by Meg Lelvis
Terri kissed his cheek. “I’m speechless.”
He turned, gazed into those seductive eyes, smiled. “Good.”
She spoke slowly. “I don’t want to dampen the afterglow but,” she paused. “Who is Karen?”
“Christ, I’m sorry.” He didn’t remember talking at all. Just feeling his soul emerge after a decade. Terri deserved an answer. “My first love, years ago. It’s okay.”
She twirled her fingers around his chest hair. “I don’t recall sleeping with a cop, Lieutenant.”
He nibbled her ear. “Call me Jack.”
Chapter 25
Two hours later, Jack sped down I-10 headed for his appointment with Dr. Clemons. He gripped the steering wheel, his heart banged against his chest. What the hell just happened with Terri? Damn, sure was exciting. Not only the sex, but afterwards; bantering, laughing, Terri making BLT’s in the kitchen, sitting at the table drinking Merlot with lunch. Very domestic, natural fit.
Now he felt distanced from their encounter, like an out-of-body experience or whatever it was called. He couldn’t believe his fantasy about her had come true. The contours of his life had shifted, nothing would be the same. He was on another playing field now and didn’t know the rules.
A blaring horn pierced his thoughts as a green pick up whizzed past him, the driver yelling and shaking his fist at Jack as he tried to pass on the left. Crap, hadn’t seen the asshole coming. He warned himself to concentrate.
All kinds of shit could happen as a consequence of this morning. He could lose his job, not to mention his self-respect. No one to blame but himself. The minute he inhaled the lilac aroma, he saw it coming. Now his corner of the world started falling apart, crashing around him. What were those words again? …the falcon cannot hear the falconer. Things fall apart, the center cannot hold... God, what had he done?
He struggled to make sense of it. Why did he feel he betrayed Karen? She wanted him to find joy and peace in his life. If anything ever happens to me, Jack, I want you to find someone to love. For you and Elizabeth. Yeah, except he lost both his wife and child.
He wondered if he should tell Clemons about this morning. Probably should. Weary of the battle in his psyche, he willed himself to halt the guilt trip. Give himself a break. Hand his life over to Clemons. God knows, the guy charges enough for it.
Jack blinked his way back into the here and now, slowed down, and eased onto the Memorial City exit past the mammoth hospital complex. He parked in the same area as last week. The sun blistered the parking lot; waves of heat oppressed Jack as he made his way to Clemons’s office across the street. He mopped his forehead when he entered the building, checked his image in the men’s room, and three minutes later signed in for his appointment.
“Hello, Mr. Bailey, how are you?” Joan Ford wore a similar classic dark suit as last time. She smiled pleasantly and offered Jack a drink of water.
“Yes, thanks.” His mouth felt like sawdust.
Ms. Ford stood and walked across her work area to a table where she poured Jack’s glass of ice water. She seemed the kind of woman people easily overlook, one who moves silently and apologetically through the world. Wonder if she’s a former patient of the doc’s.
Jack took the glass and sat in a brown leather chair. He checked his cell for email and messages. Nothing crucial, not that he was expecting anything. He thought maybe he’d hear from Terri, but she was no doubt smart enough not to call or text him. Probably wasn’t the wisest decision to give her his cell number, but what the hell. Too late now. He should tell Clemons about Terri; he hadn’t mentioned her last time, but she affected his life. His therapy was compromised if he wasn’t forthcoming.
Jack read through several emails before Dr. Clemons appeared at the door.
“Hello, Jack, come on in.” The doc held out his hand and gave Jack a firm shake. He wore a white shirt, red tie, and charcoal pants. His black shoes grinned with polish.
“Dr. Clemons,” Jack said.
“Please, it’s Joel.” He led the way down the hall into his office.
Jack noticed a plaque on the wall near the door with Clemons’s name and an outline of a chaise lounge. Engraved were the words, Golden Couch Award, 2006.
Jack snickered. “Is that for real?”
“Afraid so.”
Jack had no response and settled into the same tan leather sofa as last time. He set his glass on a coaster atop the massive coffee table. Clemons reached for a water glass on his desk and eased himself into an adjoining chair. “How has your week been, Jack?”
“Actually, the nightmares are a little better. Only had a couple. Is it the pills you gave me or the talking I did last week?”
“Probably a little of both. It may take the Zoloft a couple more weeks to kick in. Do you feel your anxiety and concentration have improved?
Jack wet his lips and looked to the side. “Hard to say. Maybe a little.”
Clemons nodded. “I know it’s difficult to determine after only a week. As you know, this takes time, tiresome as it sounds.”
“Yeah, I know.” Jack shrugged. “I suppose you want to hear more about my past.”
“Is there something you’d like to tell me?”
Jack crossed his legs and sighed. “I think I should.” He paused. “Last week I told you about Karen and how I never thought I’d be interested in anyone again.”
Clemons listened, nodding now and then, while Jack explained his initial meeting with Terri and the events leading to this morning. He spoke of his conflicted emotions and fear of losing control of his life.
