Bittersweet Symphony (The Damaged Souls series Book 2) (29 page)

“I’m so sorry, Caylee. I don’t know what else to say.”

“I know you are. We all know that you’re being sincere. So focus on you now. Do what you should’ve done years ago when you came home. Not for me. Not for your family. For you. Because until you do, we can’t be together.” Caylee slid further away and I let her. I didn’t have the right to stop her. I shouldn’t have chased after her in the first place.

“Mr. Hensley?” The doctor had returned, no doubt for my answer. As if it were divine intervention, I knew what I had to do.

“Sign me up, Doc,” I replied. “I’m ready to go to rehab.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

Cooper

“You doing okay?”

I could feel my father’s stare as he cast me a sideways glance. It was just him and me in the car. There were still things to be said—things I needed to get off my chest before I admitted myself for the three months stay at the treatment facility.

I was terrified of what would happen, of the psychobabble from the last time I’d sought psychiatric help. There was no denying I had issues and that they’d taken control of my life. That had become blatantly obvious over the past twenty-four hours.

Part of me believed this was simply an attempt to reprogram me so I could be normal, or whatever the fuck that was. If it meant my mother could look at me without her bottom lip quivering and her eyes tearing up, I’d do it.

I just wanted to still be me, or whoever that was now.

“Yeah,” I murmured, gaze fixed on the scenery rushing by.

“Coop,” he started in that voice I knew all too well. He had something more to say so I turned to face him. “I can only assume how difficult this is, but it’s not going to make a lick of difference if you can’t be honest with yourself.”

Fuck, nothing escaped this man.

Chuckling, I brushed my hair back and rested my elbow alongside the passenger side window. “No time like the present, huh?”

“Exactly, son. It’s just you and me here. There’s no need to hide.”

I took his words to heart, knowing he was right. If I couldn’t be truthful with him, there was very little chance I would open up to a stranger, much less a room full of people I’d never met.

“I feel . . .” While searching for a way to explain, a memory surfaced, one I could share. “I remember the first time I held my weapon. I had assembled it over and over again during training. It was one thing to look at each piece and learn what they did. It was something completely different knowing that it was also an instrument that took life. It seemed harmless in the beginning, thrilling even. But that first time I carried it and realized it had deadly consequences . . . I’ve never wanted to puke as hard as I did in that moment.” I barked out a laugh, hoping to disguise my confession with a little self-deprecation. “I had a job to do—one I’d signed up for and believed in, but I wasn’t prepared for that overwhelming sense of
holy shit
. I got used to it . . . adapted . . . but yeah, this feels a little like that. Once I pull the trigger, Dad . . .” I wet my lips and I gulped for air, nerves rioting through my body, causing my heart to thud like a jackhammer in my chest. “I don’t know if I’m ready for what comes next. What if I do this and I’m still just as screwed up?” Suddenly I felt like a small child on a road trip with his father—the man he idolized. “What if I fail you all again?” My last admission came out as a whisper.

He was quiet while he weighed my words. He checked his rearview mirror before he changed lanes. It wasn’t until we’d driven a mile or so before he answered. “Son, don’t you want to know what it feels like not to carry around that burden all the time? Aren’t you tired?”

I caught the concern darkening his features. It gave me the strength to continue. “Honestly? I’m so fucking exhausted that I sometimes wish I could simply close my eyes and sleep for a lifetime. I don’t have anything left to give.”

He reached out and grabbed my hand. He squeezed it before gripping the steering wheel, again. “And that’s why you won’t fail. Because you are brave enough to say that out loud.”

I couldn’t help but snort. “How is admitting I’m terrified out of my mind brave, Dad?”

“Fear makes us hide. It paralyzes us. It whispers we have no other option but to give up. It blocks our vision. What you’re doing now, Cooper, is the opposite of fear. You can still be afraid, but you’re willing to confront the things that hold you back. You’ve reached that point where it’s no longer comfortable to do nothing or to bury away your pain. What you’re doing now may just be the most courageous thing you’ve ever done.” Slowing down, he pulled off the freeway, the facility only miles away now. “So be scared. Feel, son. Feel it all. Because once you acknowledge and accept it, then you can move on and be free.”

