“Yes, I have.” Maggie nodded with interest. After a second, she added: “sir.”
“I believe the amount of stress disorder cases is around eighty percent.” His hands were part of the explanation process. He felt strongly about his findings.
“Eighty percent of our troops?” Maggie leaned back for a second. She wanted to deny it out of hand.
“No.” Finerman looked at her seriously, “Eighty percent of the population.”
Her head turned to one side slightly, four out of five. Whoa.
“No, I’m not pushing for a big research grant.” He seemed to anticipate her next thought or misjudgment. “Those don’t happen anymore. These numbers are real.”
“That would take some explaining, sir.” She decided to play devil’s advocate.
“Think of all the things you’ve been through these last five years.” Finerman was treading a fine line of communication without prying into her personal experience and he knew it. “All of us. Every single one of us had horrifying experiences. We’ve had to do so much to stay alive.”
In the end, was it worth it? Maggie almost blurted it out but held her tongue. I just don’t know. Chicago, fucking Chicago and that slow feeling of being in an emotional meat grinder. That’s why you shake. Admit it. Maggie thought she might have been talking out loud for a second as she looked up abruptly.
“How about you?” Maggie heard her own voice. It sounded anxious, defensive.
“I suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, Maggie.” He nodded to her, unashamed. “I lost my wife. My six month old son was torn apart and eaten right in front of me.”
“Oh my god,” she suddenly saw him in a different light. Helpless, alone and destroyed. She felt small in the presence of his confession. Face it, we’re all dead inside.
“I am so sorry.” She added with a whisper.
“It got so that I was afraid to close my eyes at night because of the nightmares.” A fine mist had appeared over his eyes. It was like post fog rain droplets on your windshield. “I drank and attempted suicide……”
“What did you do?” Maggie leaned forward as the sting on her arm returned.
“I talked to someone.” He kept his voice calm and then shrugged. “I talked to a lot of people.”
“And…..?”
“I have a little rule.” Finerman leaned closer so Maggie could hear while his voice was a whisper. “Open up a little bit. If that person opens up, keep going. But in the end, only talk about all of this to people who make you feel better at the end of the day.”
“That’s it? Don’t talk to a shrink?” Maggie spoke while digesting the information. She was suddenly aware of her posture. She was relaxing in the chair. Calm, when the hell did that happen? Go with it.
“Maggie, there aren’t enough shrinks in the world to look after people these days.” He paused and took a long, deep and very real breath. “This is one fucked up world right now. It only stands to reason that the people in it would be fucked up as well.”
“Do you think….” She paused and then started again. “Do you think I have post traumatic stress?”
“I think you’re just like me, Maggie.” It was said like a confirmation, not an accusation. “Yes, I think you have it.”He let the moment sink in and then changed the subject. “You’re an American?”
“Yup, born and raised in Baltimore.” She eagerly nodded her approval at the adjustment in the atmosphere in the room.
“Go Ravens.” He smiled.
“That seems like a million years ago.” A memory crossed her face. How many years ago had they stopped playing pro sports? It was all gone, a fading reminiscence of another time. Her smile disappeared as black clouds crossed her mood. “I was….I was in Chicago when it fell and……..” She turned slowly to her right and her head lowered slightly.
“Things didn’t go very well there.” Her head began to incline to escape the past and look back at Finerman. “So, now I’m here.”
“Why here?”
“Can you take some honesty?” A secretive, crooked smile touched her face.
“Sure.” He returned the expression.
“You Canadians act so noble.” There was a sly, cool demeanor taking over her eyes. “But, when it suits your situation, you don’t ask questions.”
“I can see your point.” There was a hint of truth in what she was saying.
“Hey, you gave me a gun and promoted me without even asking about my military record.” Maggie let out a laugh that was an afterthought. Truth was, she didn’t know if anyone had asked about her past. But, that was a micro thin shadow on her thoughts. Yeah, this was starting to feel good.
“Well, I won’t ask about what happened in the US.” He promised.
“…..and I won’t tell.”
The door opened easily into the waiting room and Maggie’s return to the real world. I feel ten pounds lighter, she observed while turning to face the doctor. Her world seemed to have color in it. The grey and darkness were still there, but it was in retreat for now.
“See you again, okay?” She smiled at the man seated in the room.
“Absolutely,” Finerman was a man who loved the feeling of turning a corner in someone’s life. “Make the appointment, I’ll be here.”
“You bet.” Maggie closed the door and took a deep, beautiful breath.
“Guess I’m next.” It was Abramowisz, Maggie jumped slightly. “Sorry about that. How was it, Ma’am?”
“I think…” She paused to find the right words. “I think this is a man we can talk to.”
“Cool.” He nodded and went in.
*
“Okay, so I’m sightin’ one of those bogies.” Abramowisz leaned forward to convey his story. He was talkative but he knew articulation was not his strongpoint. His hand punches out. “Bam! I get him right between the eyes.”
“Okay,” Finerman also leaned forward to let the man know he was all ears.
“He drops, right?”
“Then what happens?” Finerman urged him on.
