A Lowcountry Christmas

by Mary Alice Monroe

  He stood at the bottom of the stairs, staring up at me. “Where’s your mother?” His eyes blazed with worry.

  I pointed to Taylor’s room.

  Daddy bolted up the stairs. I leaned far to the side, out of his way, then hovered again perched at the top of the stairs. Daddy pushed open the door and I caught sight of my mother sitting on Taylor’s bed, her arms around him as he wept. She looked up when Daddy stepped in and slowly lifted her arm. She had the gun in her hand. It’s ugly, cold metal caught the light.

  I rose to my feet, my hand resting on the stair railing. Daddy looked back and, seeing me there, quietly closed the door behind him.

  Would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give?

  —The Ghost of Christmas Past, A Christmas Carol

  Chapter 13

  Jenny

  I watched Alistair drive away with Taylor. They were going to the VA hospital in Charleston to get Taylor the help he needed. When the car disappeared, I let my fingers drop from the curtain and slipped down onto the sofa and buried my face in my palms. I wanted to cry, but I was too tired for that much emotion. I was exhausted emotionally and physically.

  I slumped on the sofa and rested my head back as a wave of anguish washed over me. How could my son be so miserable, so despairing, that he’d want to take his own life? Even though when I took the gun from his hands and he’d sworn he wasn’t going to pull the trigger . . . who really knew?

  I was a failure as a mother. No matter how much love I showered on my son, it wasn’t enough to stop his feelings of helplessness. Or the nightmares. I’d felt sure that being home again, surrounded by all our love and support, would fix him.

  I lifted my head and took a sweeping gaze of my home. The living room was draped with pine and holly. I felt the sting of disappointment. At this season when we should have been coming together as a family, we were falling apart.

  “Mama?”

  I jerked around to see Miller standing in the hall. Then I felt a sickening wave of self-reproach. With all the worry over Taylor I’d forgotten all about him, my second-born.

  He pushed back a shock of his brown hair from his forehead. “Mama. I don’t feel good.”

  I rose and hurried to his side to wrap him in my arms. Poor Miller, I thought. His stomach was probably tied up in knots after all he’d just been through. Taylor was being taken care of. Now I needed to worry about my baby.

  “You’re probably just upset about Taylor. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  After a pause Miller asked haltingly, “Was he going to kill himself?”

  I looked at Miller with a mother’s eye. He looked pale, with dark circles under his eyes. Such a horrid question for a child to ask. I swallowed my guilt that he’d seen and heard more than a ten-year-old should have. How could I explain such complex matters in a way Miller could understand but not be frightened? He was too bright for me to gloss over the facts. He deserved my honesty, I thought, even if simplified.

  “I don’t know. He was thinking about it. But, honestly? I don’t think he would have gone through with it. You interrupted him at just the right moment. You were his guardian angel.” I said a quick prayer of thanks that Miller had arrived when he did.

  “Why’s he like that?” Miller cried angrily, cringing in my arms. “He’s acting weird. It’s like the same guy didn’t come home.” Miller choked back a cry. “I don’t like him anymore.”

  I squeezed Miller tight, brokenhearted to hear him say that about the older brother he’d once adored. Yet at the same time understanding. What reassuring words could I offer him when I, too, no longer recognized this stranger? I took a breath and spoke in as calm a voice as I could muster.

  “I know you’re having bad feelings about Taylor that are hard to admit, but that doesn’t mean you don’t love him, right?”

  Miller shook his head.

  “We have to remember it’s not his fault. You’re right. He’s not himself. Your brother has something called PTSD. That’s short for post-traumatic stress disorder. Try to understand that he’s seen horrible things in Afghanistan and he can’t get them out of his mind. The bad thoughts keep coming back, even when he sleeps. He has nightmares.”

  I could feel Miller nod against my chest. “I hear him.”

  I closed my eyes. How could he not? Miller slept down the hall from Taylor. “He’s going to the doctor’s office now. They’ll help him. He needs some medicine that will help him feel better and sleep.” I released Miller, then lowered to meet his gaze.

