One September Morning

by Rosalind Noonan

  His heart is hammering in his chest and he is sweating, his back drenched with perspiration as it ripples through him again—the panic, the chaos.

  He sinks down, down to stop the blood, down to stay low, out of the line of fire.

  “Who did that? Got to be someone John knows, the way he’s yelling. My NOD…Why aren’t these goddamned night goggles working?”

  He reaches over, grabs John’s NOD that’s tipped off his head onto the floor, and pulls it over his eyes, searching for movement.

  There he is…

  An American soldier jumping over a wooden crate, running away. Dodging behind a scaffold of shelves.

  “Medic!” Emjay screams. He presses his hands to John’s shoulder, but they slip down, bloodied, sticky. “Man down!”

  “Come on, John! Come on, man. You’re gonna make it,” Emjay whispers, desperately trying to gain purchase on the wound so that he can apply pressure. “Keep breathing, John. Stay with me, man. John?”

  But John does not answer.

  Chapter 44

  Fort Lewis

  Jim

  “So how does that work in terms of operations?” Jim Stanton asks the young doctor who so graciously offered to buy him a drink. Jim is intrigued by the army’s new policy of placing field officers with psychology training in each combat unit in an attempt to eliminate suicides in combat zones.

  “It’s a relatively new protocol,” Jump explains. “Overall, I was just one of the guys, expected to stand guard, accomplish missions, secure perimeters. Occasionally, I would confer with company commanders on the mental state of our troops.”

  “A soldier and a head shrinker?” Jim pinches the square point of his chin. “When I was in ’Nam, we didn’t have field clinicians. Not even close.”

  Dr. Charles Jump, whom everyone calls “Doc,” grins like a cowboy, half smile, half bemusement. “From what I’ve read, you guys could’ve used some help back then. A lot of self-medicating going on?”

  “You could say that. Personally, I stayed away from drugs, but you can’t avoid the mind-bending experience of a war like that. How many years has it been? Decades later, and I still have nightmares.” Jim doesn’t usually open up like this—not even with his own wife—but he has warmed to Dr. Jump, one of John’s friends in Bravo Company and apparently one of John’s football buddies from Rutgers. Not that Jim remembers him from those days; back then John did his own thing, traveling in his own packs without input from his parents, and that was okay with Jim. If you can’t let go of your kids in college, when are you going to do it?

  “Recurrent nightmares…after all these years. It’s amazing how our subconscious speaks to us through dreams. You’ve discussed these nightmares with a therapist?”

  “Naw. I’ve never seen a shrink. Back in the Stone Age, when I grew up, therapists were for the wealthy and those touchy-feely types who didn’t have the guts to be real men.” Jim squints at Doc. “You trying to recruit me?”

  Doc laughs. “To be honest, I’ve got more than my share of patients in my new capacity at Lakeside Hospital. I’m just saying, everyone needs a way to vent, let it all out. A destresser.”

  “Honestly, my wife’s been trying to get me into family therapy for the past few years.”

  “Family therapy is a little different,” Jump says. “For family, I try to get the couple in along with any children living in the home.”

  Jim shrugs. “Not interested, but if I were, I have to say I’d want to work with someone like you. I like your attitude, Jump. No nonsense. Where did you train?”

  “I did my graduate work at Harvard, undergrad at Rutgers, of course.”

  “Harvard must have been a hefty bill.”

  “Hence I am a minion of the U.S. Army for the next few years. At least until my tuition is paid off. I wasn’t one of those pampered scholarship students. I played football in undergrad—that’s where I met John—but I had to give it up senior year because of a knee injury.”

  “That’s a shame. I know how the leg injuries can be. My legs have more stitches than Frankenstein, but I still like to go for a run when I can.”

  Across the gymnasium, Madison looks tired, bored, and a bit soggy. Jim raises his hand, trying to get her attention.

  “Dr. Jump, I’d like you to meet my daughter,” Jim says as Madison joins them. He introduces Madison to the shrink.