“I know this really sounds weird, man.” Abramowisz’s eyes seemed to cloud over for a minute. He was in another place now, describing what he was seeing. “The next day, he’s back.”
“Back?” Finerman raised an eyebrow.
“He’s back the next day coming at me.” Abramowisz concluded his dream sequence and looked at the doctor.
“The very same one,” Finerman asked and added: “You’re sure?”
“Yeah,” Abramowisz’s eyes were wide and disbelieving.
“It isn’t someone who looks like him?” Finerman offered. He wanted to go at this slowly. Let this man come to his own conclusions. You can’t tell him what he is seeing. This man has to figure it out for himself. Finerman was separated now into two schools of thought. Listening to the patient and beginning to guide Abramowisz in the direction he needed to go.
“Same one,” Abramowisz shook his head twice adamantly. “Exact same one.”
“Does this happen with several of them?” Finerman was looking for an edge here, something to pry open what he was seeing.
“No.” His eyes were far away, peering down the scope. “It’s just this one guy.”
The kettle whistled and Finerman took a minute to consider the evidence so far before responding. He stood up from his chair and shuffled slowly across the room while Abramowisz had a moment with his thoughts. The water danced about in the cup and performed the natural magic of being transformed from liquid to momentary relaxation. It was always a welcome respite.
“Are you sure I can’t interest you in a cup?” Finerman turned toward Abramowisz.
The private was standing up slowly with eyes double wide and unblinking. There seemed to be an ever so slight shaking passing through him like an electric current. It seemed to pass over and over him like waves hitting a shoreline and reverberating back into the sea.
The military police elbowed past Maggie at a dead run. At first, the message didn’t register
on the radio she overheard. With a sudden start Maggie turned and followed. They were bolting down the narrow corridors toward a spot that was filling up with people attracted by the commotion. Her eyes grew wider as they ducked into the office she had just left. Maggie was there a minute after their arrival.
The secretary was standing at her desk with both hands over her mouth and a dull state of shock clouding her eyes. Maggie could see the lower half of a body that had to be Finerman lying on the carpet in his office. The way the MP’s were acting he was beyond help, As Maggie walked toward the office she could see Abramowisz lying flat on his stomach, being held down and cuffed by a military police officer. The private’s face was serenity in the middle of chaos. He noticed Maggie and their eyes made contact.
“I think I got him this time, ma’am.” He said with satisfaction.
CHAINS OF COMMAND
Poker face on.
Maggie sat and endured the droning of her new analyst. She had attempted to interject a few times without success. He just raised the volume on one of his syllables as a signal for her to be silent. Well, fuck you, too. Maggie felt her muscles constrain in anger. It was like a flow of hot emotion that started in her shoulders. It slowly worked its’ way down the sinews of her arms until it compressed her hands into the mallet of a fist. She tried to flex the tension out by relaxing her fingers. They stayed locked and uncooperative. A slow quiver began to shake through her.
Fuck you, the words felt almost repetitive and she repeated them again. Fuck you.
As her anger deepened into darker shades, Maggie felt the free fall of emotional hopelessness. He wasn’t listening, no one was listening. It felt like a blanket of loneliness was pulling over her body, shutting out the rest of the world. Maggie wanted to take a moment and try to articulate the darkness that was taking her over. But, language always failed her. Bit by bit, a dark monster inside ate another portion of her soul.
Just you, rage and the monster will be alone together for the rest of time. After awhile, there would be nothing left. The final threads between Maggie and the real world would be silenced by drinking, cutting yourself or maybe the odd prescription drug she could steal from the pharmacy. Fuck you, it was becoming a mantra.
For a suspended second she wondered if this is what it felt like to be one of them. Now there is a nightmare, she almost spoke aloud. Being dead like that, walking around like that. Maybe they were barely conscious and aware. Like spectators they would watch their fingers slaughter, tear and consume. They would taste the flesh of former friends in their mouths and gag on the entrails. Trapped inside themselves they would wander among the places that used to make them feel so alive, a mere shell of your former self. Death had a cold familiarity to it now. She could feel a wintry chill competing with the hot fire inside her for emotional dominance. Fuck you. She repeated again.
“Corporal,” His nasal, upper class liberal douche bag tone broke through for a second.
“Yes sir?” Maggie acknowledged him, poker face on.
“I need you to hear what I’m saying.” He arched his chin upwards, a facial display of authority.
“Funny,” she could feel her face smirk. “I was about to say that to you.”
A few hours later Maggie sat in the stagnant heat of a school bus on the edge of the 427 at Dundas. The window was rolled down and the barrel of her C7A2 occasionally poked out so she could use her scope to get a better glimpse of the nuances of her surroundings. It was mostly wreckage and debris across the road. Each one was a tiny marking of personal moments from the headlong retreat from the city. Here and there were lost luggage discarded in panic. The wheels of overturned vehicles looked like helpless hands raised in surrender. The traffic lights were dark, blinded by the turn of time. It was all very still, silent and lifeless. A few figures shambled here and there. The clothes on them had tattered and frayed as they succumbed to the passage of time. Maggie watched them with a hint of curiosity. Protocol had dictated to only fire at hostiles who were threats, ammunition was becoming scarce again. A small child in a denim jumpsuit sat down suddenly on the pavement. Her head slowly turned one way and then the next. She seemed to be listening for a voice to call her inside. The slow pivoting went on for an hour before she abruptly stood up and staggered toward the mall.