“You make it sound so easy.” And he did. It made me wish I could see things through his eyes for a while—to be him instead of me.

“It’ll be tough, but believe in yourself. Give yourself a chance to heal. That’s all your mother and I want. Go in there with the mindset that it’s got to be better than what you’ve endured. Learn whatever tools they offer. Give yourself permission to live.”

We turned into the street, my mind spinning as it mulled over his advice. This was why I’d asked him to bring me. This was exactly what I needed to hear—instead of shutting down and entering treatment with a huge chip on my shoulder.

“I love you, Dad.” I could barely get the sentiment out, my voice too thick.

“I know you do. I love you, too.” Following the signs, we slowly pulled up to the front of the building—Fairview Treatment Center. My dad killed the engine. “Ready?”

“I don’t have a choice,” I replied as a wave of nausea crashed over me.

“You do. You can get out of the car, walk up those stairs and take care of business.”

I stared out my window at the glass front doors. “Or I can chicken out and go home.”

“It’s your decision, Cooper. I can’t make this for you.”

Closing my eyes, I dragged a deep breath into my lungs and prayed that my legs wouldn’t fail me as I opened the passenger door. I couldn’t think about this anymore . . . I had to act. If I wanted any semblance of a life free from bullshit, it began right now.

I lifted out the overnight bag my mother had quickly packed and used the weight to anchor myself so I wouldn’t float away. As Dad joined me, he slapped my back proudly.

Footsteps approached. They came down the stairs to where we stood.

“Cooper Hensley? I was wondering if our new patient was you.”

That voice. I knew it.

My heart sank into my gut as I spun around. My eyes blinked in disbelief.

Sgt. Susan Ramsey stood with a clipboard in her hand and a smile on her face. It was the nurse who had been so instrumental in my recovery in Germany—the nurse who’d listened to me rage at the world, angry for surviving when Owen hadn’t.

What the hell were the odds that she would be here—now—when I needed her again?

Staring up at the sky, unsure of what to say, I offered up an awkward thank you.

“You okay, son?” my dad asked.

“You know what?” I answered, smiling for the first time. “I think I will be.” And we joined Susan as she led us inside the building.

****

Three weeks later . . .

I was beginning to hate this room and everything it stood for.

Sitting in the well-used swiveled recliner, it took everything I had not to move so I didn’t have to face Dr. Nicholas. If I couldn’t see him, then I sure as fuck didn’t have to answer his
how is that working out for you?
and endless stream of questions. Sure, he was the resident expert on all things crazy, but it was hard not to resent the persistent prodding and the expectation that I had somehow become self-aware.

Even now, my feet tapped, itching to run.

Digging my fingers into the cushioned armrests, I counted to ten in my head, wet my lips and prepared to offer up something profound.

Yet nothing came.

I was still Cooper Hensley—hopelessly damaged and fucked up. That was what was the most frustrating about my stay so far at Fairview. Each failed attempt at uncovering the truth or some magical solution fell short. It didn’t matter how many hours I’d sat in the chair, I didn’t feel any different.

In fact, the guilt and sense of inadequacy was stronger.

“What are you thinking right now?” Dr. Nicholas asked, watching me from across the room. The movies had gotten it wrong—at least when it came to him. He wasn’t hidden behind some large mahogany desk, a white haired man peering over reading glasses. He was maybe in his mid-thirties and wore a variety of short-sleeved shirts, no ties. There was a good chance he didn’t even own one.

I’d assumed my hourly sessions would be with someone like Dr. Phil. Instead I was being asked to bare my soul to someone I passed in the grocery store—someone regular . . . normal . . . less Freud-like.

“Nothing much,” I answered quickly.

“Try again.” It was a game we played. He’d ask, I’d lie, and he’d call me on my bullshit. Sometimes he’d keep pushing until I finally snapped in anger. Then I fired out everything that had rested on the top of my tongue, but had been too embarrassed to utter.

Apparently those were the truths he was hoping for.