“The timing of this relationship is difficult, Jack. You know I won’t tell you what to do, what’s right or wrong, ethical or not.” Clemons took a drink of water. “I want to help you to address the events causing your anxiety, depression and other PTSD symptoms. We have a lot to cover. After all, it’s taken ten years for everything to build up. We need to focus on your issues first and then address your relationship with Terri.”
Jack shrugged. “Yeah, I figured that would be the case.”
“Dr. Nathan may have mentioned what I’m about to explain to you. It’s something we’re going to explore together in the coming weeks. Jack, this method is called prolonged exposure therapy; it’s been very effective in treating PTSD patients. Its main premise is to reduce the power your trauma has over your life. Basically, you return to the tragic event in safe surroundings. We don’t know for sure what this does to the psyche, why it works, but by talking through the trauma, it releases its grip on you.”
Jack squirmed and shifted position. “Oh god, I don’t know, doc. I don’t want to go back—” He let the words trail off.
“I know, Jack. It’s a scary thought, and most patients balk at the idea. But we’ll approach it gradually and you will build up trust that you’ll be safe in the process.”
Clemons discussed the importance of Jack reliving the experience in order to gain control over his feelings about it, not to be afraid of the memories, realizing the past cannot change, but one’s reactions can. The goal is to not let his memories control his life anymore, but to take control himself, which ultimately instills confidence and a sense of mastery, as well as easing the guilt which may be a result of the trauma.
“I know this is a lot of information to process, Jack. Take a minute, see if you have questions.”
Jack gulped his water. “How long will this theapy last?”
“Everyone’s different in their progression, but I’d guess around two to three months.”
Jack shook his head. “I’ll tell ya, Joel, I was hoping for less time than that, but like you said, it took ten years to get this way. Guess there aren’t any short cuts.”
<
br /> Clemons smiled. “True. We’re not going to dive right in. Today, I’d like to hear more about your family and your growing up years, your career years. We’ll gradually lead up to ten years ago.”
“Whew, gotta admit I’m relieved. That’ll be easier than facing—” He stopped.
“I know, Jack.” Clemons paused. “What part of Chicago are you from?”
Jack spoke about Bridgeport in south Chicago where he was born and raised, how the town developed as an Irish enclave in the 1800’s, along with a sizable Polish population and other European ethnic groups. His great grandparents had emigrated from near Belfast in the 1880’s, and settled in Bridgeport to join relatives who escaped the potato famine. Jack lived in the same working class area, and today many Bailey relatives still reside in town.
Clemons nodded, appearing to listen intently.
Jack gulped his water. “In fact, my grandpa used to brag about being pals with the first Mayor Daley. Both mayors grew up in Bridgeport, and Gramps told stories about him and Daley in the same
Irish gang and getting into trouble. Of course gangs then weren’t like they are now, but they had designated territories.”
“Sounds like an interesting childhood.”
Jack shrugged. “I always liked hearing stories about family and Bridgeport. I would’ve majored in history, but ended up following my old man’s footsteps. Me and my brothers, Tom and Jim, all became cops. An uncle and cousins, all cops. Once I made detective I liked it okay, the challenge of figuring motivation. Seeing the seamy side of life never got to me like it did some.”
Clemons crossed his arms and smiled. “Did you ever think about going back for that history degree?”
“Yeah, later on. None of us older kids went to college, the old man was a cop, and blue collar people like us didn’t go to four-year schools. My folks knew the value of education, and if we’d been brilliant students they would’ve pushed scholarships. My sister and youngest brother are the only ones who did the college route.”
“How did you feel about that?”
“It’s fine. Jenny and Mike worked hard in school, made mostly A’s, so they got financial aid. I wasn’t a serious student, horsed around, the usual teenage crap. But my old man kept us in line. He drank, but didn’t get mean till later years.” Jack paused. “You know, Doc, he could’ve benefited from this exposure stuff. If anybody had PTSD, he sure did.”
Clemons straightened and looked him in the eye. “What makes you say that, Jack?”
“Oh God, the nightmares. He was tightly wound, jittery as hell. He’d yell at us to shut up, and Ma would try and shush us, claim he had another bad night. Signed up for the war in ‘42. They’d just gotten married, she didn’t want him to go, but he was determined to do his duty, fight those goddamn Japs and Krauts as my grandpa used to say.
“Did your father talk about the war?”
“No, and we weren’t supposed to ask. I found out some things from an aunt and uncle, like his time in Italy and France. He was in the 7th Army, and toward the end invaded Germany.” Jack cleared his throat. “I think what really ate him up was liberating Dachau, the horrors there. I heard about boxcars full of bodies outside the camp, our soldiers crying, barfing. But looking back, Pa carried a lot of guilt about Americans killing off any German they saw, and he was probably a part of it, don’t know.”
Clemons shook his head. “A whole generation of men coped with the after effects of both world wars. Back then they called it shell-shock. I agree, Jack, your father suffered from PTSD and could’ve benefited from what we know today.”
Jack’s chuckle was bitter. “So you see, Doc, it runs in the family. Only difference is I wasn’t in the military. I thought I lived in peace time, but didn’t turn out that way.” He stared at his shoes. “For the millionth time, I should’ve listened to the warnings, but—” Jack wiped his brow and took a deep breath. The urge to run out of the office enveloped him. He started to rise. Felt dizzy.
