Ask Me Again Read online

  Scribble. “Good. Were there any specific incidents during your deployment that you’d like to discuss?”

  “No, sir.” Nothing specific, just one great big, ten-month long spell of discomfort really.

  “You were seeing a combat stress professional while deployed, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir. Therapy during my deployment certainly helped me continue working through the PTSD.” There was no point in hiding it, he would know all about The Incident and the treatment I’d had afterward—both physical and psychological.

  Pace raised a brown eyebrow. They were like hairy caterpillars moving across his forehead. “Do you feel the PTSD is affecting you negatively on a day-to-day basis?”

  “No, sir. It’s been two years and I feel it’s mostly under control.” Please don’t ask about it again, let’s move on, I don’t want to talk about it.

  He made a few more notes. “Any anxiety? Loss of sleep, appetite or sexual desire?”

  I nodded and tried to look sheepish, like I was admitting to something embarrassing rather than something debilitating. “A little anxiety, and I have nightmares occasionally.” Like every few nights. “Aside from that, no problems with sleep or appetite.” I deliberately ignored his question about sexual desire. I hadn’t lost any of that, it was something else, something I couldn’t nail down that was keeping me from being intimate with my girlfriend.

  “Your nightmares. Are they about the event specifically, or random fears?”

  I straightened in the chair. “Mostly about the event itself, and events directly after.” Waking up as I had done post-op when I’d been on a ventilator, but in my dream it wasn’t the intubation keeping me from breathing of my own free will. It was Bec kneeling on my chest, hands over my mouth and nose, smothering me. And the only way to make it stop was to rip my hands from their restraints, until I was covered in blood and hurting even more, then hold her down and smother her to stop her trying again. I bounced my heels on the floor. Don’t think about it. It’s not real.

  He took almost half a minute to scrawl a few lines. “Would it cause you extreme anxiety to discuss the accident with me?”

  I shook my head. “It wouldn’t give me pleasure, sir, but we can talk about it if you wish.”

  “That’s fine, Captain. I’ve read the pertinent details.”

  I kept my face impassive. Why ask if you don’t want— Ohhhh. It’s a test. Well, I think you passed, Sabine. I mentally high-fived myself.

  The pen didn’t still as he fired off rapid questions. “Any changes in behavior that you’ve noticed? Loss of time? Compulsions or delusions? Hyper-vigilance? That sort of thing?”

  Geez, sir, I don’t know…does counting steps qualify as a compulsion?

  Time to deploy a charming smile and a touch of bullshit. I grinned. “Not unless you count the sudden compulsion I now seem to have to watch awful reality television. All that boredom at home during my recovery seems to have ruined my tastes.”

  Pace returned my grin. “Your secret is safe with me, Sabine.” He paused, studied me. “What about the other issues I just mentioned?”

  Goddammit. I’d hoped he wouldn’t loop back around. I paused, nodded, then offered him something that was easier to admit, something pretty much everyone who knew me was aware of. “Sometimes I feel weird about being in a car. I have to drive, or at least be in the front passenger seat and I have to keep…checking that nothing’s amiss.” And there’s the vigilance you were asking about, sir.

  He nodded. “Does it ever become so overwhelming, or cause you such anxiety that you have to cease what you’re doing?”

  “No, sir,” I answered truthfully.

  “What about being in military transports? Any flashbacks to your trauma?”

  Fuck. “The transports during my deployment were a little more difficult, but I got through them. And no, not flashbacks as such, but there was anxiety, sir.” I moved my lower jaw back and forth, hoping to ease some of the tension. “And sometimes I had additional physical responses. Shaking, vomiting, that sort of thing.”

  An eyebrow rose. A hand wrote frantically. “What were your coping mechanisms when this happened?”

  “Reminding myself that it’s not real, that I’m safe and I’m in control. Using my distraction techniques like my five senses lists, or my five comfortable things. Asking my friends to support me.” And a whole lot of being really fucking anxious and uncomfortable until I could get myself calmed down.

  “Were these techniques successful in bringing you back to the present?”

