The Promise of Rainbows

by Ava Miles

  “I see. Is there anything else you want to share with me about what you’ve done?”

  Frustration grew inside him as he thought about his regimen. “I’ve tried art therapy, mindfulness meditation, and relaxation techniques. All of them have helped to a point, but honestly, writing or playing songs has been the single best therapy for me.”

  “After hearing your music, I believe that,” she added. “It’s from your heart. There’s no denying that. Or your honesty.”

  “If you’re not honest in your music, people know it,” he said, shifting to cross his ankle over his knee. “Oh…and I’ve exercised…a lot. To release the endorphins. That probably helped me get over my depression too.”

  Her mouth tipped up. “Yes, it’s pretty obvious that you work out. I believe my youngest daughters have referred to you as Mr. Sex-On-A-Stick.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I don’t keep in shape for my image.” Despite what his agent said about it driving the female fans wild.

  “Of course not. So after all of these different treatments, what continues to plague you?”

  Were they finally getting to that? He realized he’d been giving more detail about his treatment in an attempt to delay the real reason he’d come here today. “I still have flashbacks, and sometimes I can taste the sand and dust in my mouth, but I can manage those. It’s the nightmares that torture me. One in particular has never gone completely away. Nothing seems to fix it. Nothing seems to fix me.”

  “As I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, you’re not broken.” She sat up even straighter in her chair. “Jake, there is nothing in you that needs fixing. Yes, you suffer from PTSD, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t have a happy life. You’re already doing amazing if you ask me. You left the military, which I expect wasn’t the easiest decision for you, and now you’re a famous country singer doing what you love. That’s pretty incredible, don’t you think?”

  He wanted to curse, but refrained. “It is…and I know it. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I just want…”

  She leaned forward in her chair. “What do you want?”

  “I want the nightmares to stop,” he said in a voice harsher than he intended. “I want to share my life with a woman without fearing I’ll drag her down into the dark with me like my father did to my mother.”

  “I did some reading before you came to visit me. I know your father was in the military. And that your brother is as well.”

  “He’d already done four tours in Afghanistan when we stopped speaking,” Jake said. “He’s already turned into my father.”

  “And what is your father like?” she asked in a neutral voice, one that helped him rein in the messy emotions that were rising up in him.

  “Cold. Dominant.” He thought of all the times his father had beaten him with his belt for “defiance”—anything from looking at him wrong to asking a question for the second time. “I know he has PTSD. He and my brother both do. But they aren’t interested in getting help.”

  She folded her hands prayer style in her lap. “Then your decision to seek it out is all the more admirable.”

  His chest was so tight now, he rubbed the base of his diaphragm. “I want them to want to get better.”

  “I imagine you do. It might have made your childhood easier. But that’s in the past, son. Forgiving them and moving on is your only way forward.”

  He’d heard this line before, and his anger surged to the surface. “How are you supposed to forgive someone who’s not even sorry?”

  “I can only tell you what I did. When my husband left me, I simply prayed over and over again for God’s grace in letting go of all my anger and hurt. It took years, and sometimes when I sense my children’s hurt, I get angry all over again. I pray more. Some acts like forgiveness are a life-long process. Eventually it gets easier.”

  “I’ve been out of the military for five years,” he said, depression lacing his voice.

  “I’ve met men who still have PTSD from their service in Vietnam,” she said kindly. “There’s no time limit on hurt and trauma. I wish there was.”

  He hung his head for a moment. “I just want to get better.”

  “You are,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “But that’s no comfort right now. All you can see is your hurt and your frustration, which is completely understandable. You’ve been at this for a long while.”

  “Sometimes it seems like forever,” he said, forcing himself to look up and stop being so pathetic.

  “You’ve told me about all you’ve done to get over your symptoms. Why don’t you tell me what the nightmare is about?”

  He glanced at the clock on her wall. They’d been talking for almost forty minutes. The bible verse of John 14:27 was inscribed in the clock’s face. It was a verse he didn’t know, not that he knew many by heart. He might be able to recite a few lines of Psalm 23, “The Lord is my shepherd.” But that was pretty much all he remembered from his Bible school days.

  “Are you sure we have the time?” he asked, wishing he wasn’t such a coward.

  “We do if you want to tell it,” she said softly. “Do you want to tell me, Jake?”

  “Honestly, Louisa, I really don’t.” He laughed harshly. “But if you can help me, it’s worth any embarrassment.”

  Her narrowed green eyes looked so much like Susannah’s it gave him a jolt. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about, Jake. Ever.”

  He shifted on the couch again. “Do you mind if I stand?”

  “Not at all,” she said patiently, folding her hands in her lap again.

  “You’re pretty good at waiting people out, aren’t you?” he asked, rising to his feet.

  She lifted a shoulder. “It’s not easy for people to talk about what hurts them. It’s not easy for me either, although I’ve gotten better at it. Love and compassion have a way of encouraging us to bring our hurts out into the light. While I know you don’t know me well, you can trust me with your hurts.”

  “I know I can trust you,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.”

