Everyone applauded when she unloaded the dishwasher without dropping anything. She became aware of a new sensation running through her body. She called it hope.
Kathleen and Robert passed the Chinese food take-out cartons between them. She focused on her dinner plate, then raised her eyes to meet Robert’s. She wanted to show him; she wanted Robert to be proud of her. A shy smile played across her face. “I can empty the dishwasher.”
“Great! You empty, I’ll sit back and watch.”
Okay, hand, she commanded mentally, flex your wrist and bend your fingers.
Plastic dishes would scoot across the floor, sometimes bouncing. Gayle’s dishes shattered, a collage of scattered pieces spilling across the kitchen floor.
She stood shaking and crying, a little girl terrified of being punished. She couldn’t stop. Something warm and wet trickled between her legs.
She sobbed, “I wet myself.”
“That’s okay, honey. You just got scared.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” She was fairly bawling now. “Don’t be mad at me.”
Robert put his arms around her and held her. “I’m not mad at you.”
“I broke Gayle’s dishes.”
He spoke softly as if talking to a young child. “Gayle won’t care. She has more dishes than we can ever use.” As if to demonstrate, Robert picked up one of the unbroken dishes and dropped it. Their eyes stood fixed as the plate made contact with the hard floor and shattered into small pieces.
Kathleen stopped crying and looked at Robert. “We’re both in trouble now.”
“Partners in crime, that’s who we are. Say, I have an idea. I think we should fill the tub with warm water and scented oils. You can soak until you’re sleepy. Do you like that idea?”
She did.
Gayle bought puzzles, large wooden pieces with handles, made for a young child’s hands. Kathleen marked her progress by the number of pieces in the puzzle. As the number of pieces increased, their size decreased, and she knew her dexterity was improving.
Robert bought her a suturing kit. “When you’re ready.”
She stared at the kit. It was the same one she had used as a premed student. She couldn’t open the box. How could she take stitches? She screamed and threw the kit across the floor. Robert picked it up and put it back on the table. “Next time I want you to count to ten. If you still want to throw it, use your right hand.”
She stopped taking her sleep medication and joined “the association of nightmares.”
Her nightmare was always the same. It claimed victory by possessing her dreamscape, until she woke up screaming.
She stood in the middle of a smoldering burn pit in Iraq. Trucks filled with surgical and hospital waste formed a long line outside the pit. The trucks moved, one by one, forming a circle around the crater. They began to drop amputated limbs and blood-soaked linens around her. No one saw her. She choked on the caustic smoke. She couldn’t breathe. She tried to scream. Nothing came out. She wanted to run, but her feet were stuck. The ground began to sink beneath her. She was swallowed up. She was buried alive.
Gayle heard Kathleen’s screams and flew to her bedroom. She sat on the edge of the bed and began to bring Kathleen out of her night terror. She spoke soothingly, as a mother speaks to a frightened child, aware that her tone was more important than her words. Murmured phrases, spoken late at night, meant to erase a horror that could only be imagined.
“Kathleen, it’s okay, you’re safe. Nothing can hurt you. I’m right here.” Gayle repeated the words and prayed they would cross the barrier into Kathleen’s nightmare world.
Kathleen opened her eyes. Gayle saw the vacant stare that told her Kathleen was still in her night terror. Gayle lifted her into a sitting position and propped her up with pillows.
Kathleen fought for air, gasping at every breath. She leaned against Gayle, whimpering and finally sobbing.
Gayle rubbed her back. “Good girl, let it all out.”
Kathleen spoke huskily, “Gayle?”
“I’m here. More of the same?”
Kathleen nodded.
Gayle’s hands became damp from Kathleen’s sweat soaked T-shirt. Gayle whispered, “I’m going to get you a dry shirt.”
Still groggy from being awakened, Gayle shuffled to the chest of drawers, prepared to carry out the nightly ritual. She steadied herself against the furniture and wiped her tears with the sleeve of her gown. The ticking of the grandfather clock floated from the living room to the bedroom. The striking chimes became a reminder of the late hour. She focused for a moment before returning to Kathleen and handing her a T-shirt, emblazoned—incongruously for the situation—with a yellow happy face.
