Trauma, page 5
He supposed he had a third choice. Abington put the weapon to his temple, closed his eyes, and conjured up Janine’s beautiful face. They had had happy times; he tried to focus on those.
“I’m sorry, baby girl,” Abington muttered, thinking of his daughter Olivia. “I let you down, sweetie. I let you down so bad.”
Abington pressed the barrel of the Glock hard against his skin and squeezed the trigger ever so slightly. Ironic: with all the bullets flying around him in Afghanistan, this would be the one and only time he’d be shot. Abington took a breath. The squeal of sirens seemed to be coming from all directions.
Can they even identify me? Will they let Mom know I’m dead?
A screech of tires in front of him caused Abington to open his eyes. A windowless cargo van had pulled up, and before it came to a complete stop, a clean-shaven man with short-cropped hair jumped out the passenger-side door. He wore a tailored blue suit and approached with hurried steps. The sirens got louder.
“You don’t need to do that, Steve,” he said. “You made a bad choice here, but we can help. Just get in the van.”
As if on cue, the van’s rear double doors swung open, inviting Abington to step inside. Abington hesitated.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Two seconds, Steve. We’ve been watching you, and we can help you, but you’ve got to move, soldier. Now!”
Abington’s training kicked in, making it difficult to ignore the command. He dashed to the back of the van, where two arms reached out from the darkness and hauled him inside. At the same instant, the van pulled away from the curb with another screech of tires and made a quick U-turn. The back doors slammed shut, leaving only slivers of dim light. Steve could not get a clear view of the interior, or the person who had helped him aboard.
The van straightened out and drove away from the scene at a measured pace meant to appear inconspicuous. He could still hear sirens, but they were heading in the opposite direction. The interior lights came on, but Abington could not comprehend what he was seeing.
The back of the van was crowded with medical equipment: a stretcher and an IV stand with fluid bags attached, as if this were the rear of an ambulance. The man who had helped him inside wore a surgical mask, head covering, and blue latex gloves. His gray eyes were expressionless.
“Welcome, Steve,” the man said from behind his mask. “We’ve been looking forward to having you.”
Steve looked down at the man’s gloved hands and saw a needle and syringe. Fast as a cobra strike, the man sank a two-inch needle deep into Steve’s neck and depressed the plunger.
A warm feeling swept through Steve’s body. He felt light-headed, a bit dizzy, but also at peace. Finally at peace.
CHAPTER 8
The town of Hopkinton, Massachusetts, was known—if at all—as the official starting place of the Boston Marathon, but to Carrie it was simply home. The four-bedroom Victorian house where she grew up, with its many gabled windows, wraparound porch, and verdant gardens, was still lovingly maintained by Carrie’s parents, Howard and Irene, who were now in their sixties and showed no signs of slowing down. Howard Bryant continued to work at Mass General Hospital, and Irene had gone back to school to become a speech pathologist, which had led to her current job at a nearby nursing facility.
Carrie’s visits were limited mostly to holidays, an occasional birthday dinner, and of course Marathon weekend, which had turned into a homecoming of sorts for many of her childhood friends. Aside from Facebook, Carrie did not see these buddies on a regular basis, though when they did get together the night always ended with a promise to do it more often.
Carrie drove her beat-up Subaru down the long driveway. In a few more weeks the tiger lilies would start to sprout and the rest of her mother’s gardens would come alive, but right now the desolate landscape was brown and barren in a way that matched Carrie’s mood. She parked in front of the basketball hoop, next to her mother’s Volvo, in the pullout to the right of the detached two-car garage, mindful not to block her father in.
She stepped out into a chilly afternoon. Spring might have officially arrived, but winter did not seem ready to let go its icy grasp. One of the garage doors was open, and Led Zeppelin blasted from within the darkness. Adam must be in there working on his car, as always; the music was probably coming from the boom box she’d bought to welcome him home.
