Kathleen looked at Claire. Her eyes were now focused and the pain that lived there shone. She wanted to cry and beg Claire not to leave. Instead she heard words escaping as if they belonged to someone else. “Maybe it’s time.”
Claire was silent for a long moment. “One other thing and, this is a big favor,” she said at last. “Can I leave Oscar with you? I don’t want him to have to adjust to another city or board him when I go to New York. Oscar will be happy here—he loves you every bit as much as me.”
CHAPTER 34
Kevin Meath, Licensed Marriage and Family Therapist, waited in his office for his seven o’clock patient, Dr. Kathleen Moore. Kevin usually worked a half-day on Saturdays, but this was a referral from Helen Hughes, and any referral from Helen received Kevin’s full attention.
Kevin rubbed his right leg. He felt fortunate to have a below the knee amputation, but he knew it was time to get his prosthesis adjusted. Operation Desert Sabre was the name of the massive ground attack launched in Iraq and Kuwait during the Gulf War. February 25, 1991, marked the second day of Desert Sabre and Kevin considered it his rebirth day. After being wounded on that fateful day and treated in a field hospital, he was flown to Germany, then to Walter Reed where the doctors determined that amputation was the only course of treatment.
Kevin’s family had served in the Army for five generations. It was no surprise, and even expected, for Kevin to choose an Army career. His parents visited him at Walter Reed, beamed at his Purple Heart, and expected him to carry his wound without pity or tears.
Helen entered his life the day after his surgery. He looked at her through drug-glazed eyes and was sure he was seeing his favorite childhood character, Winnie the Pooh. But any drug-induced fantasy was where it ended. Helen was a taskmaster, but not a vicious one—although it sometimes seemed that way. There was always compassion behind her eyes, even when she coaxed her patients to undreamt of plateaus of pain—for their own good, as she not so subtly reminded him. Regaining the motion in his knee was the hardest work Kevin had ever done in his life, and Helen was his drill sergeant and his cheerleader.
Suddenly, one day, he was transferred from the ward to a private room. The door to his room opened and Helen walked in. “Hi, Kevin. Wondering why you’re getting the VIP treatment?”
“Crossed my mind.”
“You’ll need some privacy for a couple of days; your physical therapy is going to get more strenuous—bet you didn’t think that was possible, huh?—and you’ll be more comfortable here.”
Helen wasn’t kidding. Kevin was being weaned off of pain medication, and she was pushing him until he broke down and the tears came. He expected her to be angry, the way his parents would have been. When Helen saw the tears start, she whisked him off to his private room and massaged his back as he cried for his loss.
Two days later, he returned to the ward. Other patients came over and patted him on the back. He knew then he was not the only one to receive Helen’s VIP treatment.
It was Helen who directed Kevin toward his new calling. “You have a way with people, Kevin. You’re bright and enthusiastic and you know what it’s like to return from hell. Someone is going to have to counsel returning vets as they transition into civilian life, and I can’t think of a better person for the job.”
Kevin learned to walk without a limp, enrolled in school to become a therapist, married his childhood sweetheart, and had two children. He felt truly blessed.
Kevin saw the call light go on. He looked at the clock on his desk. It was exactly seven o’clock. He opened the door to see a woman, he guessed in her mid-thirties, wearing hospital scrubs and with a look of exhaustion written all over her. They settled in, Kathleen on the couch and Kevin in a chair opposite her.
“I’m here because…” Kathleen stopped and started again. “I’m here because…” She stopped again. “I don’t know why I’m here. That’s not true, either. I’m here for so many reasons, and I don’t know where to start. I’m tired and I’m not sure if this will work for me. I’ve just finished a double shift at the ER, and I can’t remember if I’ve eaten today.”
Kevin walked over to a small refrigerator and handed her some yogurt and orange juice. “Let’s start with this.”
“Thank you, just the juice please. I was injured in Iraq, and I lied to the doctors about having PTSD. I function all right, most of the time, but I have nightmares— different ones, but they play over and over. I had one really major meltdown, so maybe I’m not functioning as well as I think.
