by C Thomas Cox
Lionel rubbed his back again and, after a minute or two, the convulsions begin to slow. "Thank God for my buddies," Paulie said after he regained control over his body. "They pulled me off and hosed me down before it was too late. Unfortunately, the fire god's got me good." He gripped the hem of the loose t-shirt and pulled up, revealing to me a stomach that looked like a raisin on steroids. I did all I could to hold in the bile that was forcing its way up my throat. "And that ain't the worst of it." I began to close my eyes, but he didn't show anymore.
He went back to his rocking. "Paulie self-committed," Annie said. "He knew right away that he couldn't be the father he needed to be until he overcame his trauma, and we were glad to take him in. Though he's only stayed with us for a month, he's made fantastic progress." If this was progress, I thought, I'd hate to see his condition when he checked in.
Annie turned to the remaining gentleman. He sat to my immediate right, and was barely old enough to drink. Although I fondly recall the free-spiritedness that permeated every aspect of my life when I was his age, he obviously didn't feel the same way. With a stiffness that would rival any one of Madame Tussauds' inhabitants, freedom itself seemed to escape him.
"Josh joined us a few months back after being shuttled between mental health facilities throughout the mid-Atlantic." He didn't move. "Though he hasn't spoken since he arrived, he is, apparently, able to speak. I think that, as he realizes he can trust us, he'll become comfortable doing so."
Other than the occasional blink -- and the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed -- I could not perceive any movement of his body whatsoever. However, like haunted house paintings, he did train his eyes on whomever talked.
"Now, on to the newest member of our clan." Annie winked at me. I jerked upright, and I swore a raven flapped its wings inside my chest. I didn't think I would be part of the introductions -- at least not the first time I attended the crazy party.
Chapter Twenty-Four
"I guess my story's pretty similar to Lionel's, in that it all began after I got back from the front lines. My front lines, however, were in Vietnam."
I spent a few minutes racing through my still vivid recollection of my journey through the jungles. Starting with our landing on Nam O Beach, and ending with the landmine that propelled shrapnel into my much younger body, I detailed the horrors of my confrontation with war -- from the looks on the faces of the Vietnam casualties, to the murders of my own buddies.
"I feel for you, man," Lionel said. I was sure he meant it.
"About a month after I returned to the U.S. -- after I started healing from the physical trauma -- I started having nightmares. In every one, I'd be back in the midst of the jungles of 'Nam, surrounded by an eerie silence. In my green fatigues, but without weapon or helmet, I was unable to defend myself. And, unlike my experience in the war, I was alone." I stopped. Without a break, I knew I wouldn’t be able to continue. I hadn't revealed the content of my dreams for nearly forty years.
"Take your time, Jim. No one here's in any hurry."
That was an understatement. Regardless, I needed time to process. Time to bubble up the dreams that I'd tried so hard to shove down. Time to remember that they were only dreams…that they were no more my reality than were the experiences of John Rambo.
I took a deep breath, exhaled for what felt like thirty seconds, and said, "With no one to keep watch, I knew I couldn't evade the Viet Cong who might come after me. I was doomed unless I hid.”
The more of my dream I recalled, the more fear threatened to once again overwhelm me. But I had to continue. I had to prove to Annie -- and to myself -- that fear no longer controlled me. That I did not need to stay at Oak Ridge.
“I dropped to the ground, hoping the frisbee-sized leaves in the surrounding shrubs shielded me from view. But somehow, I just knew that wouldn’t be enough. They’d somehow find me and torture me like the other prisoners of war. They’d serve me one tiny meal a day and shove reeds under my fingernails. I’d suffer until they took my life.”
My eyes were closed. I didn’t recall closing them, but I wasn’t prepared to open them. I didn’t want to see the reactions of those in the room. “What happened next?” Annie whispered.
"As I knelt on the moist soil, I curled into the tightest ball possible, stupidly using my hands to shield my head from artillery fire. I was doomed, and I knew it.