  “Mhmm. Yes, sir.” Also not a lie. They did work…eventually.

  “Good, okay then. Tell me about your support network.”

  “My parents are in Ohio and I speak with them a few times a week. My sister lives nearby, we’re very close and I see her frequently when I’m stateside. And my—” Say it, Sabine, you can say it now. “My girlfriend is intimately familiar with the workings of the Army and the stresses of my particular job.”

  Pace set his pen down and peered at me. Were we off the record? “You served under Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, yes?”

  “Yes, Colonel.” Served and suffered.

  “How are you finding things now that the repeal has passed?”

  “Well it’s only just happened, sir, but I haven’t noticed any changes in how my coworkers act around me, or vice versa.” Nor had I ever expected to. I cleared my throat. “I’d like to say that for me personally, it feels like I’ve managed to choke up a massive stone I’ve been carrying around in my gut for years.”

  “What do you mean, Sabine? Explain it to me.” It wasn’t an order, but a gentle invitation.

  “I…my previous relationship broke down while I was on the deployment before this one, Colonel, but I couldn’t tell anyone. Because that would have broken the rules. And it affected me greatly, affected how I did my job, because all those toxic thoughts had nowhere to go and they kind of built up until it was overwhelming.” Almost unconsciously I shook my head, trying to shove the past away, because it didn’t matter anymore. “Now, not having to skirt around using she or her, not having to worry constantly about someone finding out, and being able to tell you that my significant other is a woman rather than lying or brushing aside part of who I am? It’s an enormous relief for me. Hiding such a big part of your life like that takes up a great deal of emotional energy, sir.”

  “I can understand that, and I must say I’m pleased to hear it seems the repeal is having a positive effect as intended.” Pace picked up his pen again. “Now, you’ve been taking medication for PTSD?”

  “Yes, sir. I was prescribed sertraline, and also diazepam for use as needed.” Prescriptions. Medications. Uselessness.

  He scribbled, murmuring, “Zoloft and Valium. Understandable. Does the medication help?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What dosage are you taking now?”

  “Five to ten milligrams of Valium as required.” After a pause, I admitted, “I’m no longer taking Zoloft.”

  “Why not, Captain?”

  An uncomfortable twinge settled in my neck. I could feel myself being maneuvered and there was nothing I could do about it. “Because I didn’t feel I needed it.”

  “Did you cease on the advice of a medical professional, or discuss it with your behavioral health contact while deployed?”

  I am a medical professional. Semantics. “No, sir. I didn’t,” I said quietly. There was no way to make him understand that every time I swallowed my pills I felt like I was swallowing the events of that day and keeping them inside my body.

  He took his time writing a few lines of notes. “When and why do you take Valium?”

  “Whenever I need it, Colonel, for my anxiety.”

  “Anxiety.” His hand stilled, and he repeated his earlier question. “Do you feel PTSD is having a direct, negative impact on your day-to-day life, Sabine?”

  There it was. He’d tripped me and done it masterfully. Well done, sir! Clearly you’ve
done this before. Pace studied me, and the expression reminded me of the way Bec sometimes looked at me, calm and measured. It was a look designed to make you talk, one that held no judgment or accusation. It was a look that had always made me spill my metaphorical guts.

  I exhaled lightly, trying to keep it from sounding too much like a sigh. In a quiet voice, I admitted, “Yes, sir. Sometimes I do feel that PTSD is having a negative impact on my daily life.”

  His expression was gentle and neutral, and when he spoke, the tone was inviting. “Okay then, why don’t you tell me about it so we can work on helping you with that.”

  * * *

  After a teasing back and forth because she was still in Taking Care of Sabine mode and didn’t want me doing anything, Bec started on dinner alone and I trudged upstairs to unpack all my deployment gear. Colonel Pace had been surprised that my bags had remained untouched, and hinted that he thought it a good idea to put my things away so I could begin to set the deployment behind me as well. He was right, but I’d been avoiding it, not wanting to think about my time apart from Bec and the associated anxieties.