  “Then just start telling me,” she said, leaning back, likely because he was towering over her. “It doesn’t have to be pretty or even linear. Who’s the nightmare about, Jake?”

  His muscles locked. “How did you know it was about someone?”

  “From my experience, most of the nightmares that haunt people are about someone. Other memorable events, like the destruction of buildings, don’t make the same kind of impression.”

  Yeah, he’d seen his fair share of buildings and vehicles blown up. It wasn’t anywhere near as awful as seeing people blown up. In a sick way, he was glad Booker hadn’t gone that way. Monty had almost met that fate, and now his missing leg was a constant reminder.

  “The nightmare…it’s about my friend.” He could barely draw in a breath. “Booker.”

  “Go on,” she encouraged.

  He could barely draw in oxygen. “He…he died in my arms.”

  His foot started tapping as he told her about the nightmare. Everything from the dust in his eyes to the bitter end when Jake stopped applying pressure to his friend’s wound to shoot the enemy combatant.

  Somewhere in his recitation, he’d started pacing, completely numb to his surroundings. He tried to draw in air and focus on being present, like his psychiatrists had taught him. He patted his chest to feel his body. To come back.

  Louisa was watching him steadily when he finally met her gaze. “I’m sorry about your friend, Jake.”

  “Thank you,” he whispered harshly, wiping at the tears in his eyes.

  “Other than the obvious, why do you think his death still haunts you?” she asked.

  “You mean besides survivor’s guilt?” he rasped. “He was my best friend. I failed him.”

  She rose and stood before him. “I know you believe that, but that isn’t what happened.”

  He wanted to lash out. You weren’t there. How could you know? But
he locked his jaw so the words wouldn’t spew out like bile.

  “You’re angry with me for saying that,” she said, watching him carefully. “Tell me why.”

  “Everyone keeps telling me that it’s not my fault.”

  “And yet from the time you joined the military you were trained to protect your brothers in arms and never leave one of them behind. Is it any wonder you feel so conflicted?”

  His eyes narrowed. “No one has ever said that before.”

  “No? Well, then at least I’ve helped you see one thing differently.” She tilted her head to the side as she studied him.

  He could feel that illogical emotion surging up like a wave he was powerless to halt. He bit his tongue—hard enough to draw blood—but he couldn’t stop the words. “Logically, I know I didn’t kill Booker, but I can’t seem to accept that. When it comes down to it, I let my best friend die.”

  “Even if you hadn’t taken the pressure off his wounds, I have a feeling he would have died,” she said softly. “The bullet hit the artery—”

  “You don’t know that!” he shouted. “God…I’m sorry I yelled.”

  “It’s okay, Jake,” she said quietly. “I know you’re not yelling at me.”

  His nod was crisp. He needed to get his control back. What must she think of him for standing over her and shouting like that? He was no better than his daddy. “There’s something else. When I realized how bad it was, I…I asked God to save him. To keep him alive until the medic arrived.”

  She pressed her fingers to her mouth briefly. “So when Booker died, you concluded God didn’t answer your prayer. That you and Booker didn’t matter enough.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. Pretty much any of us over there.”

  The Lord might be everyone else’s shepherd, but He had turned a blind eye to them.

  “You’re not the first person to come to this conclusion.” She shook her head. “Jake, I see things differently than you do, so will you let me share my thoughts? They might be a little different than what your psychiatrists shared with you if they talked about God at all.”

  “They didn’t. They were government shrinks. They were bound by that whole church and state thing.”

  “Why don’t you sit down?” she suggested, gesturing to the chair this time. “I’ll take the couch.”

  “Okay.” He sat down heavily, but didn’t find the chair any more comfortable. If only he’d worn a T-shirt instead of his button-down shirt. He was blazing hot and sweating like a pig.

  “You aren’t going to want to hear this,” she said, “and I have to admit that I can’t be one hundred percent certain of anything. That’s where faith comes in. I don’t know why your friend had to die, but he did. It doesn’t mean God doesn’t love you or your friend. I don’t know why God couldn’t answer that one request. It’s one of those mysteries we can’t understand. It was Booker’s time. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have died.”

  Jake’s anger burned hot and red. “Who decided that? Booker was a good man. The best friend a man could ever have. He had a wife… Dammit, he was only twenty-six.”

  “I told you that I don’t know why he had to die that day in the alley, but he did.” She leaned forward and rested her hand on his knee. “You haven’t forgiven yourself for believing you let him die, but you also haven’t let go of your anger against God for taking him and not answering your call for help.”

  “God shouldn’t let good people die like that,” he choked out. “What the hell good is prayer if He doesn’t listen?”

  Her chest rose as she took a breath. “Everyone dies, Jake. I wish we could all die in our beds having lived good lives. But that isn’t the way it works. I can’t tell you why it works that way, but it does. You’re having trouble accepting the world for what it is. That’s what’s causing your hurt.”

  “People have said I need to accept Booker’s death,” he lashed out. “Do you think I haven’t tried? How am I supposed to accept it when it’s so unfair? I saw so much senseless destruction over there.”

  “Grace,” she simply said. “Have you prayed since that last prayer by Booker’s side?”

