Nate stopped in the doorway and surveyed the room. “This is great. Did you do the art?”
“No. That’s one of Lindsey’s creations. She’s developed a nice little side business painting murals. It gives her a good break from her job at the bank.”
He turned in the doorway and scanned the living room and country kitchen. “The whole place looks good.”
“Thanks. I didn’t change things too much. The bedroom furniture, sofa, and chairs are mine. And, of course, the things in Zach’s room. The rest either belonged to my grandparents or Mom had picked it up for the guesthouse. I did some painting, but not a whole lot. I’ll plop over there in the corner and relax while y’all play.”
She followed Nate into the playroom and sat down in the adult-sized, navy blue bean bag chair. There was a matching kid-sized one next to it that Zach occasionally occupied for a minute or two. If he sat there for more than five minutes, it would be a new personal record. Her son considered the room a play area, not a place for resting.
Jenna laughed as Nate pushed a little police car around, making siren noises and chasing Zach’s car. They drove up and over a big yellow pillow and under the table—a stretch for Nate but easy for Zach to crawl through when they moved the chairs out of the way. They parked the cars, and the little boy dragged over his barn, which came with animals, people, and a tractor and trailer. Nate helped him load a cow into the trailer. Zach dutifully put the farmer on the tractor seat and drove him “to town.”
As she slipped out of the room to finish supper, she heard Nate promising to bring some cotton over to put in the trailer. “Then we can haul it to the gin,” he said.
Ten minutes later, she had everything almost ready. “Y’all wash up. It’s time to eat.” She heard Zach giggle and looked up to see Nate chasing him down the hall to the bathroom. They joined her a few minutes later, both of their shirts splattered with water spots. “Is there a puddle on the bathroom floor?” she asked with a smile.
“Nope.” Nate winked at her son.
Zach grinned. “Nope.”
“We cleaned it up.” Nate set Zach on the chair in front of the plate she’d already fixed for him. “That looks good. Smells like teriyaki.”
“That’s right.” She tied a bib around Zach’s neck. He picked up his cup of milk and had a big drink. When he reached for his fork, she touched his hand. “Wait for us, so we can pray.”
Nate helped her with her chair, then sat across the round cherry table from her. Zach dutifully clasped his hands together and bowed his head. It was something he’d just learned, so Jenna prayed quickly before he became rambunctious. “Father, thank you for this food and that Nate can share it with us. Thank you for your many blessings. In Jesus’ name, amen.”
Two male voices, one deep and one sweetly childish, echoed, “Amen.”
She had about half a second to relish the sound before Zach unfolded his hands and reached for his fork, digging in.
Nate nodded toward the toddler. “That was new.”
“This is his third night of actually bowing his head. But whoever is praying has to talk fast.”
“Works for me.” He spooned a big helping of rice onto his plate, then added the teriyaki chicken and vegetables on top of it. “I worked up an appetite racing all those cars around.”
Jenna glanced at Zach. He was eating diligently. “I think somebody else did too. Things must have gone well today.”
“Better than I’d expected.” Nate dished up some mango in the small bowl by his plate. “Everything they could check today on the regular physical was fine. The results won’t come back on some of the blood tests for a few days, but the doctor didn’t think there would be anything unusual.” He took a bite of the stir-fry. “This is really good.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes. “I didn’t know you were such an excellent cook. Except for the brownies, I don’t think I’ve eaten anything you’ve made.”
“I botch things now and then, but most of the time it’s edible. When Jimmy and I were first married, I didn’t have much to do, so I watched a lot of cooking shows. I don’t get too gourmet, but I like trying new recipes with fifteen or less ingredients.”
“Five’s my limit. I even have a cookbook where every recipe has five ingredients or less.”
“Chance has one like that. I don’t think he’s ever opened it. Have you used yours?”
“A couple of times. It’s easier to buy frozen dinners at the store and throw them in the microwave. They taste good enough. Sometimes I toss a steak on the grill.”
Jenna checked Zach’s progress. “Honey, you need to eat some of your vegetables.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
“More chicken.” Her little boy smiled sweetly.
“Vegetables first. You like broccoli and pea pods, remember?” Frowning, Zach poked at a small slice of celery with his fork. “What’s that?”
“Celery.”
He made a face and shoved it to the side of his plate. Jenna glanced at Nate. He was trying hard to keep from laughing. “You don’t need to try the celery this time, but you have to eat some broccoli and peas before you get any more chicken.”
“Okay.” Sighing, Zach picked up a piece of pea pod and shoved it in his mouth.
“Chew it good.” Satisfied that he wasn’t going to try to swallow it whole, she turned her attention back to Nate. His plate was almost empty. Maybe she should admonish him about chewing before swallowing. Naw.
“How did you get involved with the Mission?” Nate relaxed against the back of the chair and sipped his iced tea.
“Lindsey volunteered there a couple of afternoons a week. One day another lady was sick, and she’d received a shipment of food from Abilene. She needed help putting it away.” Jenna smiled, remembering how her friend had persisted. “And she knew I needed to quit hiding at the ranch and focus on somebody other than myself. She wouldn’t take no for an answer. I finally caved in. I’d intended to only help that one time, but she kept asking and I kept going.