“I’m going to make some chamomile tea and get the heat pack for your shoulder,” said Gayle as cheerily as she could manage.
Kathleen hugged her knees and buried her face. Her hair fell over the blanket, giving the appearance of a turtle hiding from danger. Her head felt fuzzy and her thoughts were like pieces to an unfinished puzzle, without organization.
As Kathleen began to move away from the night terror place, other fears invaded the empty space. She could manage the days, but when the light faded and darkness crept in, the feeling of living in a horror movie began to surface. She was held prisoner in a crumbling, many-gabled old manse, surrounded by monsters. She heard eerie, discordant music playing in the background, subtly warning her that death was around the corner. As she came closer, the music increased in intensity until it reached a horrific climax. It was too late. She was destroyed.
Gayle returned and put the tea on the table next to the bed. She placed the hot pack over Kathleen’s shoulder and watched as she relaxed. “Ready for your tea?” she asked.
Kathleen shifted her weight and reached with both hands. “Thanks. Did I wake Robert?”
“No, that man could sleep through a seven-point earthquake.”
“I woke you, again.” Kathleen sighed. “I’m sorry. I’ve really messed up your life.”
“You haven’t messed up my life and don’t you ever be sorry. Robert and I thank God every night that you’re safe and at home with us. Now, we both need to get some sleep. Can I get you anything else before I go back to bed?”
“My needlepoint.”
Gayle held the canvas with a little kitten stamped on the surface. It was a child’s first attempt; crooked stitches, dropped stitches. She held Kathleen’s hands and turned them over to see fingers riddled with needle pricks. “I’m so proud of you for not giving up. The next one will be better. Maybe you’d like to try one with flowers.”
Kathleen handed Gayle the cup and settled into her pillows.
Gayle smoothed the blankets and tucked Kathleen in. “Do you want me to leave the lamp on?”
Kathleen spoke in a soft voice. “Yes, please. Gayle, I’m so scared of the dark. Do you think I’m being a baby?”
“We all have our fears. It’s good when you know what they are and brave when you can admit to them.”
Gayle returned to the bedroom she shared with Robert. The clock told her most of the night had slipped away.
Robert was reading a book, as he often did during these sleepless nights. “How is she?”
“Concerned she disturbed your sleep.”
“I hope you told her I can sleep through anything.”
“I did.” Gayle got back into bed and, seeking a sense of comfort, moved tightly against Robert. “I can’t stand to watch her go through these nightmares, over and over. She’s fragile, and I’m worried these night terrors will break her.”
Robert wrapped his arms around Gayle and held her protectively. “Don’t forget, the psychologist at Landstuhl predicted this. We have to hold onto our faith in her and in ourselves.”
“I know you’re right. I’ve seen this in patients, but this is our…”
“Daughter?” Robert massaged Gayle’s back, applying pressure to a knot. “Do you remember the first time Kathleen came here? She was so shy; we coul
d barely hear her knock on the door. Then you opened your arms and she leaned her head against you. She didn’t just walk into our home; she walked into our hearts. I promise not to let anything bad happen to her. I know how much you love her.”
“It isn’t just me who loves her, is it?”
“No. She’s my girl, too.”
Gayle opened the kitchen windows, feeling the morning breeze touch her face. She picked up the single rose and the love note from Robert. Gayle held the white rose close to her face, greeting the fragrance as it wafted to meet her. The scent reminded her of the face powder her mother used when she was a child. She treasured the memories of those sweet days, when resting against her mother’s breast and being rocked could wash all her worries away. Gayle read Robert’s love note, tucked it away in the pocket of her slacks, knowing she would glance at it throughout the day.
Gayle made waffles, heated the syrup and melted the butter. Kathleen walked into the kitchen with the morning newspaper and laid it on the table. Gayle served the waffles and poured two steaming mugs of strong coffee. It was a routine they shared every morning.