  “Nice to meet you.” Jump holds her hand until she meets his eyes. Clearly, Jim observes, this is a man who knows how to deal with kids. “I knew John had a younger sister, but I thought you were much younger. Grammar school.”

  When Madison grins, the smile reaches her eyes for the first time in a long time. “You knew ’im? John?”

  “I was in his platoon in Iraq,” he says. “But we’ve been friends forever. We played football together at Rutgers.”

  Madison moves from one foot to the other, teetering on the heels of her boots.

  “You okay, honey?” he asks, touching her lightly on the shoulder.

  “Fine. I jess…” She shrinks away from his touch. “I’m getting a ride home with Ziggy, okay?”

  “Ziggy’s here?” he calls after her, but she is already striding back toward the door. She bumps into a woman on the way but doesn’t stop to apologize.

  “Has she been abusing alcohol for a while now?” Jump asks.

  Jim’s eyebrows rise. “Alcohol? You think she’s been drinking?” When Jump doesn’t answer, he sighs. “It wasn’t a real issue until John died. Then…well, add to that her brother Noah is AWOL, completely cut off from us. It’s all been hard on Madison. Certainly more than any girl her age should have to deal with.”

  “Have you found family arguments accelerating at home?” the therapist asks. When Jim takes a moment to consider his answer, Jump touches his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry, but since you mentioned your wife wanting family therapy, well…” He takes a breath, gazing toward the door where Madison exited. “Family therapy might be an effective way to resolve some long-term issues for Madison. As well as for you and your wife.”

  “And here I thought you were overbooked,” Jim says with a grin.

  “I am.” Jump removes a card from a silver holder and hands it over. “But I could get you some referrals. Hey, we both work for Uncle Sam. You might as well take advantage of services available to you. When you get a toothache, you see a dentist, right?”

  Jim nods.

  “So think of me as the mechanic for the family minivan. I’ll keep your wheels from falling off.”

  “Do they teach you marketing at Harvard?” Jim asks.

  “That’s just what I bring to the mix.” Dr. Jump smiles. “See you around, Captain.”

  Jim tucks the card safely into his wallet. Not that he’ll ever call, but if he did need a therapist someday, Jump would be at the top of his list.

  Chapter 45

  Fort Lewis

  Abby

  “Take some deep breaths. Keep breathing. It’s okay, Emjay.” Abby tries to speak calmly as she kneels beside the panicked soldier, who presses his hands into the tiled floor, calling for John. “You’re not in Iraq anymore. You’re back in the States and you’re okay.”

  From his hands and knees Emjay Brown stretches up toward her, his eyes wide open but unseeing. “I can’t make it stop!” he hisses in desperation. “He’s bleeding out.”

  “Emjay…” she says firmly, “you need to come back.” Abby is trying to maintain a steady, firm tone, but inside her heart is racing, her nerves singing with adrenaline.

  He’s having a flashback! Although she’s studied aspects of post-traumatic stress disorder, she’s never witnessed anything like this firsthand, an episode of past trauma so horrific that it’s spilling into Emjay’s present world. Is she doing the right thing? She remembers that it’s okay to wake up a sleepwalker, so her gut instinct tells her that it’s advisable to talk Emjay back into the present.

  “Can’t stop the bleeding!” he cries, his voice cracking
in anguish.

  “It’s okay. You did your best, Emjay, but he’s gone now. Do you understand?”

  He swings his head back and forth in a jerky motion, then looks down at his open palms.

  “It’s over, Emjay,” she says reassuringly. “That horrible day is gone. You don’t have to be there anymore.”

  He sucks in a deep quivering breath, and suddenly tears glisten in his eyes—eyes that now see her clearly.

  “Oh God.” His face crumples in pain as he nervously takes in his surroundings. “Abby? I’m so sorry, Abby. I tried, but I couldn’t save him.”

  “I know, Emjay.” She sits on the floor beside the huddled man and rubs his back between the shoulder blades. “I know.”

