All Is Not Forgotten(25)

I lie in bed at night. The acid in my stomach is gone. The meds took that away—along with my personality, I’m told. I’m not that fun guy anymore. But I’d take that, you know. I’d f*cking swallow that down and ask for another if I could stop this other thing. I look at the empty space where my arm should be, and then I close my eyes and try like all hell to remember that day. They gave me the report, but who the f*ck knows? We were sweeping for this one bad guy. There was solid intel. Eight of us went in. We had air cover, and a corps unit was on its way. We moved through the streets, breaking off in pairs. The unit was ambushed right after I broke with this other SEAL, Hector Valancia. The corps found him dead next to me. Half his head got blown off. We took it from an IED. I was unconscious. Mangled arm. They got me out. Took off the arm. Then gave me the drugs. I can’t blame them. I signed off on it. We all did. Shit, if someone asked you, “Hey, if you get f*cked up in the field, do you want us to give you some drugs to make you forget all about it?” Fuck yeah, I do! But now, all of it is just a story. It’s no more real or unreal to me as any other story. It feels like there’s a ghost inside me—the ghost from that afternoon, and he’s pissed off, just raging inside my body, searching for the story, not the words from the report, but the images of my buddy dying beside me, and the blood seeping from my shredded flesh, it rages for the memory of the pain that I must have felt when the bomb went off, even for a second. This ghost is a strong motherf*cker. He just gets bigger every day and it’s like there’s no room for anything else. When I try to hold my son, when my wife tries to hold me, nothing can get in. Then there’s just broken plates, a scared kid, my wife in tears. I’m a monster.

Charlotte Kramer called me after getting my name from Dr. Markovitz. As I’ve said before, she and her husband were eager to employ me. I met with her in my office before agreeing to take the case, although I knew I would be compelled to do so. How could I not? My involvement with Sean, my growing knowledge of the treatment, both its pathology and the potential countertreatment, my work with victims of trauma and crime and my proficiency with medications—I don’t think I’ve ever been more suited to treat a patient than I was for Jenny Kramer.

And I will say one more thing on my proficiency treating survivors of trauma. It is an aside, really, but I was myself the target of an altercation when I was a young boy. I do not disclose this to my patients, because there must be boundaries. But there are times when they say things to me, things like You don’t know what it feels like or I can’t explain how I feel now, when I want to tell them that I do have some idea. Of course, few of us escape childhood without some bullying or aggression, or worse. Most of us can identify to a degree with these survivors of more serious crimes. Still, my patients cannot see me as anything less than a rock. I cannot cry with them. I cannot get angry with them. I cannot let them know they affect me in any way. They must be free to pound their fists into my gut without the fear that they will break me.

I know you have detected my soft spot for Charlotte. I recognized it myself the moment she walked into my office and sat elegantly on my sofa. Please do not misinterpret things. I am not, nor have I ever been, “attracted” to her in an inappropriate manner. It’s simply that I knew, from everything about her, the way she held her back so straight, the way she spoke with a slight affectation, her neat clothing, the tucked-in blouse and pressed trousers, hair pulled so tightly in a bun, even the words she chose, that the story of Charlotte Kramer was going to be rich. I knew that it would be difficult but that I would uncover it, that she would reveal it to me, and that the extent of her emotional scars and the skill it would take to reach them would present a deeply satisfying professional challenge. I have no qualms admitting this to you or anyone else. It is no different from a lawyer relishing a complicated criminal defense. Or a builder reconstructing a home after a fire or flood. Is there empathy for the client? Of course. But legal, psychological, structural—whatever the problem the client has, the professional employed to solve it is not at fault for enjoying the task. That is why we joined the profession, is it not?

At our very first meeting, we spoke for an hour. During that time, she began to trust me to treat her daughter, and I would later use that to open her own vault of secrets. I could sense it. It is essential, and every competent practitioner has acquired the skill to do it. It requires strict adherence to boundaries, compassion, and an appropriate degree of distance. I did not flinch when she told me about the rape, the treatment, the strained year, and the attempted suicide, even though my thoughts were spinning with all the implications, which I have already described. Jenny Kramer had been a puzzle I could not solve, and now I had been given the pieces.

I met them all at the hospital the next day—Charlotte, Tom, and Jenny. I met with Lucas at my office sometime after that. He has gotten little of my attention as I recount the story. But I did speak with him and I did consult with both Charlotte and Tom frequently about how they should parent him during this crisis. It would take far too long to explore the deleterious effects events like these can have on siblings. Neglect, withdrawn love, and emotional denial are every bit as toxic as outright abuse. I made sure Lucas was spared that fate.

Jenny had been moved to the psych ward, where she was under a mandatory forty-eight-hour watch period before she could be released. There was recognition in her eyes when she saw me, and she even smiled slightly to acknowledge this. I’ve seen you in town.