"Suddenly, I heard the rustle of nearby brush. I didn't dare move. I was sure that if I did they'd find me.
"Though I was sure I stayed still, the rustling grew closer and closer until it became intertwined with a single set of footsteps. A set of footsteps that stopped at my side. A set of footsteps that was accompanied by a barely audible voice.
"'Why you kill me?' the man asked with a heavy Vietnamese accent. He buried the muzzle of his gun into the middle of my back. 'You take me from son.'
"'I'm s-sorry,' I pleaded without looking up. Tremors seized control of my body, but I couldn't move otherwise. I didn't know this man -- this ghost -- but I was certain he was right. I probably did kill him. Though I hate to admit it, I killed lots of the Cong. I was honestly sorry for the killing, but it's part of war -- right?
"'I no deserve it,' he said. 'I just try to stop you from taking from me.' He kicked hard against the outside of my ribcage, and I rolled onto my side, doing all I could to keep from screaming. He leaned down, and I could feel his hot breath against my ear. 'Now I take you from your family!'
I felt like I was back in that dream, and I couldn't help panting. "Every time I woke," I said between short breaths, "as soon as the shot rang out."
I felt Annie's petite hand on my shoulder. She gently massaged my tightened muscles, and her tender care gave me the strength to open my eyes. When I did so, a chill -- one that I hadn't felt since I'd been discharged from outpatient psychiatric care years ago -- began in my chest and radiated through every inch of my body. I was lying on my side, curled in a ball, on the floor. My hands covered my head.
Chapter Twenty-Five
"Valium," I whispered to myself. "How I missed you." The ten milligrams Annie gave me before Rollie escorted me back to my room did the trick. Just like it did forty years earlier, Valium allowed me to temporarily recover from the memories of my past that I feared would haunt me unceasingly.
"I just have to ask one last time -- are you sure you're ready for this?" Dr. Mark Hooper had asked as he released me from his psychiatric care decades earlier. I had spent weeks trying to convince him that I no longer needed his assistance to defeat the demons that took shelter in my mind during Vietnam. My nightmares had -- for the most part -- ceased, my drinking turned from abusive to social, and I was once again able to walk down the street without fear that the Viet Cong were waiting around the corner.
"I'll be fine, doc. I swear."
"I know you don't want to spend time here every week...I get that. Like I said, we can start meeting every other week, or even once a month. It's just that I've seen PTSD patients who, thinking they're symptom-free, abandon therapy too early. Then, years later, I hear awful stories. Drinking binges, failed marriages, even suicide. I never want to hear one of those stories about you, Jim."
"I get your concern. I really do. But I'm confident I'll be fine. Besides, I’ve got Claire's support. She's the best thing that's ever happened to me, and I guarantee she'll stand by me no matter what."
He shook my hand, said a few words of encouragement, and walked me to his office door. "Just remember," he said just before I crossed the threshold. "Memories never die."
After leaving the office, I didn't dwell on his final words. In fact, I didn't give them a second thought. But, as I laid in bed and let the Valium course through my bloodstream, I couldn’t help but replay them. After all, he was right. The memories of Vietnam hadn't died at all. They merely lay dormant in the recesses of my mind, waiting for the right time to return to torture me.
This time, however, Oak Ridge was my only support system. At least that's w
hat I thought until I heard a knock at the door. "You sure you'll be alright in there," I heard Rollie ask before he opened the door. Apparently the visitors answered in the affirmative, because in walked the two people who I used to think would stick with me no matter what.
After the door closed, a few moments of silence ensued. During that time, I, while seated in my bed, watched the eyes and faces of Claire and Charlie for any signs of sympathy, empathy, or any other mode of compassion. Instead, pity -- and perhaps even fear -- was the only expression they seemed to convey. With their open mouths and watery eyes, I was sure they saw me as something less than I was. A mere shadow of the man they had previously loved. A burden in lieu of a provider. Subhuman.
