by Paula Mabbel
“Is that it then? You feel guilty that you are he and he is not?”
He shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Maybe is a yes.”
“Change the subject,” he said, sounding a bit more short than he meant to.
“We can change the subject if you want to, Jackson, but you always do this when we broach this topic.”
He took a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“OK let’s talk about your future plans. What are you thinking of doing? Are you planning on going back?”
Jackson was silent for a long time, staring at nothing. “I should,” he said finally. “I mean…I feel like that's what I’m supposed to do. But I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s like I get anxiety every time I even think about it.”
“Well don’t force yourself. Take the time off that you need.”
He looked at her face again. She was encouraging him. She believed in him. Not just in a professional way, but genuinely. He relaxed a little. Her presence was calming. It was why he chose her over the therapist everyone else recommended for his extensive experience treating ex-soldiers with PTSD. Jackson had been to see him once, but he made up his mind early on that he simply didn’t like the guy. But Abigail. Abigail helped quiet his mind, even if it was for only an hour or two a week.
“What about alternatives?”
Jackson hadn’t thought much about this. Truthfully, the Navy was the only thing he was ever good at.
The Navy and football.
He’d been a star quarterback in college. Everyone was positive he’d get drafted over to the NFL.
But then the towers fell.
And the feeling nagged at him for weeks until, at the last minute, he decided to enlist. He loved football. But he just wasn’t sure he still had it.
“Our time is up,” Abigail said. Was there a tinge of regret in her voice?
Jackson nodded. “Same time next week?”
She stood and started to arrange some papers on her desk. He stood and walked over to her. She turned to face him, looking up, as he was an entire foot taller than she was. He looked her straight in her eye so she would know he was sincere, but it took him a minute to find his words. “I want to apologize.”
She started to stop him, but he continued.
“No,” he said. “Let me…let me finish. You’ve been a real help to me; I want you to know that. And I don’t mean to snap at you. I’ll do better next time. I promise.”
“Jackson…” her voice trailed off.
He didn’t realize he was touching her hand until she looked down. When she looked back up at him, her cheeks were red.
He pulled his hand away.
She smiled but took a small step back. “Sure,” she said. “We’ll talk more next week.”
He nodded. He felt like he should say more, but he couldn’t figure out what, so he turned and left.
~
Something explodes nearby.
The sound is unbelievably loud, and the ground shakes under his feet.
The heat wears on him like thick, heavy chains, made even more unbearable by all the gear he's wearing.
Protective gear, he repeats to himself. He has to tell himself this in order to keep from peeling everything off, layer by layer, and exposing his bare flesh to the scorching sun.
He hits the ground, just as he's done more times than he possibly could have counted. Then he begins to crawl, slowly and so low to the ground that he’s practically dragging his belly through the endless stretch of sand. His vision is obstructed by the thick cloud of dust the explosion has kicked up.
He looks around frantically for his partner, but he cannot find him. He wants to call out for him but he knows making even the tiniest of sounds right now could mean a swift and certain death.
Another explosion occurs somewhat farther off.
He ducks and covers his head with his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a large boulder, and he dashes behind it to take cover.
When his ears stop ringing, and he can open his eyes again, he takes another look around, trying to figure out exactly where he is. He sees booted feet sticking out from the around the other side of the boulder. He gets on all fours again, crawls over to them. He can see the patch of camouflage tucked in before he gets all the way there.
It's Marty.
His partner.
And he's dead.
His stomach turns and a painful knot forms in his throat.
He lets out a cry of pain.
A howl really.
His lament is cut short by the sound of the bullet piercing him through his uniform. It comes from behind and though at first he doesn’t realize what has happened, the feeling of hot blood, surely his own, oozing down his back brings it all to reality.
He falls over, on top of Marty, and then rolls over onto his back in the hope of getting a glimpse of his assailant.
The last thing he remembers seeing is the large rock seemingly floating directly above him before it comes crashing down onto his head.
~
Jackson woke up in a cold sweat. His heart felt like it would pound clear through his chest.
He couldn’t see at first; it was the middle of the night and particularly dark in his bedroom.
He started to count backward from one hundred. After a minute, his eyes adjusted to the darkness around him, and the sweat covering him cooled, causing a prickling feeling to crawl up his skin.