  They remain that way for a while, Emjay sobbing and Abby trying to comfort him. She is thankful that this end of the corridor is somewhat secluded, and the few people who notice them look away quickly, affording them some privacy.

  “I know this has been very difficult for you.” Abby speaks softly, trying to reassure him. “I really appreciate your honesty, and I’m grateful for your help. You know, John cared a great deal about you.”

  “I know,” he says, sobbing.

  Her throat is suddenly tight, knotted with emotion. Now that the episode has passed, other questions plague her. Was this Emjay’s first flashback? What if it happens to him again, in a dangerous location? Does the army recognize that he’s suffering from PTSD? And beyond all that, who is looking out for this frazzled man?

  His face is wet with tears, and she reaches into her purse for tissues, hoping he won’t find them too effeminate.

  He’s fine with it, accepts the tissues and takes a deep breath.

  “I’d better go,” he says, pushing away from the floor. “This isn’t my scene and, anyway, I came here to talk with you.”

  She rises, wiping her palms on her hips. “I appreciate that. Do you need a ride home?” She’s not sure he should be driving.

  “I’ll take the bus.” He takes a deep, calming breath, and she sees beauty in his dark, round face. A stormy beauty. If only the turmoil lingering there could pass. “It drops me right at the barracks.”

  “I thought you weren’t coming,” someone calls down the hall.

  Emjay darts a nervous look over Abby’s shoulder, his dark eyes stricken. “My therapist,” he whispers, confiding to Abby. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

  “What?” Was Emjay restricted to quarters? Abby wheels to see a tall soldier swaggering toward them. “We were just heading out,” she calls casually, trying to cover for Emjay, though she’s not sure what he’s so afraid of. To Emjay, she says, “I’ll walk you to the door.”

  The tall therapist walks like a cowboy, Abby thinks as he heads their way.

  “Whoa-hoa!” he bellows. Definitely a cowboy. “I know you.”

  The three of them meet under a cold fluorescent light that fairly beams on the tall man’s shiny, shaved head. He would be the cowboy they call Curly, she thinks perversely.

  “You’re John’s wife. I’m so sorry for your loss.” He extends a hand. “Staff Sergeant Charles Jump. We’ve met before, many years ago. I was one of John’s teammates back in college.” She studies his face, piercing blue eyes, wide lips, and an overall demeanor of authority. Maybe he looked different back when he had hair? She honestly doesn’t remember him. She takes his hand, but his attention has already moved to Emjay. “You okay?”

  “Yes, sir. I was just…I mean—”

  “He’s on his way out,” Abby says, curious as to why Emjay is so nervous around Charles Jump. Effective therapy is usually based on trust, but Emjay Brown seems to fear this man.

  “Heading home, Doc,” Emjay says as they make their way to the door.

  “I can see that.” Doc walks alongside them with ease. “I guess I’m just surprised to see you here after our conversation. An event like this can pack an emotional wallop.”

  “Bye, Abby,” Emjay says at the door.

  “You take care.” She reaches for his hands and gives them a squeeze. They tremble slightly in her grip, and then he turns and heads into the damp night.

  “Poor man.” Jump folds his arms, peering out through the slit of window in the high-school door. “There’s one patient I really feel for. He saw a lot of action over in Iraq, and it’s not over for him. He’ll probably be deployed again.”

  “Can I ask why he wasn’t supposed to come tonight?” Abby says.

  “That’s part of his treatment plan, and I’ve probably already said too much.”

  “You’re right, I shouldn’t have asked. I’m finishing up a degree in counseling, and I should have known better than to ask.”

  He turns to her and smiles. “Can we start over? Hi, I’m Dr. Charles Jump. The guys in my platoon call me Doc, but before I got my degree friends called me Jump.”

  “So…Jump, I have to ask you the same question I’ve been throwing out to your fellow soldiers all night. Do you know any details about the way John died?”

  “I heard that he was shot,” he says slowly, “but honestly, I didn’t see anything. I was on the other side of the warehouse, and it was pitch-black in there. I heard the bang of the rifle, but the next thing I saw was John outside on a stretcher.” He tilts his head, studying her face. “You’re disappointed. I guess that doesn’t help much.”