  His blue eyes looked back at me, filled with worry.

  “Don’t be angry with your brother. Try to understand and be patient with him. He’s in pain. Wouldn’t you want help if you were in trouble?”

  Miller leaned into me, resting his head against my breast. I put my hand on his head, holding him close. “We have to be strong for him now. Like he was strong for his country. He’s our hero, don’t forget.”

  “Okay, Mama.”

  Miller stepped back and released a long, shuddering sigh. One that spoke of how long this bubble of anxiety had been in his chest.

  “Can I watch TV?”

  I normally wouldn’t let him watch TV on a school night, but we all needed to find some relief today. I wanted a glass of wine but wouldn’t have one until I’d heard from Alistair.

  “Sure. . . . Did you eat lunch?” When he shook his head, I said, “I thought not. You must be starved. Do you want me to make you a sandwich?”

  Miller scrunched up his face. “I’m not that hungry.” He seemed depressed, exhausted. His arms hung listlessly.

  I stooped, kissed his cheek, and then ruffled his hair. “Go on, now. Just relax, okay? It’s been a tough day for all of us.”

  Feeling helpless, I watched him climb the stairs to his room. My baby was afraid and lost, and the best I could offer him was a sandwich? I shook my head, fed up with my fantasy of how a good mother should behave. The belief that I could fix whatever ailed my sons if I just loved them enough, fed them good food, was a myth.

  The PTSD was taking a heavy toll on my family. Taylor was getting help. I decided that it was beyond time for me to get professional help as well. I needed to learn about PTSD and how I could help Taylor. Letting him slip into isolation wasn’t healthy. I could no longer expect his anger, mistrust, and depression to simply go away. Allowing Miller to be confused and frightened was unacceptable. And for me to continue giving easy answers and blithely telling everyone that everything was going to be okay was naïve. This was my home. I felt determined to do what I could to increase my loved ones’ sense of comfort—and I had to be realistic—safety.

  I went to Alistair’s office and sat at his desk in front of the computer. Turning it on, I began to search for articles on PTSD. I hadn’t realized how many there were. I settled in and began to read.

  Two hours later the phone rang. Thinking it might be Alistair, I lurched for the phone.

  “Hello!”

  There was a pause, no doubt because I’d almost shouted, then a woman’s voice. “Hello, this is Clarissa Black from Pets for Vets. Is . . .”

  I silently groaned, thinking how I couldn’t deal with a soliciting call now. “We’re not interested,” I interrupted, and began to hang up the phone.

  “Wait! Please. I’m calling for Taylor McClellan. Is he there, please?”

  When I heard Taylor’s name, I hesitated with my hand midair, then brought the phone back to my ear. “I’m sorry; I thought you were some solicitor. Who did you say you were?”

  “I’m Clarissa from Pets for Vets. We provide service dogs for returning veterans. Taylor submitted an application months ago. I’m following up.”

  “Service dog?” I was completely surprised. I’d just been reading about service dogs on the Internet. There were so many heartfelt stories from vets who claimed that having their service dog had changed their lives. She had my full attention. “Taylor asked about a dog?”

  “Yes, he did.”
She paused. “Are you a family member?”

  “Yes, I’m his mother.”

  “Okay,” she replied, accepting that. “To be honest, I’m surprised he didn’t talk to you about this. We encourage applicants to get the whole family involved. The dog becomes a member of the family.”

  Suddenly it all became clear. This was someone who could help Taylor. I gripped the phone, eager to talk to this woman. First, however, I glanced over my shoulder to make sure Miller was out of earshot.

  “I’ve read about this. The dogs can wake them up when they’re having nightmares.”

  “That’s one of the many things they do. There are different kinds of service dogs trained for different needs. The blind, for example. I work specifically with dogs trained to help servicemen who’ve returned home with PTSD.”

  “And my Taylor applied for a service dog, you said?”