His heart didn’t start to slow down until he reached the number twenty-three – his old jersey number.
He sat up, then got up got a glass of water. He ended up drinking two glasses before attempting to go back to bed.
It was no use. His eyes just couldn’t shut.
He lay still in his bed, staring up at the ceiling in the hopes that other, more disturbing images wouldn’t come back into his head.
After a minute or two, he reached for the phone, and before thinking too much about it, dialed Abigail Fox on her emergency line.
The phone rang one…two…three times and then he almost hung up, but in the middle of the fourth ring, someone picked up.
“Hello?”
She sounded groggy, Jackson thought. He had woken her. Instantly, he felt bad about calling her in the dead middle of the night, but it was either this or…god knows what.
“Ms. Fox? It’s me, Jackson.” He said nothing else. He wasn’t even sure what to call her. It felt like he shouldn’t be calling her at all, but she had given him the number, right?
She had to know he’d use it one day…
“Jackson?”
He didn’t answer, not at first. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say to her, either.
“Jackson, is that you? Are you there?” She sounded more alert now, an edge of worry in her voice.
“I’m here,” he said quietly.
“Is everything OK? What’s wrong? Did something happen?”
“A dream…” he said, because he didn’t know what else to say. “I had a bad dream.”
“It’s OK,” she said, and instantly he felt a little calmer. “Tell me what happened.”
“So much blood…” he said squeezing his eyes shut. “The heat. And explosion.”
“Jackson, take a deep breath for me.”
He complied, filling his chest cavity fully with air before exhaling.
“Good. And now another one.”
Jackson took another long breath.
“Keep breathing,” Abigail said. “Listen to me…it was just a dream OK? You’re OK. You’re safe. Nothing is going to harm you.”
Jackson nodded, forgetting that she couldn’t actually see him.
“Repeat it to me,” she commanded.
“It’s OK,” he whispered. “I’m safe.”
“Good,” her voice relaxed. “This is usually the part where I tell you to take some medication, and that we’d adjust your dosage on your next visit, but you’ve refused to take the meds I recommended in the first place.”<
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“I told you,” he said. “I want to try and beat this thing without any meds.”
“Jackson, there is nothing wrong with needing a little extra help. Taking medication doesn’t mean you’re crazy. You’ve been through a lot, much more than a normal person would be able to take.”
“I appreciate your concern, Ms. Fox. But no medication for now.”
Abigail sighed heavily on the other line. “OK,” she said. “Have you thought about getting one of those service dogs? I hear they’re really helpful in PTSD-type situations.”
“I don’t have the time to take care of a dog, Ms. Fox.”
“Lie down, Jackson.”
Before he knew it, he had done what she’d asked.
“Here’s another idea. Let’s figure out something else you can do, some activity you can partake in or project you can take on that will keep your mind occupied and give your life some meaning again.”
He liked how that sounded, but didn’t readily know what that something might be. “Like what?”
“Well, what are your hobbies?”
He thought about this for a moment. He liked to cook – he would always cook for his buddies when he was in the service. He liked the beach. What else?
“You mentioned to me that you used to play football, right?”
Jackson froze. “Yeah. I used to play.”
“Maybe you could find a neighborhood group and play again? For fun. Definitely thinking you should find more of a low-pressure situation. Not something too competitive.”
Jackson was silent for some time. “I might try it.” He could hear her smiling through the phone.
“Good. I want you to look into some options and tell me what you found out when you come see me next week, OK?”
“OK, I’ll do that…I’m sorry again, Ms. Fox. For the call. I didn’t mean to scare you or worry you. It’s just…”
“Don’t apologize, Jackson. It’s what I’m here for.”
Jackson nodded again before catching himself.
“How are you feeling now?”
“Better.”
“Do you feel like you can go back to sleep?”
“I can try.”
“Well, try and get some rest. I’ll see you in a few days.”
Jackson hung up.
Then he smiled in spite of himself and stretched out to get some sleep.
Football.
Could he really do it? He didn’t want to fail at it. But he needed to do something.
He was never one to take half measures. If he was going to do this, if he was going to play football again, it would be all or nothing.
It was decided then.
Fuck some small-time community game. He would go pro and try out for the NFL.
