by Jeff High
Her words were soft, almost fragile, yet spoken with a full measure of certainty. “What I want is you, Luke. That’s all I know.” She paused for a moment before once again looking ardently into my eyes. “I want you. So I guess it’s up to you. Perhaps I should feel differently, think differently . . . believe differently. But I don’t. Not now. Not anymore. Not with you.”
I nodded in understanding. Eventually, I leaned toward her and again pressed my lips to her forehead, leaving them there for the longest time.
CHAPTER 33
Unexpected
I arrived home around two in the morning. Christine had asked me to stay and sleep over in the guest bedroom, but I gently refused. I was exhausted and wanted my own bed.
Will and Louise had agreed to let Rhett stay with them for the night. So as I pulled in and parked the car at the side of the house, I was thinking of nothing more than collapsing into bed. But as I made my way to the front porch, something caught my eye.
I froze.
The porch light wasn’t on, but the lamplight coming through the front windows dimly defined a large silhouette. It was a man sitting on the porch floor with his back against the house and his arms folded in front of him. His chin was down and his face was hidden under a ball cap. He wasn’t moving.
My breath quickened as alarm raced through me. At this deep and desolate hour, nothing good could come of this strange presence. I stepped closer, my eyes straining to determine who this could possibly be. Then I heard a low wheezing sound. Whoever he was, he was asleep. But I was on edge, tense, alert.
I ascended the first step and leaned in, doing my best to be eye level with the ghostly figure. Within the frail shadows, the image was eerily surreal. But soon enough, I recognized him.
It was Clayton Ross.
I inhaled a deep breath and braced myself, unsure of what to anticipate upon rousing him. I stepped up on the porch and lightly tapped his foot.
In the flash of a moment he was on his feet and lunging at me like a tackling linebacker. But instead of throwing me to the ground, he slammed both of our bodies against the side of the house, using his to absorb the brunt of the crashing impact. His voice was thunderous, panic-stricken. “They’re shooting, Jonas! They’re shooting!”
“Clayton! Clayton! It’s me, Luke Bradford.”
He turned to me in wide-eyed terror. “Jonas, Jonas! Your face, your face! You’re okay! Look, look. . . .” He stopped. His words drifted into the dark, and he slowly released his grip on me. He seemed lost, spooked, and he stared blankly into the night as he ran the palm of his hand over his forehead, obliviously pushing back his ball cap, which fell unheeded to the porch floor.
“Clayton, it’s me, Dr. Bradford. I think you just woke from a bad dream.” There was no smell of alcohol on his breath.
He stared numbly for another few seconds, his expression a picture of woe. For a brief moment, I saw in his eyes the half-captured image of a frightened child. His was a mind encased in fear and confusion. Awkwardly, he looked around, and I could see the light of reality begin to emerge on his face, leaving him in an embarrassed and lowly state. He glanced at me briefly and then carefully bent down and picked up his ball cap. His hands were trembling.
He spoke stiffly with downcast eyes. “I’m—I’m sorry, Dr. Bradford. I couldn’t sleep tonight, so I started walking. I must have walked for miles, and somehow I got it in my head to come see you. That maybe you could help me.” He glanced up at my eyes, wanting to read something in my gaze. He looked down again quickly and continued. “After I got here . . . I don’t know. Just knowing that I was close; knowing that I might talk to you and maybe you could help me . . . well, it made me relax, helped me to not think about things. So, I guess I fell asleep. I’m sorry. It’s the middle of the night. I’ll come back to the clinic sometime.”
He offered a tight-lipped nod and began to step away. Despite my consuming exhaustion and a head floating in the fog and dullness of lost sleep, I lightly grabbed his shoulder. “Clayton, come inside for a while.”
He paused for only a moment before nodding and following me. He took a seat on the large sofa in the living room while I walked to the kitchen and retrieved two bottles of water. I returned and handed one to him. I took off my tuxedo jacket, tossed it over the back of the large chair, and sat down.