  “Yes. A few months ago.”

  “So long ago?”

  “Actually, his case moved along quickly. It’s a long, complicated process.” She paused. “And I have some good news for him. Is Taylor there?”

  “No, I’m sorry he’s out. He’s at the doctor’s. I’m not sure what time he’ll be back.” I debated whether to tell her what had happened, but I didn’t know how much Taylor had confided in her. So I opted for less is more.

  “Could you ask him to call me? As soon as possible. He has my number.”

  “Of course.” Then I blurted, “Clarissa?” I hesitated. “Taylor’s been having a very hard time. Very hard.” I could feel my emotions welling up and my voice beginning to shake. I took a breath. “Will this dog help him out of his depression?”

  “That’s our hope. We work very hard to make that happen.” Her voice grew filled with compassion. “These dogs are not pets, Mrs. McClellan. They’re companion animals that can be the lifesaving therapy that many returning servicemen and women need.”

  I felt the tears welling. “You have his dog, don’t you?”

  There was a pause. “Please, have him call me back.”

  I hung up the phone and almost fell to my knees in a prayer of thanks. Something in her voice told me that, yes, she had Taylor’s dog. The timing was too close to be coincidental. This was an answer to my prayers! My Christmas miracle.

  “Ghost of the Future!” he exclaimed. “I fear you more than any spectre I have seen. But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart.”

  —Scrooge, A Christmas Carol

  Chapter 14

  Taylor

  Bundled gloomily in my wool coat, sitting slump-shouldered in the passenger seat of my father’s car, I stared out at the passing world in silence. We passed the buildings, shops, and houses that I knew as a child, feeling as if I were a kid in trouble again. Worse, a total failure. Not just in my eyes, but in my father’s eyes. My father had always been the man I’d looked up to, the captain I’d tried to impress. I’d measured my success by the gleam of approval in his eyes. I’d basked in his gaze. There was a time I was his pride and joy.

  I closed my eyes and saw instead the image of my father sitting in the waiting room of the hospital when I was released. He had filled the small chair and sat hunched over, his elbows on his knees, his big, ruddy hands holding a pitiful paper cup of cold coffee. He wasn’t reading. He was staring out with a blank expression on his face. When I’d approached him, he’d risen slowly, and when he faced me, I saw despair, confusion, even fear, clouding his pale blue eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I’d blurted out. It was all I could think of to say. I wished I could take the experience away. I’d never meant to hurt him or Mama. To cause them this pain.

  “Let’s go home” was all he’d said before he turned and led the way out of the hospital to the parking lot.

  I ran a hand over the stubble along my jaw. I felt unwashed, unshaven. I should have shaved, I thought, glancing at my father’s clean profile as he drove. I wouldn’t have been such an embarrassment to him at the hospital. I might have felt a little less pitiful, too. My eyes were dry and gritty from lack of sleep, my stomach was queasy, and I still felt hollow inside. I looked down at the book in my hand: A Christmas Carol. I don’t know why but I carried the book around with me like a talisman. Maybe because it reminded me of a rare moment of connection with my brother. Maybe, too, because holding the book reminded me that I could find a way to break the ponderous chain I was dragging. And maybe because it helped me hope that I could survive my past and present to a better future.

  Beside the book lay a bag of pills in my lap. So many different ones. I wondered if suicide wasn’t easier.

  I didn’t know how they let me go home. The doctor asked me the same questions the three previous doctors had. I’d got a new prescription for depression, another to help me sleep, and a few others for God only knew what. If the pills kept the nightmares way, I didn’t care what I took.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. How was I going to make it? I was unfit company. They’d taught me the combat mind-set. How to look for threats, how to always be on alert, checking for dangers. They didn’t teach us how to turn that off when we went home. I didn’t know how to live not in war anymore.

  I felt so alone. I didn’t talk to anyone because no one understood what I was going through. Not family, not friends. I didn’t blame them. I had a hard time talking to anyone now. And I didn’t want to burden people with my problems. Marines were supposed to be tough. We were taught to suck it up. That we could get through anything, oo-rah! So to admit I had a problem, or worse, a disability, felt to me more than a failure. It was a betrayal.