Kathleen sat down, looked at Gayle, and smiled shyly. Gayle pretended not to understand. “What?” she asked, feigning irritation.
Kathleen, still smiling, responded, “Nothing.”
It was their secret code for, “Thanks” and “I love you.”
Kathleen and Gayle sat at the kitchen table, eating breakfast and sharing bits and pieces of information from the newspaper with a rhythm that spoke of familiarity and ease. Their hands touched briefly as they shuffled the paper between them. Gayle’s hands, the color of lightly toasted bread and no longer as plump and smooth as they once were, contrasted against Kathleen’s, which bespoke an Irish heritage and a much younger woman. Every so often they would glance up and smile as their eyes met; two women, so different in appearance, yet tightly connected by an unbreakable thread woven through time.
Gayle stood up and collected her briefcase and purse. “Got to go, full schedule today. I won’t be home until after dinner.” Gayle kissed Kathleen on top of her head and left for her office.
Kathleen continued to drink her coffee and read the newspaper, wanting to delay the start of another empty day. At first she missed the small article in the local section, but was drawn back to it by the photo of a chubby man with curly hair and thick-framed glasses. She stared at the familiar face and read the caption:
“Mark Epson, MD, heads new health clinic for the homeless.”
Kathleen hadn’t seen Mark for years, but never forgot the day they met.
It was 1993, the first day of med school and the someday-to-be-docs were encouraged to form study groups. The first-year students gathered in a large classroom, looking each other over, trying to decide where they belonged or if they belonged.
Kathleen stood by herself watching as people began to pair off. She didn’t expect to be asked into a study group, and rather than risk being rejected she decided to be a study group of one. She saw one of the students from her first-year anatomy class sauntering toward her. She remembered her name, Natasha Something, and she remembered the comment Natasha made about her not having a soul and being a vampire.
Natasha smiled as if they were best friends. “Hi, Kathleen. We saw you standing by yourself and thought you might want to join our study group.”
“Why would you want me to join your group?” she asked suspiciously.
“We want to have the best study group in the school. You would add balance.”
Kathleen was feeling something new. Anger was rising from her chest, beginning to form into rage and getting ready to spew out of her mouth. She forced herself to be in control. “Balance?”
Natasha nodded. “We thought it would be a good idea to balance interests and capabilities; you know… strengths and perhaps shortcomings.”
“So, Natasha, what is your strength?”
“Contacts… that’s my strength. Frankly, my father is a big contributor to a number of major hospitals and anyone in my study group will be on the fast track for the best residencies.”
“And my strength?”
“Don’t you know? You’re the smartest.”
“So, I do all the work and you?”
“Get you positioned to make it big. You may be a little naïve, but medicine and the Army are like any other profession. It’s all about who you know.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Natasha, I always thought my strength was in being a vampire and not having a soul. Even here, this dim light pushes me toward needing someone’s blood. So, before I demolish you, why don’t you fuck off?”
Natasha looked at Kathleen, shock replacing self-assuredness. Her brow furrowed and her eyes turned to icy slits. “We were right about you in the first place. You are a loser, Kathleen Moore.”
Kathleen heard applause from the far corner of the room. There were four standing together. Janet, who wanted to become a missionary physician; Dan, who was interested in cancer research; Mark, who planned on working with the homeless; and Thomas, who wanted a simple family practice somewhere in the country. They wouldn’t be the doctors sitting in penthouse suites thinking more about their investments than patients. Kathleen found where she belonged.
They would study together for four years and during that time form a tight bond. After graduation they went their own ways but stayed in contact through e-mails. Gradually, the e-mails became fewer and fewer until they stopped.
Kathleen glanced again at the article and reached for the phone.
Mark’s health clinic was located in a run-down part of downtown Los Angeles. A small group of single-story commercial stores, freshly painted a pale green, stood out from the rest of the decaying neighborhood. A large sign leaned against the front window announcing, Neighborhood Health Care.