He spoke politely. “I guess you went to the bandstand dance tonight?”
“Yeah, it was a good time.” I paused and nodded thoughtfully. “A big evening.”
He nodded in return, looking around the room, lost in uncertainty.
“So, I guess you opted not to go?” I said. “Veterans got in free, you know.”
He smiled weakly and exhaled a deep sigh. “Probably best I didn’t. I, uh, I don’t seem to do well in crowds.”
We sat looking at each other in an uneasy and appraising manner. The brooding air between us was thick, guarded, cautious. I lightly rubbed my chin.
“Who was Jonas, Clayton?”
There was a heavy pause at the mention of this name. At first, he spoke stiltedly, fumbling over his words and struggling through his sentences as if unsure where to begin. But in time, his low, husky voice poured out the long narrative of a buried desperation. He talked about the war and spoke of horrific, dreadful things: of terrified faces gasping for breath; of the warm, sickening stench of lacerated bodies; and of the gruesome business of wiping the remnants of his friend Jonas’s face from his own uniform. His descriptions were grotesque and vivid. And yet I came to slowly realize the cathartic need he had to tell me. Apparently Clayton had determined that since I was a doctor, all the unspeakable gore wouldn’t matter and that perhaps somehow I could dispassionately help him to understand, to find perspective. In reality, I could do little more than nod and listen.
It was the balance of his cheerless and somber words that convinced me there was a darkness in him that I couldn’t begin to fathom. He told of how, since his return home, he had felt a stranger, always adrift, searching to find an entrance into his former life. Alcohol had become his refuge against the noise and confusion of the world. Ultimately, he told of a tremendous sense of failure and frustration, an obscure but consuming belief that his life would be forever tainted, restless, alone. His whole existence seemed defined by an epic sadness.
As I absorbed the full measure of his lament, I began to understand my disgraceful ignorance of post-traumatic stress. I was more comfortable with a disease process that presented itself with identifiable symptoms and a clear frontal wall of attack. In my discomfort in dealing with the elusive maladies of the mind, I tended to gloss over them, conveniently relegating them to some chemical imbalance or hormone deficiency.
I came to grasp how war makes tortured souls of its participants, often requiring them to live day by day, haunted by ghastly memories and tethered to cruel demons that fester like madness in their minds. It occurred to me that all who had been in battle had been forever changed by it. Some simply handled it better than others.
All of this contrasted shamefully with my joy of the previous hours. My consuming preoccupation with creating some perfect moment to propose now seemed frivolous when compared to the swallowing misery of this tearful young man. In my head I had invented a grand fiction about Clayton, assuming he was nothing more than a drunkard and a bully. I had been wrong.
Lost in thought, I now realized that he was asking a question.
“Is there some pill I can take, Dr. Bradford?”
I exhaled deeply. “Medications are probably part of the solution, Clayton. But I think it would be good for you to talk to someone . . . someone who has more experience with this kind of thing.”
He shrugged his shoulders, not understanding. “We’re talking here, aren’t we?”
“We are, and as much as I want to help you, Clayton, I’m not the best choice.” I paused for a moment, sharp
ening my gaze. An idea had struck me. “But I might know somebody who is.”
Clayton sat despondently. Having poured out his story, he seemed drained. I was on the verge of collapse as well. “Clayton, I’m going to get you a pillow and a blanket, and you can bunk there on the couch tonight. In the morning, I’ll give you a ride home.”
He seemed slightly uncomfortable with this plan but ultimately responded with a muted nod. Another long silence followed, and I stared thoughtfully at him. “Clayton, you’ve been through a lot, and I’m sorry. But I’m going to do everything I can to help you get better.”
“Thanks, Doc.” His face was downcast, and it seemed he felt ashamed, embarrassed to admit to his pain. It made me all the more determined.
