by Sharon Hinck
“Amen.” They chimed in. Jim-Bob gave a freckle-stretching smile. Then they both raced to the corner where the bus was pulling up.
I closed the door and sagged onto the couch. With closed eyes, I visualized a plan of attack. Taking a shower and putting on fresh clothes was a good idea but too much effort. Maybe I should use my tiny bit of energy to do supper preparations, so there’d be a good meal to pop in the oven tonight. And of course, I also needed to help someone today for my Penny’s Project notebook.
The weight of options pressed me down into the cushions. Finally I forced my body up. Maybe Tom had been able to send an e-mail.
I booted up the computer and tapped my fingers while my ISP collected new e-mails. Nothing from Tom, but an early-morning note from Mrs. Pimblott popped onto the screen. Tempted to shut down the program, I bit my lip and clicked it open instead.
Mrs. Sullivan, I appreciated your past e-mail about Bryan and the reasons for his distraction. I have seen some improvements, but yesterday we had another incident. He has been having some temper problems, and I’d really like to meet with you in person. Let me know a time that is convenient for you. Thank you. Mrs. Pimblott.
I groaned and rubbed my face. I was such a bad mom that now my intelligent, amiable son was having more trouble in school.
He’d never had trouble back in Wisconsin. Even when Tom was at chaplain school in Rhode Island for eight weeks, Bryan bounded through each day cheerful and secure—full of stories for his grandparents, eager for visits to Aunt Cindy’s house, delighted with first grade and all his friends at church and school.
My mom had warned me that life as a chaplain’s wife wouldn’t always feel manageable. “Wait until you’re stationed somewhere alone, where you don’t know anyone, and Tom is gone for months at a time. What will you do then? Who will baby-sit when you need it? What will you do if you break an ankle? Or if one of those hurricanes hits?”
I’d laughed at her anxiety. “Mom, God’s called us to this road, so He’ll provide what we need. I’d rather take risks for God than stay safe and miss opportunities to serve Him. Just think of how much Tom and I will grow through the experiences we’ll have. And more important, think of all the people he’ll be able to serve.”
“He’s serving people here. Our church needs him.”
With the arrogance of ignorance, I patted her arm. “Don’t worry. He’ll provide. It’s all in His hands.”
I still believed that. God was all-powerful. But apparently, I was pretty powerful, too, because I had the ability to ruin His plans and His work with my weakness and failures. Look at Bryan. His problems in school were clearly caused by the instability I’d brought into our home.
Mrs. Pimblott’s note was gently worded, but I could read behind the polite code. She was really saying, “You’re a terrible mother. Your child can’t do well in school, because you’re creating such a bad home environment. And why have you ignored my messages about setting up rehearsal times for the Thanksgiving play? You’re inconsiderate.”
I bolted away from the computer and grabbed Tom’s jacket from the closet by the front door. A short walk. That’s what I needed. Something to help me escape this prison of dark thoughts. Tom’s jacket covered my rumpled, slept-in clothes. I coaxed my hair into a loose ponytail and pushed myself out the door.
Laura-Beth was kneeling on the sidewalk in front of her double stroller, readjusting a strap on one of her twins. I tiptoed backward, retreating into my entryway.
Too late. She spotted me. “Yoo-hoo! Well ain’t this a great coinkydink? Going for a walk?”
I jammed my hands into the jacket pockets and trudged toward the sidewalk. “Just wanted some fresh air.”
“Know just what you mean. Some days I feel like if I don’t get a change of scenery I’m gonna scream.” Laura-Beth pushed her double stroller up the sidewalk, giving an extra jolt against the handle when we reached a particularly uneven seam in the concrete. “Old Mr. Simpson lived in the house on this corner up until a few years back when his wife died—rest her soul. The guy who bought it is rentin’ to some college boys. Bad for the neighborhood with their carryin’ on.”
The toddlers rattled happily along while Laura-Beth kept up a running commentary. We reached the Laundromat and she sniffed. “Don’t bring your laundry here at night by your own self. Ain’t safe.” Without taking a breath she continued a dissertation on where I should shop, what time of day to water my lawn, and which soap opera had the best actors.