Maggie glanced back at the darkened shapes of apartment blocks to the west. They would have been a perfect place for a sniper. But, like most apartment blocks they were boarded up for now. When would they be cleared? The row after row of pitch black windows offered no clue. It just wasn’t a priority now. There were plenty of places for survivors to live in. Whatever was in those buildings could wait. People were needed elsewhere. To farm fields, fight on and work in factories. The jobs were many but the able hands were never enough. Are we being slowly strangled? Maybe, she turned back to Dundas and sighed to ward off the sense of suffocation.
Besides, going into every apartment building was a close quarters death trap job. Why do it when you didn’t have to? It was like trying to retake Toronto. The manufacturing plants had restarted in rural areas to some degree. The TSX, main post office, major banks and provincial government had scattered to the wind and settled down in new locations. London, Kitchener, Windsor all got their fair share. Life goes on…….
Really, she recoiled for a second at the thought. Maybe life went on. But it was a shadow of its’ former self. We were a collective life in the autumn of our time. A sense of finality seemed to be right around the corner. Stop thinking like that, she tried to terminate her thoughts with an order.
Fuck you, the mantra returned.
An old truck with a spatter of rust on its grill trundled to a stop on the west side of the 427. Maggie turned her head and noticed a few of the figures far to her east on Dundas pause at the sound. The child raised her eyes and slowly inclined her head to the right. The wind was the wrong way so she couldn’t catch a scent. Still, Maggie kept a wary eye on the specters that seemed to shimmer in the afternoon heat.
Satisfied her watch was safe, Maggie turned back toward the truck as groups of men disembarked on to the roadway. It was time for the changing of the guard. A man was headed in her direction. He was a few inches over six feet tall with a large black turban that matched an impressive beard flecked with specks of grey hairs. He seemed to wear the grey like visible scars from the pain and wisdom learned through the years. He walked with the pace of a soul who had travelled far and still had a long way to go.
I see that walk a lot these days. Maggie watched him approach the bus and she gathered her thoughts together.
“May I come in?” A beautiful voice spoke in perfect Oxford English.
“Sure.” Maggie leaned over and released the handle to the bus door. It opened slowly, complaining every step of the way. “C’mon in.” She invited the man with a nod.
“Thank you.” The large frame labored up the steps, he had to be sixty. When he reached the top of the stairs he surprised her with a letter perfect salute. “I am relieving you, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” Maggie took a second and returned the salute. She had to respect that this was a man wise enough never to squander a first impression. Still, he was more someone’s grandfather than a soldier. It was the way of the world now. If you wanted to carry a rifle nobody asked questions.
I guess I’m living proof of that. She felt a moment of darkness pass through her.
“Please, take a seat.” Maggie finally broke a few seconds of silence as she eased into one of the metal benches. “Are you new?”
“I have been here for about a year.” He sighed as he found the edge of a bench to rest his frame on. “I am hoping to get back into law. I practiced in India for a few years.”
“That sort of thing can take awhile around here.” She gave a nod, a visual sign to continue. Maggie wanted to learn more about people around her, a way to stop anything like Abramowisz from happening again. She felt a strange sense of guilt burrow into her like a worm into soil.
/> “Yes, until then I must remember that I never end up where I want to be.” He sighed with a tired smile. “But I always wind up where I need to be.”
“Do you have any kids?” Maggie thought men like him always talked of their children. It would be a disarming way to get to know him. The vibe she was getting was very stoic, warm and calm.
“I have not heard from my daughter.” There was a distant look in his brown eyes. “I fear the worst.”
“Oh…” Maggie was taken aback. These are not normal times. What were you thinking? “I’m sorry.”
“My sons,” His voice trailed off until he arrived at a logical conclusion, a completion of a life chapter. “I have no sons.”
“I’m sorry,” Maggie felt a need for apology. “I did not mean to pry.”
“No, it is quite fine.” His eyes were saddened for a second. “I was told it was good to talk about these things.”
“Really,” Maggie cocked her head at familiar advice. It was an echo in time .It was one of those phrases that was the turn of a key to a memory. “Who said that?”
“He was a doctor….” The man raised his head for a second. He was foraging his memory for a name.
“Finerman?” Maggie offered.
“Yes, I think that was it.” He nodded his head. “Do you know him?”
“Not long.” It was Maggie’s turn for her eyes to become distant. “I knew him long enough to know he was a good man.”
“Was?”
“He was killed by a disturbed patient.” It was hard to see Abramowisz in that light. But there it was. Life had a strange way of writing unexpected epitaphs.
“Oh.” He digested the information for a moment. He seemed used to sorrow. “He was very helpful.”
“That’s the best thing we can say of people after their gone.” Maggie heard the words come out of her mouth with surprise. She wondered what people were saying of her south of the border. It didn’t really matter anymore did it? Maggie left the thought in still birth. “Why did you come here?”
5 Years After Page 2