Adam, who’d aced AP biology and gravitated toward STEM subjects, was expected to extend the streak of Bryant doctors that included two of Carrie’s grandparents, but to everyone’s surprise he’d enlisted in the army right after high school. Adam’s commitment to the military had ended years ago, but in his mind, the war raged on.
Wearing jeans and a fleece jacket over a blue V-neck sweater from Macy’s, Carrie wandered into the doorway of the garage, feeling strange not to be dressed in scrubs or sweats. Her brother was bent over the Camaro’s open hood, which looked like it was swallowing him. He wiped engine grime from his hands on his already soiled jeans, and only when Carrie cleared her throat did he pull his head out to look her way.
Adam’s face lit up. “Hey, sweetie!” He approached with his arms open wide. “What brings you out here?” Before they hugged, Adam realized he was covered in filth, so he opted for a quick peck on her cheek. “It’s good to see you.”
Carrie looked at her brother’s drawn face and hollow cheeks and tried not to let her worry show. The old Adam was in there somewhere. If she closed her eyes, Carrie could still picture the handsome, sharp-eyed boy she’d looked out for back in high school. He still had his wry smile, but the glint in his eyes and that playful cocky attitude were gone.
Adam had cut his hair short again, a throwback to his army days, and had a whisper of a mustache that was new as well. Carrie did not love the look, but Adam was doing a lot of experimenting, perhaps searching for an outside transformation to make him feel whole inside. The rest of him looked the same. He had a narrow, lean build coupled with a muscular chest, arms, and legs. His pallid complexion called attention to his dark and sunken eyes, reminding Carrie of the drug addicts she used to operate on at BCH.
Used to.
How could it be over? The thought of never operating again stretched a band around her chest so tight Carrie thought she might stop breathing. She was utterly lost, completely bewildered, and had never been closer to understanding how Adam must feel.
“Mom and Dad didn’t tell me you were coming,” Adam said.
The garage looked exactly as Carrie had expected, a tale of two personalities. Dad’s side, with his beloved BMW 325i, was neat and ordered, just like Howard Bryant. Freestanding shelves kept clutter to a minimum; beloved tools were carefully organized on several wood pegboards. Adam’s side was like a teenager’s bedroom. Tools were scattered everywhere, and the workbench and shelves were covered in oily rags, greasy papers, and indiscriminate mounds of car parts.
“Mom and Dad don’t know I’m coming,” Carrie said.
Adam gave Carrie a conspiratorial look. “Everything all right?”
Carrie nodded her head vigorously and tightened her lips. “Yeah, it’s fine.” Change the subject. Prevent the waterworks. “Hey, the car is looking really good.”
Adam’s answer was to stand a little taller. His mouth crested upward as he turned to face the Camaro. He set his hands on his hips and paused to relish his accomplishment. “It’s coming along, huh?”
The Camaro had shown up six weeks after Adam left his warrior transition unit, WTC in military parlance, without any definitive cure. He reentered civilian life directionless, with empty, fidgety hands. Fixing up a car that reminded him of his carefree high school days seemed like a good idea, though their parents were not as certain when they saw the mound of scrap towed to their garage. The car sat untouched for a long while, until one day when Adam’s inspiration inexplicably kicked in. Now that the body was fixed up and a fresh coat of red paint had been applied, it looked truly special. If only Adam could be fixed up with some elbow grease and determination.
The WTC had begun as an army unit, but a deluge of wounded warriors from two wars had necessitated a rapid expansion. War recovery had become a major cost for the military’s budget, and now close to forty of these transition units were fanned out across the country, helping soldiers to heal. Still, they couldn’t guarantee Adam would leave his program with a cure. Four years and four different therapists later, Adam had his Camaro and not much else.
“Want to hear it purr?” Adam asked.
Carrie gave Adam two wiggly thumbs up. Anything for her beloved brother. Adam got settled behind the wheel and caressed the dash as if it were a stallion he needed to calm before mounting. He put the key in the ignition and gave it a turn. The engine sputtered, but then it just started to click. A series of loud clicks like the countdown of a bomb.