When we reached the street before the mission, she stopped and turned the stroller. “Well, this is far’s I go.”
I stooped to tickle the chin of Mary-Lou, whose tuft of hair made her look like someone from Whoville. “I think I’ll walk a little longer.”
Laura-Beth shrugged but didn’t seem to take offense. I watched her head for home and thanked God for the sudden silence, then crossed the street.
Once again, I’d wandered the blocks from relatively tidy homes to more troubled and broken streets. Not so different from my life in the past weeks. My world had been a safe neighborhood with neatly trimmed grass. Now it was unkempt with cracked and uneven sidewalks, populated by poverty and despair.
Maybe Laura-Beth’s chatter hadn’t been such a bad thing. Her presence had muted my anxiety. The worries clamored back now. I was doing a terrible job of parenting. Maybe I should send Bryan to live with my parents until I got my life under control. Maybe I wasn’t fit.
My shoe hit a half-crushed lighter on the sidewalk and sent it skittering into the gutter.
Too many things were hitting me at once. Alex was back. Coming for a visit. What could I say to him? Was I about to be pulled back into cycles of hope and fear while his mental health played hide-and-seek?
And Tom. He had done all he could to reassure me, but every Navy ship was in harm’s way by nature of its role. He was a noncombatant, but that didn’t mean enemy fire would detour around him. And even if he survived his deployment, could I handle future stretches of separation? Maybe I’d never learn to cope with long-distance marriage.
I approached the door of New Life Mission. Should I drop in? Offer to help with something?
Before I could decide, Lydia raced out. “I’ll be at Norfolk General until the baby comes,” she called over her shoulder. She turned and her face lit. “Penny! Great to see you. Wish I could chat. One of the young gals in the projects is having her baby.” With a grin, she jumped into a battered Mustang at the curb. The car pulled out with a grinding of gears.
Barney leaned against the doorway and shook his head, raw admiration in his face. “She’ll make sure the labor goes right on schedule. Even babies don’t mess with her. And she’ll beg, borrow, or steal all kinds of baby clothes and fixin’s for them, too.”
“She is . . . forceful. Have you worked together long?”
His eyes turned wistful. “Been helpin’ down here a year now.”
I thought of the way Lydia threw her shoulders back and tossed her head when she scolded him, and the way he blustered and groused while hiding his grin. I had a sudden inspiration for my day’s good deed.
“Lydia sure depends on you. Respects you. The way she looks at you, it’s no wonder I thought you two were married.”
He rubbed his stubbly chin. “Don’t know ’bout that. She wouldn’t want nothin’ to do with an old salt like me.” But he squinted down the street where her car had disappeared. “You comin’ in?”
“No thanks. But I’ll stop by again. And I think I have a box of some old baby clothes and blankets I could bring by.”
He gave me a nod and strode back into the mission, whistling a sea chantey.
My seeds of matchmaking carried me most of the way home. For a few minutes, I’d been Normal Penny again. Would she stay around this time?
The next morning I had my answer. Nightmares had harassed me again, and I met the morning with a frantic impulse to pull away from the overwhelming tasks of normal life. I couldn’t even venture out onto
the doorstep. I whispered a brief blessing for Bryan in the living room and sent him out the door to the bus.
Was this how it had been for Alex? More and more fractures in the delicate balsa wood structure of the mind, until one morning he woke up and could no longer muster the effort to be sane?
I needed to crawl into a cave and pull the entrance in behind me.
Today’s appointment with Dr. Marci loomed as a Herculean task. Expose more raw feelings? That idea bordered on the insane—and I should know. I’d been making a few border crossings lately into the land south of sanity. Dr. Marci was making things worse, anyway. Talking about The Incident had been a huge mistake. I called the office and canceled.
Then I turned to the computer. Mrs. Pimblott’s e-mail requesting a meeting still waited for an answer. Right. Showing up shaky and sweaty with the harrowing effort to drive to the school . . . she’d know something was wrong with me. An e-mail was safer.