  He lifted his shoulder. Great, they were going to talk about the status of his soul now. “No. I…just couldn’t.” Not even while he and his buddies carried Monty, screaming and bleeding, to the Humvee after he stepped on that landmine.

  “People’s actions bring the hurt into our world, but there are angels everywhere to help. They helped you live. That’s an answer to prayer in its own way.”

  What good had that done? “Then why didn’t they help Booker when I asked? We needed them!”

  “I wish I knew.” And from her tone, he could tell she meant it.

  “So, what am I supposed to do?” he asked, reaching for control again. “I’ve tried to let it go. I’ve worked so hard to move on.”

  She rose and poured herself a glass of water, sipping it in the silence. Then she said, “You don’t have to believe in God to move on, but I think you do believe in God. You just don’t want to talk to Him anymore.”

  No, he really didn’t.

  “You think He failed you and Booker because you’d fallen from his favor. I understand the feeling even though our stories are different. For a time I felt like God had failed me and my family. That maybe in the whole scheme of things I had done something to deserve it.”

  “I feel that way too. I figure it was all the killing we did over there. Even though it was our job.”

  She shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do to stop God’s love for you. I believe that. I’ve seen it time and time again. Trust me when I say that you are more loved than you realize. We all are. You need to remember that somehow, and that starts with loving yourself. Have you forgiven yourself for all the people you’ve killed?”

  Her question struck him like a lance to the heart. “Jesus, you don’t shy away from anything. Mostly. I wish they hadn’t gotten in the way or shot at me. I never killed someone who wasn’t putting me or my men in danger.”

  “Of course you didn’t,” she said softly. “God understands that.”

  “Does He?” he asked, feeling like that kind of belief was beyond him.

  “You don’t need to take my word for it. You just need to ask God to show you He loves you and that you’re whole and complete just as you are. You might try praying again for a start. It’s really only talking anyway. I’ve seen it work miracles in people’s lives.”

  Miracles? He didn’t know if there were any of those left for him. “I’ll try it.” Maybe.

  “Good,” she said with a smile. “Next time—if you choose to come back—we can talk about why you can’t forgive yourself. Oh, and I have some homework for you.”

  Great. More homework. “What is it?”

  “I want you to write down all the things that wouldn’t have happened if you had died in the war. The ones that have made a difference in the world and in the lives of the people around you.”

  “Kinda like It’s a Wonderful Life?” he asked, arching his brow. “I’m no George Bailey.”

  “We’re all George Bailey, Jake.” She gave him a smile so wide it reminded him of Donna Reed in the movie. “Every one of us matters in this world. We all have a purpose if we choose to listen.”

  “And what is that?” he found himself asking.

  “To love and be happy,” she answered easily, patting his knee.

  “Well, that’s not hard at all,” he said with a trace of sarcasm.

  “It’s only as easy or hard as we make it. Most of the suffering in the world stems from people not choosing love and happiness.”

  The simplicity of her view was hard for him to accept given what he’d seen of politics, greed, and violence. “How do we know if we’ve made the right choice?”

  She smiled. “If you’re doing what makes you happy, you express the most love in the world. Rather like you do with your music.”

  He couldn’t deny that he did feel a calling to hi
s music. “What about my time in the Army?”

  “Did you join the Army because you wanted it or because your daddy wanted it?”

  He sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t feel I had a choice.”

  “Then there’s your answer.” She extended the water glass to him again. “Some soldiers love what they do. Not that there aren’t hardships, especially if they see combat.”

  He hung his head. “I hate this. I hate feeling guilty about Booker, I hate being angry at God, and I hate being too weak to move past it.”

  “What’s stopping you from moving forward? From sharing your life with someone?”

  “Every time I get close to a woman,” he said in a harsh whisper, “the nightmare about Booker comes back.”

  “Ah… So you don’t think you deserve to be happy with someone since Booker’s dead? He was married, I believe you said.”

  Was that the reason? Had he decided he couldn’t be with a woman if Booker couldn’t be with his wife? “Yes, he was.”

  “Are you still in touch with her?” she asked.

  “I tried to be…at first,” he said, feeling his throat burn with emotion. “But it was hard on both of us. I could tell she wanted me to stop calling. I have a feeling she blames me for what happened.”

  “Well, if she does, she’s wrong. That’s not for you to take on, Jake.”

  She rose and extended her hand to him. He didn’t know what she wanted, so he simply stood. She stepped in and hugged him.

  His muscles locked. “Whoa.”

  “None of your psychiatrists probably hugged you, but like I said, I do things differently.”

  Her arms were firm but relaxed. He knew he could step away at any time.

  “You’re a good man, Jake, one who experienced a horrible loss. Your friend wants you to forgive yourself and be happy. God does too. I know it’s impossible to understand why God didn’t answer that particular prayer that day, but He still loves you. And I do too.”

  He stood in her embrace for a few more awkward moments choking on emotion before patting her on the back. She took it as the sign it was and stepped back. There was a gentle smile on her face.

  “I’m glad you came today, Jake. Thank you for sharing your story with me. I hope you come back. And if you do, remember to bring your homework.”