Kathleen was pleasantly surprised to find a welcoming waiting area with burgundy chairs and brightly framed scenic posters. The receptionist smiled and showed her to Mark’s office. They hugged and said it had been too long.
Kathleen sat in the brown leather chair across from Mark. “Thanks for seeing me, Mark. I read the article in the newspaper. This is what you always wanted to do.”
“It took a while, but we have more homeless than ever. The economy sucks and we’re flooded with homeless vets, and not just men; lots of women vets, too.” He handed Kathleen a brown bag. “Reminds you of our student days? No time and no money for lunches. So tell me, how’s the Army treating you? Are you running the joint yet?”
Mark didn’t pause for a response. “We haven’t seen each other since that conference in Hawaii. That’s more than five years ago. So, what brings you here? A sudden interest in the homeless?”
Mark was blunt to the point of being rude and obnoxious. Kathleen was going to put her faith in the Mark who was also honest and caring.
“Show and tell, Mark. Right to the point.” She put the brown bag down and opened her blouse, exposing her scar. “Enough to the point, Mark? I can manage to unbutton a blouse, but my hand doesn’t always respond to my commands and my confidence is shattered.”
“Christ, Kathleen, I’m sorry. What happened?”
“Iraq, a year ago, damage to nerves and tendons. My arm and hand are improving and the sensitivity is beginning to return. I’m still outpatient at Veterans Hospital, three days a week, but it’s winding down. The vocational counselor wants to put me into research or working for an insurance company, overseeing claims. I’d rather die. I know I can’t work in an ER, at least not full-time and maybe never. I need to start somewhere; I need to find my place.”
“You want to…?”
“Volunteer. Your clinic is open on Saturdays. I can do Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. I need help, Mark. I’m asking—no, I’m begging for your help.”
She felt like a med student. One day, she sat at the kitchen table, giving injections to oranges until their juice stuck to her hands and dripped onto the floor. Sensations were gradually returning.
Her skills were coming back, slowly and not perfectly. She apologized to Robert for throwing the suturing kit across the room. It was exactly what she needed.
She followed Mark from exam room to exam room and he introduced her as his assistant. He asked, “What’s your opinion, doctor?” She began to diagnose. She realized how much she had missed that part of her life. The part of her that, as a child, sat in a damp cold basement looking for evidence to solve fantasy mysteries, now listened, sometimes with her eyes closed, for subtle clues provided by her patients.
Mark and Kathleen stood drinking the last dregs of lukewarm coffee from the clinic’s coffee pot. Mark said, “I’ve got more grinds than coffee. So, what’s the problem? You’re as sharp as ever.”
“I don’t always have complete command over my hand. I’ve got a suturing kit and I’d like you to observe my technique.” She looked down. “Mark, I’m having nightmares and sometimes, I have an exaggerated startle response. You know that medicine has been my life… I need my life back.”
Mark became thoughtful. “PTSD. What meds are you taking?”
“Officially, undiagnosed. No prescriptions. I’m taking vitamins, B-12 and extra magnesium. I can’t be labeled. If I can’t work as a physician, who am I?”
He nodded. “Understood. Let’s start with your stitch kit. You know, you were always the best at suturing. It’s strange what fear can do.” Mark leaned back in his chair, thinking. “Hmm… Do you remember what we did in medical school? We played doctor—you’d examine me, and I’d examine you.”
Kathleen shook her head. “I’m not undressing in front of you.”
“No. I’ll be the one undressing and I want you to give me a complete workup, and I do mean complete. Blood work, urinalysis, EKG, treadmill test, and don’t forget my prostate. Do not tell me to lose weight. I hear that from my wife. I want you to analyze your findings and come up with a complete diagnosis and recommendations. If that’s a success, I’ll observe while you treat patients. Then, we’ll start to funnel some cases to you.”
Kathleen’s hands shook and the stethoscope dangling from her neck swayed.
Flowers from Iraq (The Storyteller and the Healer Book 1) Page 9