Mrs. Pimple,
Thank you for your note. I’m sorry I haven’t talked to you sooner, but I’ve had some health problems. I’m guessing that’s why Bryan has seemed distracted. About the Thanksgiving play, I’m honored you asked me, and I’d hoped to be feeling better in time to participate.
I paused. The play was so important to Bryan. And my participation had been my benchmark—a symbol I was whole and sane and able to function as a mom again.
I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. The compulsion overpowered every other intention. The pressure to face a public event was crushing me. She needed someone she could rely on. I owed her a straight answer.
But I think you’d better go ahead and find a new Pilgrim mom. Thanks for your understanding. I’ll talk to Bryan about his need to stay focused during class, and I promise to come in and meet with you when I’m able to.
Sincerely, Penny Sullivan
I hit Send. Shame washed through my body, but it was coupled with relief that was as potent as a gasp of air to a drowning swimmer. I’d figure out how to break the news to Bryan later. I pulled the note from the Sent folder to read again. Had I explained myself well enough?
The salutation jumped out at me.
“No, no, no.” I dropped my forehead to rest against the computer screen. She was going to hate me. What parent calls the teacher Mrs. Pimple?
With cheeks hot, I wrote a quick follow-up.
Mrs. Pimblott,
Please excuse the spelling mistakes in the last e-mail. I mentioned health issues. I haven’t been sleeping well, and really shouldn’t be allowed access to a keyboard when I’m this foggy. So sorry. Anyway, thanks for being such a great teacher. You’ve eased Bryan’s transition to a new state and a new school a lot.
Self-deprecating humor and groveling had gotten me out of scrapes in the past. Maybe she wouldn’t even notice the mistake in the first e-mail.
Overwhelmed by the effort it had taken to untangle myself from commitments, I crawled back into bed.
I woke up sometime after noon feeling muffled—as if a wet towel covered my face and my limbs were sandbags. Had I actually e-mailed my final answer that I couldn’t help with the play? My failure made even my lungs feel heavy. I made a cup of tea and sat at the computer. A few rounds of solitaire distracted me from the dull ache behind my eyes until the tea could do its job and clear my head.
No one wanted to feel this sluggish day after day. Cindy’s husband was in A.A. He talked about being “sick and tired of being sick and tired.” Now I understood what he meant. I could no longer remember how it felt to wake refreshed and eager for life.
I did a new Google search for post-traumatic stress and found a discussion forum. I put my feet up and skimmed through post after post. This was every bit as comforting as going in for an appointment with Dr. Marci and much easier because I didn’t have to drive anywhere—or talk.
One woman, timid1102, shared a heartbreaking story of rape. She hadn’t left her apartment in months. Her sister brought her groceries once a week, and she spent her nights longing for sleep but afraid of the nightmares. My fingers moved before I thought about it, and I posted a reply.
I’m so sorry for what you’ve gone through. The world out there is very scary. But don’t give up. I’ll pray for you.
And then I bowed my head by the computer and prayed, my heart aching for her pain.
My project notebook caught my eye, and my shoulders slumped. I couldn’t go out today. Laura-Beth lurked outside waiting to drag me into her house to hang wallpaper. Teens roamed the streets. People died bloody, horrible deaths inside gas station convenience stores. And I was too tired to confront any of it.
I wrote the date on the top of the first empty page of my notebook. Timid1102—sent her an encouraging e-mail reply.
There. Maybe I didn’t have to concede complete failure. I’d done something kind for a new person and never had to leave my chair. The victim support group would complain that an e-mail and prayer didn’t count, but it was better than nothing. I stretched and wiggled my toes.
I surfed onward to another post-traumatic stress forum that Dr. Marci had recommended. Some of the screen names were becoming familiar. Colleagues in this crazy internal war we were all fighting. A new thread, started by Maria L., caught my eye
Trapped forever.
The theme of the post sounded devastating, but curiosity forced my finger to click the mouse. The words began poignantly, gently. A story similar to mine. A surprising horrific event, trying to cope by moving forward, denial, avoidance, and finally seeking help. I nodded, identifying so deeply with the description, with this mirror of my past weeks. I clung to this proof that I wasn’t the only one.