"How do you feel?" Claire said as she took a step forward. Charlie moved in unison, prepared to protect her if I dared to make a move toward her.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I said.
She nodded. "I'm sure you don't want to."
"I'm under control...I promise." I looked away from her for a second and whispered, "I'm on Valium." She appeared relieved, and I was certain she recalled the temporary relief the drug was able to provide me in our past. Although I didn't want her to think my condition required medication, it was the one way I knew I could reassure her.
"I-I'm sorry it had to come to this, Jim." She turned her head away, and her gray, permed hair bounced slightly. Just enough to make me long to run my fingers through it...to once again hold her close. To forgive her for sending me away...and for spending too much time with Gene.
Although the wear on her once smooth skin obscured her previously radiant external beauty, inside I was sure she was still the woman who I fell for back in Vietnam. The woman who put the needs of everyone else before her own. The woman who only sent me to Oak Ridge as a last resort...as the one way she felt she could protect herself -- and me. After the episode I suffered during group therapy, I began to understand her fear. She believed that I was transforming back into the man I once was. The man who threw a chair across the room after self-medicating at the bar.
I stood up and stepped toward her. I placed my hands on her shoulders, and she trembled. She didn't back away, though. Charlie watched intently, but he didn't say a word.
"I understand how you feel," I said. A stray tear wandered over the peaks and valleys of her cheek. "It's different this time, though. I swear. Sure, I've had a few reminders of my Army years. But they're just reminders of a time long ago. They aren't going to change who I am now."
"I want to believe you, Jimmy. With all my heart, I do. But I how else can I explain what happened to Scout?"
"Charlie," I said, hoping my son could throw me a ring buoy that would keep my marriage afloat. "Did you do what I asked?"
He nodded. "I spent nearly an hour pacing the driveway. With a flashlight shining on the pavement, I combed every inch." I watched his face for a sign that he found the fractured headlight bulb or housing. Instead, I found regret. "I wanted to find it, dad. More than anything, I wanted to find evidence...to find proof that you didn't hurt Scout."
I sighed and collapsed onto my bed. I covered my face with my hands, and I was no longer able to hold back my tears. "I didn't..." I started to say. But it was no use. I knew that no matter what I said, Claire and Charlie wouldn't believe me.
Perhaps they were right...maybe a stay at Oak Ridge would do me some good. Maybe Annie and the rest could help reduce the number and intensity of my episodes. But I didn't kill Scout.
"I'm sorry, dad. I really am." Charlie laid his hand on my forearm. "I love you no matter what. And I really think staying here is best for you. It's the only way you'll get better. And I bet that, by Christmastime, you'll be home and back to yourself." I put my hand on his and forced a grin.
"It's what's best," Claire said. "For all of us."
"I love you both," I said as they made their way out the door. Although I understood their perspective, they were wrong. And while I was locked up, someone even crazier than me was on the loose. I was surprised that Half-Ear had not yet come after Claire -- perhaps he kept away while Charlie was staying with her -- but I was sure it was just a matter of time before he attempted to cause her harm. I had to protect her, no matter the cost.
Chapter Twenty-Six
"You feel okay?" Annie asked as she settled into the chair next to my bed. I was shocked that security wasn’t protecting her from me.
"Yep, much better." I didn't want to tell her about the pain that my visit with Claire and Charlie had induced.
She opened a manila folder with my name at the top and smiled broadly. "Glad to hear it. Seemed like you had a rough go this morning."
She paused, as any good therapist would, to let me fill in the blanks. When I didn't respond -- I didn't want to say anything that would make her think I was less mentally stable than she already assumed -- she continued. "I heard your wife and son stopped by." Again, a pause.
"Yep, we had a nice visit."
"Excellent," she said. "Well, since you've already had an eventful day, I'm going to forego your individual counseling. We'll pick it up tomorrow." She leaned closer. "Unless, of course, you have anything you'd like to discuss."
"Nope, I think I'm good. Thanks."
"See you in the morning."