  “I’m just searching for some answers. Answers I might never find.” She takes a breath, trying to focus on the here and now. “So what’s a psychologist doing in a combat platoon?”

  “Actually, I’m a psychiatrist. While your husband was running the pigskin, I was busting my butt in a medical program.”

  “Wow. That makes my question even more pertinent. What are you doing in the army?”

  “Ever heard of the GI Bill? I didn’t have the bucks to pay for med school, but military service was one option that let me earn my way. Since the Iraq invasion, the army has been trying to have someone like me in their forward divisions. If you’ve been studying psych, I’m sure you can imagine the psychological fallout these guys experience.”

  She could now say she’d seen it firsthand. “Are you going back to Iraq?”

  “I’ve been reassigned to the hospital here at Fort Lewis for now. But, knowing the army, I try not to get too used to any one place.” He points a thumb toward the refreshments. “Can I buy you a beer? I’d be remiss if I didn’t spend a few minutes checking on how you’re doing.”

  “I’m not drinking these days,” she says, worrying a button on her jacket. “I haven’t been in much of a party mood.”

  “Then how about a spiced hot cider? Cocoa?”

  Abby closes up her jacket. “No, thanks. I’m about ready to head home.” His offer is kind, but she doesn’t think she can hold up her end of a conversation having watched Emjay Brown relive the moments of terror surrounding John’s death. To watch him cower on the floor and apply pressure to what he remembered as her husband’s wounds…it was traumatic for her. She hadn’t expected to relive the moment with him.

  “Abby…” He tilts his head, as if trying to get into her line of vision. “You’re a million miles away, girl. And I’m not sure I can let you go yet. You see, John and I had a pact. We promised each other we’d take care of family if one of us didn’t make it out of Iraq.”

  Abby spares him a smile. It sounds like something John would do, though she’s surprised he never mentioned it to her. In fact, he never really mentioned being on friendly terms with Charles Jump.

  “So you see, it’s part of my commitment to John to make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay.” She holds out her arms for inspection. “I’m a walking, talking, functioning member of society.”

  He cradles his chin in one hand and squints at her. “I’m afraid I’ll need more than one session to make that assessment. Really, I feel I owe it to John. Maybe we could get together for coffee sometime.”

  She has to admit, Jump is one of the most lighthearted individuals sh
e’s spoken with today. “If we have coffee, then you’re off the hook with your promise to my husband?”

  “Just as long as I can make sure you’re okay.” The corner of his lips curls in a grin. “Okay being the clinical term, of course.”

  “All right, then.” She gives him her number and he programs it right into his cell phone.

  “I’ll call you in the next week or so,” he promises.

  “Okay.” And for the first time in a long time, Abby realizes she’s got something to look forward to.

  “So let’s recap,” Suz says as they cross the parking lot. The mist has turned to sprinkling rain, the kind that swirls like glitter under street lamps. “You talked a war veteran through a flashback. God love you, Abby. He’s lucky he was with someone who has some training for crazies.”

  “He’s not crazy,” Abby defended.

  “Sorry, he’s got PMS. Or PTA. No, wait, that’s what I’m going to be suffering once Sofia starts school.”

  “You are so cruel. Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Abby corrects her. “PTSD.”

  “Whatever. I’m very glad he came tonight, because Corporal Brown does not sound like the kind of person you would want to meet in a dark alley. Lassiter and McGee were charming and sweet and remembered our guys fondly. There were a few surprise guests, though we should have expected your in-laws. Sharice doesn’t miss a military function.”

  “Although you’d think she and Jim might be a little embarrassed to show their faces with Noah being AWOL.”

  “But no one mentioned him tonight,” says Suz, “and they’re still basking in the glow of John’s heroism. Nice that they brought along little Madison, who came in costume as Morticia Addams.”

  Abby grins as she unlocks the car. “Ruthless.”