“Before long, the director had to retire due to health problems. Nobody else wanted the job, so I took it. It isn’t a paid position, which is fine for me. We have a handful of volunteers who work a few hours a month. I try to keep them and everything else organized.”
“I’m sure you do a great job.” Nate took some more of the stir-fry.
“I give it my best.” So far things had run smoothly, so that must be good enough.
“Chicken.” Zach looked at his mom. “Please.”
“Oh, good boy.” She checked his plate. The celery pieces were pushed together in a neat little pile, but he’d eaten all of the broccoli and a few more pea pods. “You ate some vegetables and remembered to say please. Yes, you may have more chicken.”
Nate carefully picked out some small pieces of meat and placed them on Zach’s plate. He glanced at Jenna. “Is that enough?”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
“T’ank you,” added Zach, around a mouthful of food.
“You’re welcome.” Nate’s gaze shifted to Jenna. “Both of you.” His smile warmed her clear to her toes.
She wanted to lean her elbow on the table, rest her face on her hand, and simply stare at the sweet, handsome man across from her. But that would be acting like a schoolgirl with a crush. And what she felt for him went way beyond that.
“The Mission is a strong reminder of how blessed I am. To be honest, it makes me feel really good to work there. We’re a small community, but it’s surprising how many people need a little help sometimes.”
“You mentioned a shipment from Abilene earlier. Is that a regular thing?” He started on his second plateful of food.
“Yes. We’re associated with the Food Bank of West Central Texas in Abilene. It’s part of the Feeding America network, so we benefit from corporate and government donations. Miller’s Grocery gives us their surplus too. Between them and the things citizens bring by, we have nonperishable staples,
canned goods, meat, dairy products, baked goods, and fresh fruit and vegetables. That’s why we’re only open for customers two days a week, right after we receive the shipments. All the fresh stuff goes fast. Actually, almost everything goes quickly.”
“So locals also contribute the clothes and furniture?”
“Yes. I love it when people clean out closets or their kids outgrow their clothes. Or someone redecorates their house. It’s like Christmas anytime of the year.”
They moved on to other topics but didn’t discuss anything else that had happened at the hospital until supper was over, the dishes were done, and they’d played with Zach for a couple of hours.
After the toddler was tucked into bed and sound asleep, Jenna sat down beside Nate on the pale yellow leather couch, snuggling a little closer when he put his arm around her shoulders. “Do you feel like telling me about the rest of your day?”
“Well, I got up at 6:00 and had water for breakfast. No food because of the blood tests. Brad picked me up, and we drove to Big Spring. Had the physical exam, then I ate. Want to know what I ate?” His eyes twinkled as he tipped his head and looked down at her.
“Not really. Bottom line it, cowboy. What did you think of the psychiatrist? And what did he say?”
“I like Dr. Silverman. He seems to be a good man with a heart for God and for taking care of his patients. He quoted things from various studies, some of them done in the last six months, so he keeps up on all the latest things. According to some research in the last few years, PTSD actually changes the chemistry in the brain, which increases the fight or flight response. So though I passed the regular physical, this weird trip I’m on isn’t all a psychological thing. It’s partly biological and physiological too.
“He also thinks I had a mild concussion when that house in Iraq blew up. I had a bad headache for several days, ringing in my ears, and dizziness, but I didn’t lose consciousness, so I didn’t think it was a concussion. I doubt I ever mentioned it. The headache only showed up when the pain meds for the burn and shrapnel wound wore off. It was gone before I got out of the hospital, so I didn’t think any more about it.
“But Dr. Silverman specifically asked me if I’d had any of those symptoms after the bomb. He said they’ve discovered that mild concussions due to a bomb explosion can cause brain injury. Unlike a concussion from a fall, a car wreck, or sports injury, a bomb throws off energy waves that affect the body differently. He said that might be causing some of my problems—or it might not. I don’t have the light sensitivity, dizziness, or hearing problems that often go along with a brain injury. I’ve had a headache for about two weeks, but he agreed that’s probably from tension.”
“If there is brain damage, can they do anything about it?” Jenna leaned her forehead against his jaw, admiring the subtle fragrance of his light aftershave.
“I don’t know. We didn’t get into it that much. He said it was something he’d keep an eye on. He believes regular ol’ PTSD is my main problem.”
“Is that good?”
He shrugged lightly. “Well, it has to be better than having two things wrong. I sought treatment fairly early, compared to a lot of guys. That will work in my favor. He put me on an antidepressant, which is supposed to help the depression as well as the anxiety. That’s in addition to the medicine I’m taking to help with the nightmares. I like his philosophy of starting off with minimal medication and changing it until we find something that works. I’ll go see him twice a week for about a month. Hopefully, after that he’ll turn me over to Pastor Brad for counseling, with only an occasional visit to Big Spring.”
“That would make it easier, plus he’s great to talk to. I don’t know how many times we stopped in the middle of a visit and prayed for guidance. You’ve been more relaxed tonight, so are you encouraged after seeing Dr. Silverman?”