  I emptied my bag and made piles for laundry and storage. I’d been through this routine a number of times and it was second nature. Some of the stuff, like my portable coffee maker, camera, headlamp and hard drive full of movies and television shows wasn’t required until my next deployment and would be put in the spare room closet alongside Bec’s old gear and uniforms. The rest was everyday work uniforms, toiletries and the like that I’d need.

  Kneeling over the pile of clothing, I counted my ten T-shirts and began to refold and stack them neatly into the laundry basket. The pile grew to six shirts. I pulled one down and stacked others on top to make two piles of five. Better. The rest of my clothes were also made into neat, even piles and when I couldn’t evenly split my five long-sleeved thermal tops, I folded the fifth carefully and laid it over the others.

  What the hell are you doing, Sabine? Why are you folding shirts that are going to be tossed into the washer? I wanted to tousle them into a rough mess but just couldn’t make myself do it. I shoved the basket aside and got to work on my backpack.

  In the front pocket was one of my most treasured possessions, a German-language copy of Kafka’s Die Verwandlung—The Metamorphosis. Oma had gifted it to me for my fifteenth birthday and I’d read it more times than I could count. I’d taken it on all my deployments, carried it with me on vacation to Australia, South America, Europe and Asia, and it lived permanently on my bedside table rather than on the bookshelf.

  When she was just my boss, Bec had caught me reading it on a few occasions and her expression was always the same. Amusement and what I’d fancied back then as a touch of admiration. Not long after she moved in, she’d found me reading in one of the few comfortable positions I could find for lounging while my injuries were healing—lying upside down on the couch with my back flat on the seat and my legs slung over the rear of the couch.

  She’d sat on the floor near my head so I didn’t have to move and asked me why I was always reading that same book, and what it was about. And I’d explained to her the story of Gregor, a man who is suddenly and inexplicably transformed into a strange and grotesque insect-like creature. Bec had nodded while I told her how disgusted and hateful his family were, and how annoyed his sister was at being saddled with the burden of this incommunicative monster.

  I’d grown more and more excited as I explained—telling her it made more sense in German than English—and she’d watched me with her amused smile firmly in place. What was it about this particular book that drew me to it? I’d faltered then, unable to tell her exactly why. It was just something I’d had for so many years, something that was intrinsically connected to who I was. Bec had kissed me softly, then laid her head back on my shoulder while I kept reading, her warm breath caressing my cheek.

  The book was worn now, the hardcover cracked diagonally across the top corner and the binding so pliable that the pages felt loose. I opened to a random stained and tattered page, noting with unease that Kafka’s masterpiece suddenly seemed to be sitting a little too close to home. Discomfort constricted my breathing as I realized that I was not unlike Gregor. I’d changed completely from the person I was two years ago, undergone my own metamorphosis and certainly not for the better.

  I swallowed hard, running my fingers over the text I knew so well.

  …Gregor would have realized a long time ago that the coexistence of people with a hideous animal isn’t possible, and he would have voluntarily left them…

  I slammed the book closed and crossed the bedroom quickly to place it on the shelf. After a moment I pulled it back out and turned it around so the spine was facing away from me. I didn’t want to look at the title. Didn’t want to be reminded that in the end poor broken, misunderstood Gregor lies on the floor of his room, and out of love for his family, just…dies, so they no longer have the burden of caring for him.

  Deadweight. Encumbrance. Strain.

  No. I didn’t want that, not the way Kafka wrote it, that wasn’t me. Despite everything that’d happened, I’d never wanted to check out permanently. But…maybe it would have been better for everyone if I’d moved somewhere else and relieved them of all my problems. The constant emotional and physical needs directly after The Incident, the months of recovery, the PTSD that might eventually dim but would likely never fully go out. Bec, my family, all their lives put on hold for me and what was I doing? Wasting my life wallowing in self-pity.

  Fucking stop it. Stop. It. For the second time that day, I pinched the skin of my wrist to reset the negative thought. Kittens, beach, skiing, sunset over the mountains in Afghanistan, Bec.