“My girlfriend left me a couple of weeks ago. It feels as if she abandoned me. It was my fault though. I’m too far in the closet, and I can’t tell her I love her. I can’t say the words. Does it bother you that I’m …?” Kathleen paused; a look of suffering distorted her face. “I can’t stand the thought of losing Claire.”
“Is it okay to call you Kathleen or do you have a nickname?”
“No nickname, Kathleen is fine. Well, I used to have a nickname, as a kid, but that was a lifetime ago.” Kathleen started to stand up. “I should go; this isn’t going to work for me.”
“Kathleen, before you leave, let me tell you what I’ve noticed, and then you can decide if you want to stay.”
Kathleen sighed and rested her head against the back of the couch.
“You’re exhausted physically and are carrying a heavy emotional burden. It sounds to me as if you feel you have to carry it alone. I think you’re afraid of making a mistake or telling what you perceive is a lie. It’s as if God is waiting to strike you down. Changing your mind about something or being unsure isn’t a lie. It’s how we process things. Think of it as a road trip. We may have to go down many side streets and make lots of turns, until we finally get to the main road.
“You started to ask me something. You said, ‘Does it bother you that I’m—’ Would you like to finish that sentence?”
“Does it bother you that I’m—” she hesitated. “That I’m lesbian?”
“Would you believe me if I said no?”
“Probably not.”
“Would you believe me if I said yes?”
“Probably. Why would you lie about the yes?”
“So, how can I answer the question? Kathleen, we have a half-hour left. Seems a shame to waste it. Why don’t you tell me about your question.”
When Kathleen left, she made two appointments for the following week.
PART SIX
Winter
CHAPTER 35
Kathleen and Claire spoke on the phone from time to time, but couldn’t get past a casual conversation.
“How’s Oscar?”
“He’s up to his old tricks—or I should say a new one. He caught a mouse yesterday.”
“Oh, no! Did he leave it as a present?”
“Right on the bed.”
Claire laughed.
“How’s work?”
“It’s slow and sometimes tedious. I’m going to New York next week to meet with the designers. There are a couple of glitches that need to be worked out.”
“I’d love to see it, when it’s ready.”
“The design phase should be done in early spring. I’m really excited. Maybe we can have dinner and you can see the models.”
The bed felt so empty without Claire. During the night, while Kathleen was sleeping, she would reach over to Claire’s side, expecting to feel the warmth of her body or the softness of her skin. Nothing but rumpled sheets greeted her, and she would awaken with a startled shiver, sit up, and begin to gasp.
Kathleen spent most of her evenings in the solarium. There were times when she could feel a large weight sitting on her chest, as if all of her unspoken feelings were rolled into a ball, waiting to be released. The solarium was the first room Claire had furnished, and it was the room they sat in when Claire told Kathleen she was leaving.
Kathleen could close her eyes and feel the sweetness and the pain of their love. She realized that she could not have one without the other.
Kathleen continued to see Kevin twice a week.
In one session, Kevin said, “I’d like to know something about your history—parents, brothers and sisters. Tell me about your upbringing.”
“My parents both died when I was nine, and I was raised in foster care. I don’t like to talk about my childhood. It wasn’t pleasant; let’s leave it at that.
“I’ll cut to the chase, Kevin. I’m not interested in talking about the past. I want to focus on what I have to do to get Claire back. I have to be able to tell her I’m sorry, and I have to be able to tell her I love her. I have to get the words out. I don’t know why it’s so hard.
“You see, she’s my first girlfriend, and I don’t think I know enough about the structure of a relationship. Like, how often should I give her gifts? The holidays, of course, but what about other times? And, how do I know what to get her? Or, when I learn to tell her I love her, how often should I say it? Will I say it often enough or too often? I just don’t know how this works!
“Claire always knew how to do it. One time, when I came home from the ER, she had candles lit all around the bathroom and flowers floating in the bathtub.” Kathleen began to cry. “It shouldn’t be this hard—other people know how to do it. I can take notes, if you’ll just tell me.”
“Does it feel as if I’m withholding something from you?”