CHAPTER 34
Awakening
I finally managed to pull myself out of bed shortly before noon. Even the downtown church bells of Sunday morning had been unable to draw me out of my slumber. I ambled downstairs, and to no surprise, found that Clayton was gone. I was in the kitchen making coffee when my phone rang.
“Are you finally up?”
“Hello, beautiful,” I responded sleepily. “Just couldn’t wait to hear my voice, could you?”
“You know, I had the craziest dream last night.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I dreamed this wonderful, sweet doctor asked me to marry him.”
“Hold it. Shouldn’t that be a wonderful, sweet, and handsome doctor asked you to marry him?”
“I thought the handsome part was understood.”
“Nice save.”
“What are you doing this afternoon?”
I conveyed the entire Clayton Ross episode to her, explaining that perhaps I had misjudged him. Without going into further detail, I told her that I was going to spend part of the afternoon looking into some methods of getting him help. She said she understood, and we made plans for later.
Karen Davidson answered on the third ring, pert and perky as ever. I asked her if she could meet me at the clinic in an hour. She agreed without pressing for further particulars. My plan was a long shot, given Karen’s generally private nature. Having been an army medic for all those years, she might be able to relate to Clayton on a much deeper level than I could ever manage. It was worth a try.
When we met in my office an hour later, Karen was almost incandescent, wearing a radiant smile. Dressed casually in jeans and a flannel shirt, she was wearing a slightly less glossy version of the same hairstyle and makeup from the previous evening. She still had an unadorned demeanor and mild shyness, but simply put, she was pretty, very pretty, and she exuded a confidence that I had not seen before. She had clearly warmed to the idea of this bold new look, and I was delighted for her.
I couldn’t help teasing her a little. “Dr. Davidson, you were quite the showstopper last night. I’m guessing you had a wonderful evening?”
“I doubt anything could top that final performance of yours, Doctor. Congratulations again, by the way.”
“Thanks. So, Karen, tell me everything.”
She sank slightly in her chair and gazed toward the ceiling, speaking with elation. “I had such a nice time with Hoot. Believe it or not, we talked shop most of the evening and, I’d have to say, I think he was pretty impressed.”
“I think he was pretty impressed before you ever said a word.”
Her face warmed into a wry grin. “Yeah, well, that too. But seriously, the conversation was great. We talked about herd management, nutrition strategies for improving milk production, vaccination scheduling. . . . It was wonderful.”
“Wow. Be still my beating heart.”
She laughed. “Okay, I get it. But it really was fabulous. Hoot introduced me to several of the other dairy farmers. Apparently they have a local dairymen association, and he wants me to speak at their next meeting.”
“That sounds great. I’m really happy for you. So, what about you and Hoot? Looks like you two hit it off nicely. That couldn’t all have been just shop talk.”
A mischievous grin inched across her face. “Isn’t he something? I like him. He’s funny and so easy to talk with. He’s a real sweetheart, despite being such a big bear.”
“I think Hoot may actually be hairier than most bears, but it’s a pretty good analogy.”
Karen nodded, clearly walking on air. “He asked me to come out this afternoon and see his farm. He also wants me to meet his daughter, Wendy.”
“You’ll like her. Thirteen and smart as a whip. I think she’s the real adult in that situation. Anyway, looks like the evening was a big success for the Davidson veterinary practice.”
“It was incredible, crazy really. I mean, come on. Who knew?”
“Apparently Connie and Estelle did. You were pretty stunning.”
“Yeah, I always figured I’d have to get cremated before anyone considered me smoking hot.”
“Oh good grief, Karen. You’re an attractive gal. Connie and Estelle just did a little polishing up.”
“I guess the military years conditioned me not to care about my looks.”
I planted my elbows on my desk, locking my fingers together. “I’m glad you brought that up. That’s what I want to talk to you about. I need to ask you something, something personal and private.”
“Okay.”
“I heard from a discreet source that in the past you spent some time in an army mental facility. Is, umm, is that true?”