Click-click-click …
He turned the key again.
Click-click-click …
Adam’s forehead wrinkled in a scowl. Darkness radiated from him as he slammed his fists against the steering wheel and yelled, “FUCK!” so loud Carrie flinched. His inner storm flared and he continued to pound the car with his fists—the seat, the steering wheel, the dashboard. Adam flung open the car door and stumbled out with a look of madness. His face was red with rage.
Adam scrounged on the ground and came up holding a large, rusty wrench.
“No, Adam! No!”
There was no stopping him. Adam brought the wrench down on the side mirror, snapping it clean off with a single strike and sending it to the concrete floor with a clatter. Next he went after the passenger window, shattering it before falling to his knees, breathing hard, spent from his tirade.
Carrie knelt beside him, blanketing him in her arms. She rocked him as he wept, his body shaking.
“I’m sorry, I just—lost it. I’m sorry, Carrie—I don’t know why I got so angry. I … I just snapped.”
“It’s okay. It’s okay, Adam,” Carrie said. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry for everything you’re going through.”
Carrie held her brother while he wept. She did not see or hear her father enter the garage, but when she turned he was there.
For his age, Howard Bryant was exceedingly thin, almost rubbery, with long arms and legs that Carrie was fortunate to have inherited. He wore khakis and his trademark plaid shirt with a sweater vest. Just the sight of him filled Carrie with relief.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Howard said from the entrance to the garage. His voice came out raspy, a little aged, but it was soothing in a way only a daddy could speak to a daughter. Carrie held on to Adam; she was not ready to let go, and he still needed her. Howard looked worried, but unsurprised.
“Come on in the house when you’re ready,” Howard said. “Your mother’s made soup. I’ll heat you up a bowl.”
CHAPTER 9
David Hoffman, eyes still closed, stretched out on his futon and sent the stack of papers at his feet fluttering to the hardwood floor. His orange tabby Bosra perched placidly on his chest, undisturbed by the movement. David waited a few seconds, enjoying the special peace of an afternoon nap. Before he drifted back to sleep, David opened his eyes and checked the time on his phone. It was deadline day, which meant Anneke would be calling. He was fine with blowing her off again, but he could not sound half asleep while doing it.
Something about lying on that futon, especially when the fabric was warm from the sun, was like mainlining melatonin. The report he’d been reading was of no help, either. While the Institute of American Medicine was an upstanding organization, their take on PTSD in the military was all jargon and imperiousness. Forty-eight bucks down the drain; Anneke would not be pleased. David could have written in a paragraph what the IAM took sixty pages to convey. Good on you, DOD and VA, for trying to fix this mess. Bad on you, because PTSD in the military is getting worse, and you have no ability to track the outcomes.
David turned his head toward the window and the view, unobstructed by the greenery that would develop with spring. The apartment, though small, felt roomy, and an obtrusive tree branch was a fine tradeoff for cheap rent in Porter Square.
Bosra meowed, and David responded with a gentle scratch between his ears. The cat, a rescue, was named after ancient ruins in Syria. The name reminded David of one of many spectacular sites he had visited as a journalist, and an aspect of his career he missed. Having spent the majority of his professional life chasing political strife, David had become addicted to the rush. Nothing could match the intensity of covering an angry mob, of documenting people’s most visceral passion for freedom and security. For someone who’d smoked marijuana only a couple of times and who was rendered tipsy by a single scotch, political upheaval was a different sort of drug, and David missed the high. While some of David’s classmates from Columbia embedded with a military unit only to up their profile with a newspaper or network, David honestly enjoyed dangerous assignments, though he preferred politics to platoons.
A knock on the door pushed David to get up. Meowing in protest, Bosra leapt off David’s chest and landed noiselessly on the hardwood floor. David ambled over to his front door. “Who is it?” he called, knowing full well.
“David, it’s Emma.”