“Isn’t that what shrinks do? Withhold and let you dangle when they know the answers and could make it easy.”
“Do you have any thoughts about why it’s so hard for you to tell Claire how much she means to you and how much you love her?”
“It isn’t about what happened when I was little, if that’s what you’re hinting at. That’s another time, another world. Are you trying to trick me into telling you all my dark secrets? I just need Claire back. I want to make it up to her. I can learn how to do it: to buy her presents, maybe bring her breakfast in bed. Is there a book I can read?” She looked at him with pleading eyes.
“I don’t know how to do any of it. A long time ago, someone said I was a robot. Maybe that’s true. Maybe if I’m cut open they will find nuts and bolts and batteries.”
“I don’t think you’re a robot, not at all. Somewhere inside, there’s a frightened little girl and you’re protecting her and taking care of her the only way you know. Making love with Claire is wonderful, but you may also be using it as a way to avoid dealing with your pain.”
Kathleen stood up, her eyes narrowed and her brow furrowed. “You are so fucking wrong.” She pointed her finger at him. “You goddamn therapists think everything is about some fucking childhood trauma. Don’t you dare imply that I’m using Claire! You know, Kevin, you can go fuck yourself. See how that one feels.”
She walked out, slammed the door, moved down the hallway, and punched the walls with her fists until the skin on her knuckles became raw. She got in her truck, heard the starter grinding until she flooded the engine. She got out swearing, slammed the door, and kicked the tires until she couldn’t lift her foot.
She walked the floors all night, thought about quitting therapy, and finally left Kevin a nasty message on his phone about how he didn’t understand her or have a clue about how to be a therapist.
The next session she was still furious and decided not to talk. She shot invisible daggers across the room. None of them seemed to hit Kevin. They sat in silence for fifty minutes.
The session after that, she began to sob and couldn’t stop. Kevin let her cry. He didn’t even offer her a tissue.
The next session Kathleen came in and, instead of sitting, lay down on the couch. She was too ashamed to look at Kevin. She closed her eyes tightly before she spoke. “I want to tell you about a little girl named Kat. I guess I should begin when she was eight and had a birthday party. No one liked her and only one girl came and brought her an ugly used doll.
“Now, this is a pretend story. You have to understand that it can’t be real. Not yet and maybe never.
“Kat was eight and a half and was certain she had discovered the secret to being popular. The popular girls wore new dresses and shoes and ate bologna sandwiches for lunch. They sat together talking softly, their feet swinging back and forth in a rhythm that said, Look at my beautiful shoes.
“Kat didn’t want to wear the clothes that Mom found at the Catholic Thrift Shop. She wanted a new dress, patent leather shoes, and bologna sandwiches for lunch. Then she could sit with the popular girls and swing her feet to the rhythm of the beautiful shoe dance.
“Kat had been praying for a new dress and shoes for weeks. Maybe she wasn’t praying enough. She thought she could pray as she walked to and from school. That would be three times a day and would be sure to impress God. A new dress, shoes, and a bologna sandwich had to be the magic formula to popularity. Then, when she was nine, all the girls in her class would come to her party. She imagined wearing her new dress, velvet she thought, shiny shoes with fresh white socks, presents stacked high, and a big smile on her face.
“Mom’s belly had never been so big and Da and Mom seemed angry all the time. Da didn’t work anymore. Da looked funny and smelled funny, too. He smelled like the men who stood outside of Michael’s bar, smoking.
“Kat stood in the kitchen watching Da making lunches. Did she dare? Should she risk it? She stood next to Da and said, ‘Da, can we get some bologna for lunch?’
“Da just stared at her, a scowl on his face and deep lines across his forehead. His breath smelled the way water in a vase did, after flowers had been left in it to die.
“Once she watched a squirrel trying to cross the street. It ran one way, then the other. A car came and the squirrel froze. Kat closed her eyes, so tight, and held her breath. She heard a thud and when she opened her eyes, the squirrel was lying in the street, dead. Now, she froze like the squirrel.
“Da’s hand thumped against her head, sending her falling into the kitchen chair. His face turned red until the muscles stiffened and his eyes bulged. With a rage, he took off his belt and began to use it like a whip.