She was unfazed by this question. “That is very true.”
“I have a reason for asking that I’ll get to in a minute. But do you mind telling me about that chapter of your life?”
“Not at all. After all those years in the military, after all those deployments, I had become what I would call emotionally catatonic. I had just . . .” She paused for a second, collecting her thoughts. “I had just seen too much, been through too much. And it wasn’t just combat wounds. A lot of my time was spent treating civilians—women and children who had been mangled by some homemade bomb or IED. Just caught in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
She thought a moment. “You know, people see Hollywood violence all the time. So they think they understand it. The real thing is impossible to describe or fully comprehend.”
She paused again, searching for words. “The explosions and the screams—it’s overwhelming and terrifying, and you want to run away. The chaos of it all can just swallow you, all of you. But you have a job to do. So you learn to shut out the sensation, block them out. It works in the military, but it screws you up for a normal life. People don’t know it, Luke, but every sixty-five minutes, a United States veteran commits suicide. I didn’t want to become one of them. So, after I had made the decision not to re-up, I knew I needed some help. I went and got it.”
“And that worked?”
She smiled weakly. “Some. Unfortunately, you can’t seal up your memories. So you find a way to cope. Some pour themselves into the oblivion of work, some use alcohol, some bottle it up and nurse their wounds privately, and others wear everyone out, telling their troubled story to anyone who’ll take the time to listen. And then, Luke, there are a lot of veterans who do just fine, who transition back and never have a problem. Everybody’s different.”
This part of the conversation flowed easily for her, revealing that this was a subject to which she had given considerable thought. I admired her all the more.
“And some,” I said, “pour their hearts into taking care of animals.”
Her warm smile returned. “Yes. Yes, they do.” A light of higher purpose seemed to sparkle in her eyes. “And after last night, I’m realizing that maybe it’s time I pour my heart into reconnecting with people a little bit too—time to come out of my shell, so to speak.”
I smiled grandly, rubbing my hands together. “Well, Karen, I am really happy to hear you say that!”
We talked for the next half hour about Clayton Ross. Karen said she would be glad to speak with him. Granted, she had some reservations as to how much she might be able to help him, but I greatly encouraged her. My only other option was to send him to counseling several counties away. Karen was a promising first choice.
She also wanted to know how I had learned about her past and wasn’t happy to hear my source was Luther. But I assured her that I thought he had told no one else. From my own experience, I knew Luther was a man who could keep secrets.
Soon afterward Karen left, but I remained, reflecting over all that I had learned in my conversations with her and Clayton. They had gone off to fight, done their duty, and returned. But the war had followed them home.
CHAPTER 35
An Interesting Request
The crisp, sunny days of September came and went. In the backyard I had abandoned the okra, which had now grown to the size of whale harpoons. The balance of the garden gasped its last breath with only a few cherry tomatoes still making their final stand. Slowly, the collage of orange, red, and yellow leaves began to spread across the yards of Fleming Street and against the distant hills. Cooler nights, thick with the pungent smell of woodsmoke, had become the norm.
For Christine and me, the days were golden. With the onset of cooler weather, she spent more and more evenings at my house, but she would never stay the night. It was a small town, and if sunrise found her car parked outside my home, it would ignite an explosion of gossip regardless of what had or had not occurred. Our relationship was our business alone. Given my penchant for privacy, I had no desire to serve up a savory dish for the local gossips to chew on. Like it or not, we were part of this community, and it would have been foolish to invite speculation.
She began to talk of wedding plans, a subject to which I quickly learned it was best for me to nod, agree, and say nothing. We talked often about children. Perhaps it was our way to inch toward the subject of physical intimacy. Ever since Christine’s tender declaration the night we became engaged, the idea of making love with her often consumed me. Frequently in her absence, I would dwell on the possibility, resolving to act on these passionate emotions. But then, when the real situation presented itself, something held me in check, leaving between us a simmering tension.