Chapter 26
“Seems you could use a break, Jack. You’ve done well today. I’d like you to consider coming in twice a week. It will help the progression of the therapy.”
Jack uncrossed his legs and stood. “Okay, I’ll see what I can come up with. I’ll be honest with ya, Doc. Right now I just wanna get the hell out of here.”
Clemons stood and turned toward the door. “That’s understandable, Jack. Let Joan know when you can come in, and I’ll see you next time. Again, good job.” He smiled and shook Jack’s hand.
When he reached Joan’s desk, Jack told her he’d check his schedule and call her about his next appointment. Right now all he wanted was to head home and sink into his chair with a shot of Jamesons.
. . . . .
Twenty minutes later, he exited onto Grand Parkway and realized he wasn’t tempted to take the road to Terri’s house. His brain was overloaded with memories that surfaced during the shrink session.
He never connected his old man’s drinking and anger with PTSD. Many American soldiers did stuff they weren’t proud of. Rumors abounded that our boys executed innocent Wehrmacht and Hungarian soldiers brought into the camp at the end. Wouldn’t be a surprise if John T. Bailey had joined in the murders, but hell, he was twenty-three years old, caught up in a world with blurred boundaries.
Who could blame any of them?
. . . . .
Jack drove up his driveway, and welcomed the sound of Boone’s howling. Once Jack was inside, the big dog jumped and danced around, racing for the side yard to relieve himself. Jack called him in, poured fresh water into the dog bowl, and grabbed a shot glass, a fifth of Jamesons, a bag of Fritos, and headed for the recliner.
His cell buzzed as he was downing the first shot. “Crap, can’t I drink in peace?” He checked the screen and clicked on, still speaker mode.
“Bailey.” Came out like a growl.
“Jack, Tilford. Hope I’m not interrupting your happy hour.” Jack visualized the man’s oily grin.
“What do ya want, Tilford?”
“Old lady in Kaplan’s neighborhood called, remembered something from the night he was offed. Said she let her cat out and heard a shot and thinks she saw a person.”
“It’s been over two weeks. Suddenly, she remembers more?” Jack poured another shot.
“Yeah. Wants someone to go to her place and talk, doesn’t wanna come to the station.”
“So why aren’t you over there?” Could Tilford be a bigger pain in the ass?
“I’m in the middle of a possible drug bust. Thought you’d wanna handle it, Jack.”
Bullshit, too lazy to do the job himself. “Get Moose or Hector to go over.” He reminded himself not to let Tilford get under his skin. “Or Williams if they’re busy. But do it now before the old bag loses her memory for another two weeks.”
Jack resisted the temptation to shut off the damn cell, opened the bag of Fritos, clicked on the BBC news, and knocked back his second shot. He didn’t put much stock in the old lady’s statement. Remembered Moose interviewed her, and she ended up yakking about her cat.
After the news, he changed into baggy shorts, a rumpled t-shirt, and checked out the fridge.
Nothing but cobwebs and a six pack of Sam Adams. The chiming of the doorbell pierced Jack’s thoughts. Shit, probably that pest, Baumgartner.
He squinted through the peephole and opened the door to his housekeeper holding a plate covered with foil. “Mr. Bailey, you’re home.”
“You should be a detective, Baumgartner.” Jack eyed the plate.
“I know your refrigerator is empty, so I brought this leftover pot roast.” Her rosy cheeks puffed out as she grinned. “It’s
all ready to microwave. You know to—”
“Yeah, yeah, take off the foil and cover it with a paper towel.” He was hungry, and admitted the food would go well with a beer or two.
“Did you hear it’s supposed to rain tomorrow? Finally, after all these weeks.”
“Yeah. Thanks, Baumgartner.” Jack took the plate and started to close the door.
“Wait. I read in the paper they’re still looking for the person who killed that young man a couple weeks ago. Anything you can tell me, Mr. Bailey?” She straightened her pink flowered skirt.
“You know I can’t talk about an ongoing investigation.” Jack paused. “Much as I’d like to, of course.”
“Just thought this one time.” Baumgartner sighed. “Such a nice young man it seemed.”
“Don’t believe everything you read in the papers. Good night and thanks for the dinner.” He closed the door before she could respond.
After dinner, Jack thought he should call his mother, but powered up his Kindle instead. His mind wandered from his book into the past. He wasn’t sure he could face what happened ten years ago, reliving the disaster. The therapy Clemons proposed made a modicum of sense, but Jack didn’t buy it one hundred per cent yet.
He thought about Terri. She’d be at work now. Wonder what she’d do if he walked in looking for her. No, wait a couple days before calling her. Definitely wanted to see her again, in spite of risking a demotion. He could trust Moose, Hector, and Denise, but not until necessary. A lot of cops had women on the side, not that Jack agreed with it. At least he wasn’t married, nor was Terri.
. . . . .
During the night, rain pattered softly and then battered the rooftops. Thunder rumbled. Boone whimpered and headed for the closet, his safe place. As the storm crescendoed, Jack rolled over and pulled up the sheet. His father tramping down a dusty road, trees lining the sides, Jack calling.