Overcome

by Melanie Rachel

  “Adam’s been driving us crazy in the room,” the woman said, taking off her cap to fix her shoulder-length hair. “My husband got up with him at dawn, so he’s taking a quick nap.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem,” Elizabeth assured the woman. “I dragged Will out here just like your son dragged you.”

  The woman laughed at the face Will made. “You’re a kindred spirit, then.”

  Elizabeth grinned. “I am.” Instead of taking another run herself, she waited with the others for Adam to join them.

  “Lizzy,” he nearly yelled, jumping up and down, small showers of snow flying from his boots, “come with me.”

  Elizabeth smiled, glancing back at Will. She was a picture, Will thought, flushed from the cold and the activity, smiling widely because he’d put off their trip home a few hours to give her one last try with the tubes. He smiled back at her and pointed at his watch.

  “Sure,” she told Adam. “This’ll have to be my last one, so let’s take both tubes.” She pulled off her gloves and handed them to Will before sitting, arranging Adam beside her so that she had hold of one handle on his tube and he held one of hers. “If it gets too hard to hang on,” she instructed him, “just let go.” He nodded, and they lifted their feet, the tubes gaining speed, bouncing over ruts and rises.

  The run was clearly quicker than it had been, but manageable, Will thought, and turned to say something to Adam’s mother. He’d taken his eyes off the track for just a moment when he heard the woman gasp.

  “Adam!” she cried.

  Will quickly swiveled to see Adam had released Elizabeth’s tube and was trying to stand up on the sides of his own. He heard Elizabeth yelling something but couldn’t make out the words. And then Elizabeth was pulling her tube up at the front and sliding off the back to stop her run while Adam went flying headfirst into the snow, his tube tumbling over him, one of the handles hitting him square in the face and knocking him back.

  Will could hear the boy’s mother behind him, but his legs were longer, and he arrived at the bottom of the hill faster. Elizabeth was already fishing out a tissue from her pocket and holding it to Adam’s nose. She was teasing the boy about becoming a pilot without a plane, and the tone of her voice brought Will up short. Adam was fine, just sporting a bloody nose. He turned to Adam’s mother and gave her a reassuring smile while he held up his hands, palms out. She stopped to put her hand to her chest before picking her way down the slope more carefully, shaking her head and muttering about gray hair and heart attacks.

  “Sorry,” he heard Adam say weakly. I bet he says that a lot, Will thought with a grin. He glanced back at the pair to see what the apology had been for.

  It looked like a crime scene. Red drops stained the snow, Adam’s shirt, and Elizabeth. She’d held up a tissue, and Adam had responded by blowing his nose. Will grimaced, noting that Elizabeth had taken the worst of it. There was blood on her jacket, her scarf, her hands, and her face. Wordlessly, she handed a second tissue to Adam, who wadded it up and held it to his nose as he stood. His mother had pulled a bandana out of her backpack and was folding it, wiping at his face gently, holding the cloth against his nose, and taking his hand.

  “I’m so sorry,” she told them. “Unfortunately, this is par for the course. At least he won’t need stitches this time.” She was already hustling Adam up the hill and called back, “We’ll pay to wash your clothes, Elizabeth. Just leave a note with the front desk.”

  Will watched them go and turned back to Elizabeth. “C’mon,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’ll be glad I laid those clothes out now, I bet.” He waited for a second, but Elizabeth didn’t take his hand. She didn’t look up. Instead, she was staring at her hands, which were dotted with blood. She took a deep, ragged breath and squeezed her eyelids shut, falling backwards off her heels to sit awkwardly in the snow. She brought the heels of her hands up to scrub at her face, smearing the blood into wide ribbons of red across her skin. She didn’t stop.

  He was instantly on one knee, grasping her wrists and holding them to still the movement. Elizabeth was making small grunting sounds that terrified him. “Elizabeth,” he said softly. “Love, what’s wrong?”

