a wildcard that could kill trained hit men.
He had been, as yet, unable to determine the identity of the Department of Justice Agent who had escaped their ambush. Justice had been no help at all. They had no record of Deidre Faulks having a partner on the investigation.
The trace on her phone records had given them a name, but no agency queried had claimed Dominic Tranum as their own—someone was covering for him.
His secure satellite phone chirped to life.
“Braun,” he answered.
“God damn it, Braun,” came the angry voice of William Spryte. “Please tell me you've found the son of a bitch who's been nosing into our accounts.”
“I'm sorry, sir, but I can't—as yet—say that,” Braun responded apologetically and then braced himself for the verbal assault.
“Then what the bloody, God-damned hell am I paying you for?!” Spryte exploded.
“Sir, I already have people working on the source of a dead end ID—”
“The agent?” Spryte barked. “Just call Justice and ask who it was! Why are we paying those people if they can't give us a simple name when we want it?!”
Braun shook his head with a bit of frustration.
This is what happens when you micromanage, he thought.
“Sir,” he said calmly, trying to defuse Spryte's anger. “We've done that. The DOJ has no record of another Agent working with Faulks…and the Tranum ID does not appear to be real.”
There was silence at the other end of the line as that information was absorbed.
“What are you doing to find him?” Spryte asked more calmly.
“We've discretely distributed an image from the ID to our other assets in various agencies. I'm expecting a facial match shortly.”
“How did you get a photo?” Spryte asked incredulously.
Braun smiled. And this is why you pay others to do this work, you doddering old jackass.
“For an ID to be believable, it has to be in the various systems representing the IDs…the DMV, the passport office, etc.…” Braun replied snidely.
“What sort of—” Spryte began to ask but suddenly stopped cold. “It's a cover ID.”
“Yes sir,” Braun said mechanically, letting Spryte feel the full weight of what he was up against—a covert government action against his organization.
“Carry on, Heinrich,” Spryte muttered. “Sorry to have bothered you.”
The call ended abruptly. Braun allowed himself a satisfied grin before dialing a new number.
It rang once before being answered. “Homeland Security. Deputy Director Raymond’s office. Ned Richards speaking.”
“I need to know what progress is being made on the ID search,” Braun growled.
There was a pause and the sound of rustling on the other end of the phone. “Are you crazy, calling me here?” the man hissed in an angry whisper.
“Relax, Ned,” Braun replied dismissively. “This line is untraceable.”
“But that doesn’t mean mine isn't being listened to,” Ned responded.
“Then switch to secure,” Braun said.
There was a click in the connection followed by a tone indicating the call was secure.
“What do you want that’s so important you would risk exposing me?” Ned asked, seething anger.
“I need to know the source of the Tranum ID,” Braun said mildly. “Or should I come to your office and ask for the results?”