~
It was bright and early when Jackson pulled up to the high school campus. He parked along the side of the road, in front of a large field, but the school was visible at the far end.
He opened his door and got out, smiling widely when he saw the only person on the field. He was running the length with some sort of parachute attached to his back. Jackson shook his head with a laugh.
The athlete on the field ran back from the far end, parachute still attached. He spotted Jackson walking towards him and slowed down, unhooking the contraption from his back as he jogged in his direction. “You're still slow as fuck,” Jackson laughed. “Never going to beat me, no matter how much weight you add.”
The man stopped in front of Jackson and wiped his hands on his mesh shorts, a large, bright smile on his dark face. “We'll see about that. I won't embarrass you by mentioning how I already crushed your record and this season’s only started.”
“No, you wouldn't do that. Especially since we both know it's not true. You play shit teams, nothing like the competition I had in school.”
“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Blake.” He rubbed his hand over his bald head. “But, enough of this bullshit. You ready?”
“Where the hell did you get that thing, Q?” Jackson nodded to the parachute on the field.
“Amazon. You want to try it out?” Q hooked his fingers in the harness he was wearing. He slapped Jackson’s shoulder with the back of his hand and stepped away. “Go take it for a spin.”
Jackson had forgotten how physically grueling a good football practice could be. When he’d woken up the morning after his last nightmare, he called in a favor to his old friend Q. “I need you to help get me back in the game,” he said. And of course, Q jumped all over the opportunity. Partly because he genuinely wanted to help, Jackson was sure. And partly because he wanted to give him shit.
He didn’t mind, though. Ms. Fox was right. It felt great to be doing something again.
Especially this.
“Go long,” he said to Q, who turned immediately and ran to the far end of the field. His shoulders were loosening up. He was quickly getting his old nimbleness back. He threw. It was a perfect throw. He smiled.
Q tossed the ball back to him. “Good one. Let’s go again.”
Jackson saw a flash of bright red hair out of the corner of his eyes, and he stopped and turned around.
He had to squint, but he was almost sure it was her. He dropped the ball and started to jog over to the gate.
“Hey,” yelled Q. “Where you going? We’re not done here.”
“I’ll be right back,” he called over his shoulder.
She had spotted him coming toward her and had turned to leave. “Wait,” he called out, and she stopped and turned back.
“Hi,” he grinned, when he reached her, and she returned the smile.
“I see you took my advice,” she said. “It’s nice when patients actually listen. I don’t think I’ve even seen you smile quite that widely before.”
“I admit, I do feel great. What are you doing around here?”
“I was just in the neighborhood taking a walk. How is your practice going?”
“I feel like a million bucks.”
“Guess that means you won’t be needing me anymore,” she joked.
“Nonsense,” he said playfully. “I’ll be at my appointment bright and early Thursday morning. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Did she blush?
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it then.”
“Hey,” he started. “I’m just finishing up here. I don’t know…you want to grab a coffee or something?”
“Uh,” she stammered and her eyes went a little wide. He’d caught her off guard. He’d caught himself off guard too. He hadn’t planned to ask her that at all.
He lowered his head so that his eyes met hers, and smiled at her. “OK,” she said. “Coffee would be nice.”
“Wait right here. I’m just going to go and get my things.”
~
He really was her favorite patient.
But for none of the right reasons.
The second they met, the very air around her had changed, wrapped her into this force field of – she wasn’t sure what it was, but she felt it nonetheless.
She agreed to see him when he asked, thinking that talking to him in a professional capacity would halt whatever it was rising in her.
But it didn’t. If anything, talking to him about his most intimate thoughts and feelings only made her feel more drawn to him.
She’d kept things strictly professional, though, as she was expected to do.
Until now.
Now, they were in a coffee shop, in an unofficial capacity, sitting across from one another, the closest in proximity they’d ever been.
She was really toeing the line.
Sure, it was just coffee.
Or maybe not.
He sat down with a latte in either hand and smiled as he slid hers across the table to her. His smile didn’t lessen the power in his gaze. It made her jumpy, and her heart sped up, pushing blood to her nerves.
“I really hope you aren’t going to send me a bill for this,” he teased.
She permitted herse
lf a small laugh. Her poker face was shattering already, much to her dismay. The last thing she wanted was to let on that he had an effect on her.