  Elizabeth began to rock a bit, eyes still shut, moaning, shaking as though she was freezing. Will was at a loss, panic blooming in his stomach as he watched her. The blood, he thought suddenly. It’s got to be the blood. He unwound her scarf, then reached over to unzip her splattered coat. He pulled it off her, tossing it several feet away while his eyes raked over her shirt. It wasn’t stained. He stripped off his own coat and pulled it around her shoulders, grateful when she buried her nose in the collar and stopped shaking. Then he removed his own scarf and wrapped it around his hand. Cautiously, he dampened it in the snow and dabbed at her face.

  “It’s cold,” she complained brokenly, and he nearly cried with relief to hear her speak.

  “I know, sweetheart,” he said gently, sympathetically, “but we need to get you cleaned up. Hold on.”

  It took him some time, but he removed most of the blood from her face and hands and helped her to her feet. He placed one of her arms over his shoulder and placed his free arm around her back. “I can’t carry you up this hill, Elizabeth,” he told her firmly. “I need your help. You can help me, right?”

  There was no answer, but she stumbled forward, and eventually they reached the top. Elizabeth’s cheeks had more color and her step was steadier, but Will was still petrified. All he could think about was getting her warm, wrapping her up, tossing her in the truck, and getting her to Dr. Garcia. But what can he do? He wondered, feeling the panic turn to acid. This isn’t physical.

  He helped her back to the room, sitting her down while he rolled up his sleeves and started the bath water. He turned to the sink and opened the tap fully, waiting for the water to heat up. When it was warm enough, he moved Elizabeth over to the vanity and helped her wash her hands and face again, this time with soap. She just stared at the reddish-brown water swirling in the basin and disappearing down the drain. Finally, she spoke again. “The smell,” she whispered.

  Will patted her hands dry with a towel. “The smell of the blood?” he managed to ask calmly, without stopping what he was doing.

  Elizabeth nodded.

  “Put your arms up,” Will instructed gently. She obeyed, and he pulled her shirt off, tossing it to the floor. She lowered her arms while he began to unbutton her jeans, yanking the legs to pull them and her underwear down and placing her hand on his shoulder to steady herself as she stepped out of them. “The bath will be warm,” he promised. “You can get completely clean before we head for home.” He held her arm as she stepped in and lowered herself into the water, closing her eyes again, but calmer, relaxing a bit as the heat did its work. She leaned back to wet her hair and Will squeezed some shampoo into her hair and washed it.

  They went through the process of washing up, rinsing her hair, using conditioner, soaping her body until every last hint of the blood was gone. Will kissed her on the forehead, helped her step out of the tub, wrapped her in a towel, sat her on the bed, and bent over to dress her.

  “Will?” she asked shakily, as he pulled her shirt over her head.

  He met her gaze and felt ill. Her eyes had been filled with cheer and happiness not an

  hour before. Now they were dark, lost.

  “Yes, Elizabeth?” he asked, keeping his voice level while crouching in front of her.

  She lowered her head to rest it on his shoulder. “I’m not okay.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elizabeth came back to herself slowly, in fits and starts of breathless anxiety. She’d refused to take Will’s coat again, but didn’t want to go back for hers, so she pulled on a fleece, zipped it up to her chin, and shoved her hands deep in the pockets. When he determined she was warm enough, they’d left the room. Elizabeth insisted on walking to the truck without help, so he carried the bags in one hand and hovered, holding his free hand slightly out, ready to support h
er. This annoyed her no end even though she knew she’d given him reason to worry.

  She felt jumpy, uneasy, at a loss to understand what had happened. One minute she was teasing, handing an unrepentant Adam something for his nose, the next she’d been sucked back to a moment when she found herself in a heap on the floor of a suddenly silent restaurant. Blood and scorch marks scarred the wall near the heavily damaged front door. Thousands of glass shards covered the floor, crunching under her boots as she stood, weight on one good leg. As she rounded the end of the bar, she saw a dozen phones being held up, pointed in every direction. Silver. Pink. Red. Black. She couldn’t see well, couldn’t hear well.