  Bec…

  Bec, I think I’m losing myself. No, not losing. Lost. I think I’ve lost something, and I don’t know what it is and I don’t know how to get it back. I don’t know why I feel so uncomfortable when I think of you making love to me. I need you to help me, but I don’t want you to have to help me. My throat was tight with the effort not to cry and I had an overwhelming desire to be near her. To be comforted by knowing that she was there and she loved me.

  I rushed out of our room and along the hall. “Rebecca?”

  “Still in the kitchen, sweetheart,” she called. I forced myself to slow down, to stroll instead of run down the stairs and into the kitchen. Bec glanced up, set down the knife and wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “What’s up?”

  The words I wanted to say died in my throat. “Nothing,” I said and snatched a piece of carrot. “Just need a break from unpacking.”

  “Understandable.” She eyed me speculatively. “Who did you see today?”

  “LTC Andrew Pace.”

  Bec’s expression softened. “Oh, that’s great. I know him, he’s very capable and also just a really good guy.” With a grin she added, “Except for an incident involving moonshine he procured while we were in the Balkans in ninety-six. I still don’t think my liver’s recovered.”

  I smiled at her anecdote and felt lighter with the knowledge that Bec knew and apparently trusted my new shrink. In a professional capacity at least. “Yeah, I like him.” I chewed the inside of my cheek, then made a conscious effort to stop. “I told him, Bec.”

  “Told him what, darling?”

  “That I had a girlfriend, and it felt so fucking good to get that word out at work. Girlfriend.”

  “Sabine, that’s wonderful.” Bec’s smile came out like the sun from behind a cloud. “I can imagine how much of a relief that must have been.” She grasped my hands. “What else did you talk about?”

  “Just…the usual stuff. I—” The words I wanted wouldn’t come out. I’m struggling, Bec. I need help. I need you. Say something, Sabine, say anything. “…have you seen that big plastic box I keep my deployment gear in?”

  She tilted her head, her eyes gentle but with a definite question lingering in them. After a beat she said, “It’s in the spare room, where it always is. I saw it last week.”

&
nbsp; “Okay. Thanks. I guess I’ll get back to it.” I kissed her and backed away, having said nothing of what I’d actually wanted to. You are such a coward, Sabine.

  Chapter Six

  Rebecca

  It was well past lunch and I hadn’t had a text message from Sabine all day. Though I wasn’t worried, it was definitely odd. During the past four days, she’d texted me at every break—mostly complaining about how busy and boring it all was, asking about my day, what we were doing for dinner, then signing off with a flurry of x’s and o’s.

  The elevator doors slid open, and as I stepped out, someone crossed my path and I had to pull up short to avoid a collision. My abrupt stop caused a pileup, and one of the students with whom I’d shared the elevator bumped hard into my back, sending me flying forward into the person I’d been trying to avoid. Vanessa Moore, a fair and delicately-featured neurosurgeon about my age grabbed my arms to steady me as the student apologized profusely on her way to catch up with the other sleep-deprived bodies.

  Vanessa smiled broadly and her contralto voice was amused when she said, “Rebecca Keane. I was just thinking I wanted to talk to you today and here you are.” She gently steered me out of the way of a gurney being pushed hastily down the hall. “Maybe I should think about world peace and hey presto, it’ll happen!”

  Laughing, I straightened my top. Vanessa had consulted on quite a few cases for me and I’d always found her competent, friendly and charming. “How are you? And how can I help?”

  “Busy, as usual. Too many things to do, not enough time. I wanted to talk to you about my son, actually. I wonder if I could ask you something?” Vanessa dipped her head to catch my eye. She was about an inch taller than Sabine, perhaps five-nine and with curves to rival Monroe’s. Lightly made up, blond hair still perfectly in place despite the hours she’d have been on shift, she even managed to make scrubs look elegant.

  “Of course. Is everything all right?”

  “Can we walk and talk? I’m on my way to a post-op.” At my nod of assent, she continued, “I heard a rumor you were in the Army.”