David opened the door, grinning. He suspected his bushy brown hair was standing up like a Chia pet, and he was dressed abysmally in gray sweats and a blue T-shirt, but he was uninhibited with Emma. She had started out as his landlord, became his friend, and then briefly his lover, until both decided that friends was where they belonged. Now he loved her in a way that would have been difficult had they still been dating. Emma was holding Gabby, a delightful four-year-old, in her arms. Gabby had cheeks to cause a chipmunk envy and two animated, big brown eyes. Her shoulder-length blond hair was tied into pigtails. Gabby’s whole body squirmed excitedly when she saw David.
“Hi, Uncle David!”
David warmed every time she called him that. Emma handed Gabby to him and the little girl squealed and kicked as David tickled under her chin. Whenever Gabby laughed, a sweet high-pitched chuckle, the world stopped turning.
“Who’s gotten so much bigger since the last time I saw you?” He could not resist speaking to her in a high-pitched voice.
“David, you ate breakfast with us this morning.”
“Kids develop quickly these days.”
“Can I play with the toys?” Gabby whirled her legs instead of asking to be put down.
“You know the spot,” David said.
Soon as he set her on the floor, Gabby bounded over to a corner featuring a play mat and a bunch of toys—blocks, Thomas trains, and enough plastic animals to re-create the San Diego Zoo in miniature. Emma did not remove her own brown tweed coat and wool hat, which let David know she would not be staying.
“She sure does like coming up here.”
“And I like having her here,” David said.
Emma got a wistful look as she watched Gabby playing with the toys.
“No offense,” she said, in a quiet, almost conspiratorial tone, “but it would be nice if once in a while she got to visit with her father instead of her surrogate dad.”
“None taken,” David said. “And it would be nice if her father hadn’t moved to California for work.” David put air quotes around the word “work,” in this case a euphemism for “girlfriend”—the real reason Emma’s ex had left them.
“He Skypes with her, just so you know,” Emma said. Emma could not resist the compulsion to defend the father of her only child.
David squeezed Emma’s hand. “I’m sure he loves her,” David said.
Emma and The Ex owned a yellow clapboard two-family home within walking distance of some of the best shopping in Cambridge. They lived on the ground floor, and David rented the apartment above. The Ex had moved out three months after David moved in, and Emma turned to her new upstairs tenant as a lifeline.
With long strawberry blond hair, high cheekbones, and a full, sensuous mouth, Emma O’Donnell was by anybody’s measure a stunning woman. But David was not all about looks, and they knew after a month of romance that the chemistry was not there.
“Could you watch her for an hour while I run to the market?”
“Nothing in life would bring me more joy,” David said.
Emma looked at him with suspicion. “Really, is it inconvenient?”
David’s grin only broadened. “Your needs are my needs, darling. Just pick me up something for dinner. Preferably a food item that won’t make me gassy.”
At thirty-two, David was still tall and lean, close to his high school weight, and could eat just about anything, to the dismay of his many envious friends.
“Too bad,” Emma said. “We’re having burritos.”
David turned Emma around and gave her a playful nudge out. “Gabby and I are going to work on our Middle Eastern geography while you’re gone. Prepare to retrieve a genius upon return.”
Gabby overheard her name and came running.
“Can we look at the pictures, Uncle David?”
“Look, she’s already a genius,” Emma said with more than a dash of pride. “She heard you say geography and thought of your pictures.”
David had read somewhere that kids, especially the young ones, love repetition. In a world where so much was new and varied, seeing the same things over again must feel comforting. His walls were adorned with framed photos he had taken, and showing them to Gabby gave him pleasure as well. The pleasure of revisiting memories. The themes, however, were decidedly adult, and it took great concentration to explain them to the child without inducing nightmares.
“What’s this one?” Gabby asked.
The photograph, taken a month before former president Morsi was forced out of office, showed a sea of people waving Egyptian flags and holding pictures of the Muslim Brotherhood candidate. The Guardian had paid David two thousand dollars for the story, but they went with an AP photo instead of his.