  And there was blood. It was on the floor and walls, but she could smell it on her arms, her hands, her face. It was in her mouth. The shoulder of her t-shirt was soaked in it, her jeans were torn and wet. A warm liquid trickled down her leg from her knee, soaking through her pant leg, filling her boot. She tried to hobble back to the major as her sock squished and the blood welled up between her toes. Despite her hazy vision, she saw the red trails dripping from the major’s arms, his hands, his neck, noticed it staining the collar of his shirt. She’d felt numbness and then the pain as though it was all happening anew.

  She jerked open the passenger door with more force than necessary and hopped into the truck. Distractedly, she swiped at her throbbing knee. She could feel the blood still, like a fly tickling her skin. It’s not real, Bennet, she scolded herself. But it had felt real.

  She glanced over at the wheel, quelling the desperation she felt building. She wanted to drive, needed to be back in control of something, but she didn’t dare ask. The stricken, determined look on Will’s face as he’d tended to her in their room prevented making any such request. Instead, it made her sink farther into herself. I did that to him, she thought. I ruined everything. She felt the rush of cold air on the back of her neck as the driver’s side door opened, a scuffing sound as the bags were tossed in the back seat, the slight rocking of the cab as Will hoisted himself up behind the wheel. The door closed with a solid thunk of metal on metal, and the engine roared to life.

  There was the warm pressure of a hand on her head, stroking her hair. As the truck lumbered towards the road, Will’s hand lifted away, and she shuddered with fatigue and yearning. She tried to sleep. Her body ached for it. But she was afraid to close her eyes.

  Will drove in silence for nearly an hour, but he knew Elizabeth wasn’t sleeping. She was holding herself too rigidly for that. He saw a sign for the city. It’s now or never, Darcy, he told himself seriously.

  “Elizabeth?” he asked quietly.

  Elizabeth didn’t move until he repeated her name with more volume. Slowly she turned to adjust her seat. Once she was sitting up, she turned her face towards him. She didn’t respond but seemed to be waiting for him to continue.

  “Elizabeth,” he repeated a third time, and finally pressed on. “Before I left to meet you in San Francisco.” He cleared his throat. “No, before that. When you sent that song to Richard.” He released a nervous breath.

  There was no response. She didn’t move. But Will suspected she was listening. “You know, I worried about whether I had . . . uh . . . shit.” He took one hand off the wheel to run it through his hair. He rubbed his knuckles roughly against his scalp.

  The curse made Elizabeth’s lips tug up a little. It was a fleeting response, but Will caught it out of the corner of his eye, and it gave him courage.

  “I did a little research on, you know, emotional reactions to trauma.”

  Elizabeth’s forehead creased. “You think I’m crazy.” She worried one cuff of her fleece sweatshirt with both hands.

  “What?” Will asked, shocked by the bluntness of her statement. “No, Elizabeth, I don’t think you’re crazy.”

  “Then what were you researching, Will?”

  “Therapy,” he said emphatically. Forget about being diplomatic. She sees right through me. “I asked Richard if it helped him at all, and he said it did.”

  The furrows in her forehead deepened. “Richard goes to therapy?” she asked, sounding doubtful. “He never said.”

  Will shrugged. “Well, I’m sure he wouldn’t want me broadcasting it, but he’s gone for years. Uncle Terry insisted.”

  “Why?” she asked, her voice stronger but still somehow smaller than normal.

  Will felt the knots in his shoulders ease a bit. He was on firmer ground here. “Because being a Marine is high-stress work, and he wanted to be sure Richard could process it.” He rolled one shoulder, then the other. “He wouldn’t let Richard join up without making him promise to go every week. He only missed it when he was deployed and didn’t have internet access.”

  Elizabeth frowned. “He didn’t want Richard embarrassing him.”

  “Honestly, that was probably part of it. But he also cares about Richard.” He waited for a moment while she kept tugging on her sleeve. Oh, crap. “I know how your mind works, Elizabeth. Stop right now.”

  That surprised her, and she glanced up at him, her face stormy. “Stop what?”

  He shook his head, exasperated. “You mentioned Richard possibly embarrassing Uncle Terry. Now you’re thinking you’ve embarrassed me. Stop it.”

  He caught the shadow passing across her features and knew he’d guessed right. Sympathy will kill her. Try something else. He flailed around for an answer, and an idea popped into his head. “Do you want to mope over what happened,” he blurted out, “or do you want to do something to make it better?”