Those were the snippets that startled me. Not because of what they were but for the relief I felt afterward. Who knew that being so honest could bring such clarity?

For the hundredth time since beginning therapy, I let out a sigh.

“This is a waste of time. If curing me is your end game, we both know that’s not going to happen.”

Like a well-rehearsed play or a movie we’d both watched over and over, he knew his next line. “Is that why you think you’re here? To be cured?”

“Isn’t it?” I muttered.

“Then why don’t you leave? You’re not court ordered. No one is keeping you here. If you consider this a waste of time, then go home.” His stare was penetrating and I almost begged him to blink—anything, but look at me like he could see inside me. It was unnerving.

“And like every single other session, my answer is the same,” I retorted, my frustration getting the better of me.

“Humor me, Cooper. Tell me again.”

“Because I can’t keep living like this. Because if I don’t get my shit together, I’m not going to fail next time I try and kill myself.” Something surged through me—the same sensation that happened whenever I acknowledged my suicide attempt. It was almost like I couldn’t believe it was coming out of my mouth.

His pen scratched loudly over his notebook. “How do you think it’ll feel like to heal?”

This was a new question, making me stop mid reply to actually think. “Honestly? I don’t have a clue, but it has to be better than this. I’ve been here three weeks and I actually feel worse.”

Dr. Nicholas placed his notebook beside him on the side table and gave me his full attention. If I’d met him any other place, we could’ve been really good friends. But, unfortunately, he wasn’t here to hang out. He was here to shine a light on my demons.

“Healing isn’t linear, Cooper.  It's not a matter of simply waking up one day and miraculously being over it. You'll cycle. You'll process it and each day will get a little better.” When I went to interrupt, he held up his hand. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but I need you to listen to what I’m saying. You think you’ve made no progress in the short time we’ve spent together, but remember those first few sessions.”

My brows furrowed as I tried to recall. Nothing came to mind and I shrugged, confused. “I’m coming up blank. I sat in here and we talked. Just like now.”

When he laughed, soft wrinkles edged his eyes. This was a man who laughed and smiled often, despite his job. “Let me refresh your memory then. Yes, you sat in that very chair, but I can count on two fingers how many times you were able to hold eye contact with me. You looked everywhere, but at me. And that chair? You’d turned it so you were facing the wall instead of me. You clearly hadn’t wanted to be here and closed yourself off.”

He was right. Funny how I’d remembered it differently.

“And I think this session has been the most I’ve heard you speak. Sure, you talked, but each response was clipped and, at times, surly. Any information I was able to extract from you took a while. It’s only been recently that you’ve volunteered any details other than a few yes’s and no’s.” He didn’t once glance away. “So, again, Cooper, I’m going to ask you . . . how do you think it’ll feel to heal? Because you are . . . right this second. Each minute you sit in here with me and choose to stay, brings you closer.”

“I wish I could see it, though!” I exclaimed, more annoyed at myself and the pressure weighing down on me. “I was . . . am a Marine. You’d think I’d be able to suck it up and quit fucking around.”

The doctor leaned forward in his chair. “This has nothing to do with being in the military. It has nothing to do with what you do for a living or how people perceive you. This, Cooper,” and with my name he thudded his hand over his heart, “this is what matters. For whatever reason, something changed inside you and life got a whole lot harder. It doesn’t mean you’re broken and damaged. It doesn’t mean that you have to suffer in silence because that’s what Marines do . . . what men do. You hurt and have every right to reach out. That’s why you’re here. You’re here to get help and, if you let me, I will do everything in my power to see you get it. But you have to want it—no matter how uncomfortable it feels.”

I let out a bitter chuckle. “Or you could just give me some magic pill I can swallow.” I knew it was a cop out, but he’d been right. It was uncomfortable talking about my emotions and thoughts—about the things I’d spent so much energy burying and ignoring. Part of me believed there was some secret camera filming everything I said, stockpiling evidence to strip me of my man-card. This wasn’t what men did. If we couldn’t resolve a problem, we’d take a hammer to it and beat the shit out of it until it disappeared.