  It was dark when we arrived home. The holiday lights flickered merrily on Pinckney Street. We pulled up at the house. My mother had turned on the holiday lights, no doubt hoping to make me feel more cheery when I arrived home. Mama thought holiday decorations could cheer anyone up. But the blinking fairy lights and bright red bows had the opposite effect. They mocked how detached I felt from the joy of the season. I just wanted to get to my room, away from prying eyes. I didn’t want to answer any more questions. I didn’t want to join the family. I didn’t want to live.

  My father parked the car in the garage and let his hand rest on the steering wheel. We sat a moment in the dark. I waited. I felt he wanted to say something. But he opened his door and without a word returned to the house. I sat in the dark car a moment longer, clutching my bag of pills, and looked out in the darkness. I should leave, I thought. I’d move out after Christmas. I didn’t want to put my family through any more heartache. I got out of the car and slammed the door, then walked with my head ducked into my collar and my hands in my pockets along the paved walk to the front door. Pushing open the door, I was hit by the heated, pine-scented air.

  My mother stepped out from the kitchen into the front hall to greet me. She was wearing the same blue sweater over jeans, and her hair in the same hairstyle she’d worn since I was a child. She twisted a dish towel in her hands and her face was starched with an expectant smile. Miller stood behind her, sullenly staring. The fear I saw in his eyes nearly killed me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said in a rush, and went directly to the stairs. I was halfway up when I heard my mother call after me, “You got a phone call! A Clarissa Black from Pets for Vets. She said to call her as soon as possible.”

  I froze. My mother’s words had permeated the wall around me. They traveled deep inside my brain, past the stormy darkness swirling there to where one infinitesimally small flame of hope still flickered. A dog, I thought, and I felt that small flame surge. In all my despair I’d forgotten about the interview with Clarissa. I barely remembered it now. I gripped the stair railing and slowly turned to see my mother standing at the bottom of the stairs, her face uplifted, and waiting. Damn if I didn’t see that flicker of hope in her eyes, as well.

  “Thanks.” Grasping at a straw, I replied, “I’ll call her.”

  Two days
later, I was sitting in an overstuffed chair in the living room, clean shaven, showered, wearing a freshly ironed shirt and polished shoes, waiting for my meeting with my dog. I took great care dressing for this meeting, as I would for any first date. After all, this was the beginning of a new relationship in my life, arguably one of the most important.

  While in the hospital I’d met a guy who had a service dog, and he swore that dog saved his life. He told me how one night he had picked up the phone and was either going to call the suicide prevention hotline or Pets for Vets. He called Pets for Vets. I wasn’t a doctor, but I knew I needed more help than I was getting from pills. So I took the card he gave me and when I was discharged from the hospital I applied for a service dog. Clarissa came out to my apartment to interview me a week later. She told me she needed to learn more about me, my personality, my wants and needs, to get a picture of the dog she would find for me in a shelter.

  “Sort of like match.com?” I’d asked her.

  She’d laughed but she didn’t deny it.

  “The way I look at it, you and the dog save each other. It’s win-win.”

  Her questions were exhausting but thorough. I didn’t care what the dog looked like—white, black, big, small, male, female. I just wanted a smart dog with a big heart.

  So here I was, waiting for Clarissa’s arrival, only this time she was coming with the dog she’d matched with me. I had my doubts she’d find the perfect dog for me. It seemed too good to be true that a dog could change my life. But I’d already tried so many different therapies. I was running out of options.

  Clarissa had agreed to come today, Friday, so that Miller would be in school when the dog arrived. I was worried how Miller would react to my getting a dog. What with how much he pined for a dog of his own. Would he understand what a service dog was compared to a pet? Could he understand that I didn’t just want this dog, I needed this dog? He was only ten years old. I didn’t think he would.