“I am. He thinks we have a good probability of getting things under control. He’s a strong Christian and definitely believes in God’s mercy and healing and the power of prayer. That’s a big encouragement right there. I’ll have to take medicine for a while, maybe forever. I don’t like it, but if that’s what it takes to be normal, then I’ll do it.”
“If you had some other kind of illness that required medication, you’d take that. This is no different.”
He tightened his arm around her shoulders. “Thanks. I needed to hear that. I’m very fortunate—make that blessed— to have you, my folks, and your family supporting me. A lot of people don’t have that kind of help.”
“We come from good stock.”
He chuckled and tickled her nose with his fingertip. “Yes, we do.”
Footsteps tapped on the back porch, loud enough to warn them someone was coming, but not loud enough to wake Zach. “Sounds like your herd has come to check on us.” He leaned down and gave her a lingering kiss. “That’s probably the last opportunity we’ll get tonight.”
Someone knocked lightly on the door.
“I could tell them to go away.”
“Honey, you know that would be as useless as a milk bucket under a bull. Go let them in, and I’ll hide the banana muffins so those brothers of yours don’t eat up my breakfast.”
Laughing softly, they tiptoed into the kitchen. Jenna waited for him to stash the muffins in a drawer, then opened the door so her parents and both brothers could come in.
After hushed hellos, they walked quietly into the living room and sat down. They asked how things had gone, and Nate told about his day all over again. “Well, I got up at 6:00 and had water for breakfast . . .”
Jenna smothered her face in a throw pillow to muffle her laughter and thanked God for his mercy and blessings.
21
Nate initially went to the VA the first week in November. He quickly decided Dub had aptly described what he was going through—a battle for his peace of mind. After that first good night’s sleep, he had a couple of bad nights with only a few hours rest and nightmares followed by one with three hours sleep but no bad dreams. Then he started therapy with Dr. Silverman, and he had a solid week of dreams that had him waking up in a sweat, heart pounding. Sometimes he was yelling too.
He blamed it on the doctor’s keen insight and ability to encourage Nate to talk, to draw out experiences and feelings he’d deeply buried and never wanted to visit again. At times the anger and frustration were so great that Nate would raise his voice and pound on the arm of the chair. Once, he jumped up and paced around the room, finally picking up a book from the doctor’s desk and throwing it against the wall. He’d had no idea that he had so much rage simmering inside.
More often, however, instead of rage, relating his experiences and feelings brought tears, some of grief, some reflecting an emotion he couldn’t define. Despite the gut-wrenching aspects of the sessions, he often felt better afterward. Drained, but with the sense that some healing had taken place.
They also spent time discovering how to cope with his thoughts and emotions, what might trigger flashbacks or flares of anger and how to deal with them. Dr. Silverman believed the flashbacks and sudden anger might soon disappear. The sessions always ended in prayer, which he concluded wasn’t necessarily the doctor’s standard operating procedure with every patient.
Nate continued to work no matter how bad he felt. His appointments were on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, so he worked those mornings and managed to put in full days the rest of the time.
It had been a hot, rainless fall with plenty of wind. The soil dried out and so did the grass. They gathered up the calves and loaded them into trucks to ship to a pre-condition feed-lot. The animals would have plenty to eat for the next several months before Dub sold them.
With no grass worth eating, they began hauling hay and cottonseed cake to the cattle and horses. They carried feed to each pasture three times a week, rotating through the various areas of the ranch on a daily basis. At the same time, they would inspect the cattle and drive along the fences to look for breaks. The most rugged pastures, with steep hi
lls, low mesas, or many gullies, still required a man on horseback to check the fences and watch for sick or hurt cattle beyond where a pickup could go. Windmill maintenance remained in the work routine too.
The brittle grass and windy weather heightened the fire danger. Keeping on the lookout for smoke and fires became more crucial. Under those conditions, it would only take a spark to start a blaze. Their county, along with most counties in the South Plains and West Texas, declared an outdoor burn ban. It made things a bit difficult for folks living in the country who didn’t have garbage pickup and usually burned their trash in burn barrels. But the inconvenience was a small thing compared to staying safe.
There wasn’t too much to do at the farm right then, so his dad handled most of it. They left the cotton stalks in the fields to help hold the topsoil and keep the dust from blowing. Under such dry conditions, they might not break up the land until early spring.
By Thanksgiving week, Nate’s medication had kicked in on a regular basis. The nightmares dropped dramatically, and he was sleeping five to six hours most nights, occasionally more.
Catching up on his rest did wonders. The dark circles beneath his eyes faded, and his energy was pretty much back to normal. He was still jumpy sometimes and forgot things occasionally. But he no longer caught glimpses of shadowy al-Qaida figures slinking around the edges of the room.
He thought about Iraq or Afghanistan every day. Sometimes they were good memories; sometimes bad. From what he’d been told and read, that might continue for years. He still had an occasional flashback, and that worried him. Generally, he was feeling better about the situation, but he wasn’t as far along as he wanted to be.
On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, his session with the psychiatrist went longer than usual because the doctor was evaluating his progress. Pastor Brad would be handling his twice-a-week counseling sessions after the holiday, with Nate seeing Dr. Silverman only once a month.
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