Insomnia, flashbacks, nausea, panic attacks. Family and friends irritated when she didn’t snap out of it. I continued to skim and rested my fingers over the keyboard. I’d write and let her know I’d felt the same things. The battle was daunting, but things would gradually improve.
Then my eyes caught the next words. It’s been ten years.
My living room floor rippled. Ice burned in my chest. I wanted to turn away but the words seared into my brain—divorce . . . lost custody . . . psych ward . . . disability . . . tried everything . . . never ends.
I stood, shoving my chair back. It crashed to the floor. Bolts of adrenaline shot through my body. Hornets buzzed inside my skull. I fumbled for the mouse and shut down the computer, but it was too late. Despair blasted my soul like stinging sleet before a gale.
chapter
20
DR. MARCI HADN’T GIVEN me any sort of timeline, but I’d assumed my goal was reasonable: be well by the time Tom returned. Sure, this morning had been a setback. I’d wanted to tell Mrs. Plimbott I’d be part of the school play—a task that even some normal people would find nerve-wracking. That achievement would have provided me with proof that I was fine, and it hurt to concede I wasn’t ready for that yet. But deep inside I still held a morsel of hope that overall I was moving in the right direction.
But this anonymous woman online—she could be me. Ten years? Was this what the rest of my life would look like? Anytime, anywhere, out of the blue, these horrible attacks, long nights of dark horror . . . evil making my mind a playground? I couldn’t live like this.
I’d had strep throat last year. It hurt like crazy, but once I started the antibiotics, I knew within hours I’d improve. Labor was tough, but I knew the baby would eventually be out of me and the pain would be a memory.
But pain that kept going with no end in sight . . . ?
I couldn’t do it anymore. I’d jumped through the hoops. I’d tried to get better. Nothing had worked. I had been digging my nails into a crumbling cliff, scrabbling for hope. But nothing was going to stop the slide. I’d never be the old Penny. I was permanently broken. I’d never be normal, feel safe, or enjoy people again.
I stormed back and forth across the living room, trying to burn off some of my mounting anger. I ran my hands through my hair, tugging when my fingers found a snarl. Welcoming the smarting
sting. Anything to distract me from the throbbing behind my eyes, the flashes of images.
My notebook rested on the coffee table, mocking me with its sunshiny optimism. I snatched it up and ripped the small bright cover right off the spiral binding. Why keep trying? My idea was a joke. I tore the cardboard cover down the middle, then tossed the yellow pieces in the garbage can next to the computer.
I cradled the stripped notebook, wire loose and bent from my attack, then dropped it in the trash as well—the exposed pages looking tattered and pathetic as they landed on top of wadded Kleenex and junk mail. My legs shook, and I braced my hands against the shelves along the wall. Lord, I’m lost. The fear is eating me alive. Nothing is helping.
Rows of cheerful movie cases and lighthearted CDs rattled. I pushed away from them, but then caught the glint of Tom’s disc. With a desperate moan, I grabbed it and loaded it into the DVD player. My hands trembled as I hit Play and fast-forwarded through his first three messages. Today I needed something new. Please, God, let there be something to help me.
“Okay, I only have a few more thoughts for you.” Tom smiled, more relaxed than in his first messages. I scowled back at him.
“But first, I want to tell you again. Thank you for supporting me so I can do this work. Thank you for your enthusiastic spirit, for caring so much about other people.”
Didn’t he get it? I wasn’t that person anymore.
“I love you, Penny.” His smile was soft and caressing. How did he manage that while looking into a camera?
My frown eased away and I sank to the floor in front of the screen. “I love you, too,” I whispered.
“As I’ve been praying for you the last few days, I’ve missed praying with you. I know things have been hectic with unpacking and my deployment. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? It’s something the other chaplains see all the time, I guess. When people are really hurting, they’re afraid that if they pray, their words will bounce back at them and they’ll feel even more deserted. Or if they crack open their Bible, the verses will be cold comfort. Makes sense. But, Penny, no one I know has a more vibrant faith than you do. It’s one of the things that makes you so special. Even if you’re confused by God right now, don’t shut Him out, okay?