As she got up to leave, an idea that'd been swirling inside my head caused me to say, "Would you mind asking one of the mental health workers to bring me a few books to read? It can get awfully boring in here."
She chuckled. "Sure thing. I'll ask Thomas to stop by as soon as he gets a chance."
With that she walked out the door. Just the guy I want to see, I thought.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
"I brought in four," Thomas said when he set the paperbacks on my table. "One each of fantasy, mystery, suspense, and Southern Gothic. Personally, I can't help but read a good suspense novel or thriller that I can't put down." Noticeably absent were any novels set during a military conflict. I was glad.
"Thanks. Nothing like a good book to take your mind off things."
He sat down and opened his mouth, but it took him several seconds to speak. "I was...I was going to ask what happened after the guy drove away from the baseball field. But--" He paused and put his hand on my shoulder. "But I understand if you don't want to talk about it."
"Far from it," I said. I straightened my spine and pinched my shoulder blades together. "I need to get my story out, Thomas. I now feel it's the only way I can heal." I took his hand from my shoulder and cradled it between mine. "And you’re the one I feel most comfortable telling."
I released his hand, and he grinned like a shy school boy who just received a compliment from a teacher he was trying to impress. "The day after the incident at the ball field, I was cruising around town when I spotted him." I decided to skip a detailed recap of my episodes -- as they'd do nothing but cause him to question the remainder of my tale. "He was following my truck like a cop trails a speeder, and I couldn't shake him. As I accelerated, he accelerated. As I turned, he turned."
Thomas's eyes opened as wide as a blue whale jolted awake by a fisherman's motor. "It was terrible, Thomas. Just terrible."
"How'd you shake him?"
"He eventually just stopped following. Looking back at it, I think he knew what he was going to do next. The chase, after all, wasn't his end game." The suspense seemed to drive his interest, so I left him hanging as often as I could.
"What was it?" he asked. "What'd he do next?"
I looked at the ceiling, as if waiting for God to give me an instant replay of the exact scene. After counting to twenty in my head, I looked back at Thomas. "I don't know how he did it, but he tracked me back to my house." I then spent the next five minutes providing him a play-by-play of the exact events of that afternoon. I didn't leave out anything that Half-Ear did to me. In fact, I may have even embellished a little bit. But fabricating that Half-Ear lobbed a few vulgar words in my direction, or that he threatened to kill me, didn't hurt Thomas. It merely
reinforced my ultimate point.
"He may have triggered a few episodes," I said, wrapping things up. "But those episodes are unrelated to the very real threat he poses to me -- and especially to my wife." I was able to coerce a tear from my eye. As it rolled down my cheek, Thomas's eyes began to water.
"Did you tell anyone about him -- about how dangerous he is?" he asked.
Though I didn't want to answer this question, I anticipated it. Therefore, I was ready. "I didn't have a chance. Everyone's been so focused on getting me help for the few episodes I've experienced, no one's let me explain everything that happened."
"Oh, wow." He looked dumbstruck. Though I hated to exploit his naiveté, I needed to do so. Claire's life was at risk. The goal of stopping Half-Ear overrode my guilt.
"I think...I need to get someone in here," he said, leaping to his feet. "Let me grab Angela. Or maybe Dr. Spangler. You need to tell someone else what he's gonna do." His hands quivered as though the thermostat was set to twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit.
I forced a calming smile and held up my hands. "Hold on there, son. Let's not get too carried away. How about we think this through before deciding on a course of action?"
"But--but," he stuttered.
"No buts, Thomas. Let's sit down like reasonable men and determine the best way to keep my Claire safe." Although I more anxious than Thomas to protect her, I couldn't let him sense my agitation. He needed to see that I was just as sober and level-headed as he...maybe even more.
He nodded and dropped back into the chair. "Okay, okay. So what should we do?" He tapped the tips of his fingers against the chair's arm in a continual procession -- from pinkie to ring to middle to index. And then he started back over at pinkie. He wasn't helping me stay calm.