  The look she gave him was venomous. There it is, he thought, vastly encouraged.

  “And what did you have in mind, Mr. Darcy?” she asked icily.

  “Just meet with Richard’s therapist,” he said carefully. “Richard doesn’t exactly like therapy, but he admitted it helps.”

  For a moment, he thought she’d tease him, ask him what he’d give her if she agreed to go. But the tease never came. She just nodded once. “Okay,” she said flatly.

  Will didn’t waste any time, Elizabeth thought sourly. He hadn’t even driven her home, instead diverting to a gas station and calling Dr. Trainor, Richard’s therapist, before he filled the tank. Wouldn’t even let me put gas in the truck, she groused. Will had only meant to make an appointment but discovered that there’d been a cancellation and the doctor could see her this afternoon. Now he was sitting in the waiting room while she “got to know” the doctor. Pushy. Wraps me in cotton. Can’t stand it.

  Trainor seemed to know what he was doing, she thought grudgingly, but as he smoothly explained his process with clients who had suffered multiple traumas, she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was too . . . something. Too big-city? Too glib? Too sure of himself? She had the sense that she wasn’t really a person to him but a list of interesting problems he wanted her to relive in session. She hated that thought. It was hard enough living through those things once. She felt no desire to hash them out again.

  He’s not just a therapist, he’s a psychiatrist, she thought, reading the degree framed and hanging on the wall. He seems to know his stuff. As she listened to him drone, she caught herself folding her arms across her chest. She unfolded them and deliberately held her hands in her lap. Maybe you’re judging him too fast, she warned herself. Her early days as a Marine had nearly cured her of that tendency, teaching her that it was often the men and women she’d least expected to help who came to her aid in a crisis, in ways both large and small. She’d learned her lesson well. But something here just . . . maybe she should speak to Richard and see what he thought. He must know the guy pretty well after all this time. He didn’t leave. Maybe there’s something more to the doctor than I see. Having to talk to the major about going to therapy made her uncomfortable, but Will’s words stayed with her. Do you want to do something to make it better?

  She didn’t know if this would make it better. But she’d try.

  As the doctor left the room for a minute, she drew her phone out. Her legs were crossed, one
foot twitching, but she took a breath, slowed it down, and texted the major. Be there, be there. The response was quick.

  Bennet! She could almost hear him shouting her name.

  Yep, she typed, alive and kicking.

  Heard. AFCSM is news here.

  Elizabeth grimaced. She ignored the reference to her medal and got to the point. Will says you like Trainor.

  Another lightning response. Eh.

  She cocked her head. Eh?

  Broadway doctor.

  She smiled, feeling justified. Song and dance?

  She could imagine the shrug. He’s okay. Others are worse. You starting?

  Maybe. Not now.

  If not him, keep looking.

  Elizabeth stared at the message. Keep looking. The major had seen a lot more things than she had, she was certain of it. Still, he seemed to take this therapy thing in stride. He wasn’t making fun of her. She felt marginally better. Garcia had made a recommendation months ago. She could call his office. Her face warmed as she thought of her response then. Never say never, Bennet, she thought. You always end up eating it.

  Will might not be embarrassed by her, but she really didn’t want anyone else to know. She was embarrassed for herself. Not that it matters if you’re embarrassed, Bennet, she told herself sternly, thinking about the episode that morning. You can’t let that happen again. She refused to live like that. Her thumb hit one letter.

  K.

  Coming to the apartment? Richard asked.

  She’d rather go home and be mortified in private. Maybe.

  K. Call your sister.

  Nag, she typed, then, K.

  Trainor walked back into the room with some literature for her to read. She slipped her phone back into her pocket and accepted the papers. Together they walked out to the waiting room where Will stood, his expression cautious. His eyes met hers, searching for an answer to an unasked question. He evidently didn’t see it there. He smiled in the right places as the doctor spoke with them, telling them to call his office if Elizabeth wanted to begin working with him, and then they were outside on the sidewalk, a cutting January wind in their faces.