“She scooted under the kitchen table and covered her face. The belt flew through the air, sometimes missing her, sometimes hitting her. Her leg burned as if it was on fire. Had she slipped into hell?
“The belt stopped and Kat saw Mom standing next to the table. Something wet was dripping between Mom’s legs.
“‘Frank, my water broke,’ she said. ‘I have to go to the hospital.’
“Mom bent over and glared at Kat. Her face was tight and her hair was matted from sweat. ‘You have to stay home from school and take care of the kids. Make sure you clean the house and stop being a bad girl and making your da angry.’
“Kat cleaned the house, made scrambled eggs and toast for dinner, bathed Franky and Evie, and got everyone into bed. Maybe, Da would come home with a package of bologna as a reward for her being so good. Her leg burned, but she pretended she was Peter Pan and got hurt making a rocky landing on a pirate ship.
“Da came home late, smelling funny again. He glared at her. ‘Why aren’t you in bed?’ he demanded crossly.
“Kat stayed quiet. Talking got her into trouble and made her bad.
“Da said, ‘Two more mouths to feed.’ He motioned to her. ‘Come here.’
“She walked over silently. He turned her around and lifted her dress. Da said, ‘Get the bottle of alcohol from the bathroom.’ Her lips quivered. Mom used alcohol on scrapes and she remembered how much it hurt. If she said anything, would Da take off his belt? Like the squirrel, she stood trapped in her terror.
“Da spoke harshly. ‘Didn’t I tell you to get the alcohol?’ She put her head down, got the alcohol and held the bottle in a trembling, outstretched hand. ‘Turn around, and I don’t want to hear you sniveling.’ She turned and bit her lip. She made the tears stay inside and she didn’t make a sound.
“Something bad happened to Mom. She sat on the floor, resting her head against the wall. Her long red hair was tangled and matted and her eyes open, staring into noth
ingness. The babies cried and Kat was scared, so scared. She tried to feed them and change their diapers. She stopped going to school. She prayed to Mary and Jesus and all the saints she had learned about in Sunday school. She stopped asking for a new dress and patent leather shoes. She prayed for Mom to come alive and for Da to stop hitting her with his belt.
“It was a winter night and the kids’ room was cold and dark. Devon stood next to Kat’s bed, shivering, making little sobbing noises. ‘Kat, I can hear the aliens. They’re coming to get us.’ She moved over, creating a space as she did every night. She put her arms around him and they slept, curled up like two puppies trying to stay warm.
“The first streaks of the morning light came through the window and Kat could see fairy dust dancing around the room. She got up quietly and tucked the blankets under Devon to keep the cold from creeping in. She put on her wool cap, mittens, and heaviest coat. The house was quiet. No fighting kids, no smelly Mom and Da, and best of all, no belt.
“She shivered as she walked toward the living room, but kept thinking about the warmth that would come once she started a fire in the fireplace. She stopped. A scarecrow hung from the ceiling. Was it Halloween? She didn’t have a costume. Had she forgotten? Would she get candy? Suddenly, terror ran through her veins like ice water on the coldest day of winter. It wasn’t a scarecrow. It looked like a scarecrow dressed in a black suit. It wasn’t a scarecrow. It was Da.
“Kat knelt on the hard wooden floor and began to pray: ‘Forgive me Da, and God and Jesus and Mary for I have been a bad girl.’ She kept praying, until the police took her from the room.
“An ambulance took Mom to the hospital and all the children went for a ride in the police cars. The policeman sang silly songs and put on the siren for them. When they got to the station they ate ice cream and cookies for breakfast. Later, the social ladies came and took away the kids, one at a time, except for the twins. They were so small that Kat was sure that two only counted as one. Kat wanted to cry when she found out she had to stay at Mrs. Adams without Devon. Devon kicked and screamed. ‘Kat, don’t leave me! Kat, come back!’ She cried inside tears, so nobody would know, and she didn’t look back.”
Flowers from Iraq (The Storyteller and the Healer Book 1) Page 24