Fade to Black - Proof (9 page)

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Jack struggled
to open his eyes again, fighting the darkness and the sense of being buried
alive. Thick clouds of dust and sand swirled around him, kicked up by the
blades of the helicopter. The blackness continued to envelop him, although he
felt quite certain that his eyes were open now. He lay flat on his back, uncomfortable
in his body armor. His Kevlar helmet was off, his head in the dirt, but he
didn’t really care. He was only vaguely aware of the sound of gunfire, like
noise on a TV in another room. He could also hear voices and was aware of
activity all around him. Someone held his hand. He could feel a horrible
burning in the center of his throat and heard a raspy gurgle whenever he sucked
in a breath.

“They’re coming
around this side.”

“Clear that
space as a path.”

“Hold his
head! Hold his head!”

“Corporal,
light up that fucking window and silence that Hadji sniper!”

A burst of
gunfire.

Screams in the
distance.

“Dustoff in 3
minutes, sir!”

“Casey! Hang
in there, bud. Helo’s coming! ...Casey!”

Casey? He was
unsure why that sounded wrong, somehow. He felt a squeeze from the hand in his
and he tried to squeeze back, but couldn’t be sure if he had. He saw spots of
light in the dark—small, but bright. He felt that should mean something to him.
He wiggled the fingers of his left hand and felt them move.

“That’s good,
Sar’n. I’m here, buddy. We’re gonna get you out of here.”

Casey tried
again to talk, but his effort brought only frustration and more pain deep in his
throat. This was all wrong. Casey thought of his wife. What would she be doing
right now? What time was it there? Was it day or night at home? He wasn’t sure.
He only knew that he wanted desperately to be there. Where was the dusty
tornado that was supposed to take him home? Casey was unsure what that meant,
but it seemed both right and important.

Pam wanted him
to get out of the Corps. She wanted him to go back to school with his GI Bill,
and to stay at home with her and Claire. He remembered the tearful
conversation, how she had said she would even go back to work if he wanted. But
Casey couldn’t imagine going to school, having his wife working, and a young
child at home. Plus the Corps had become like a home. He loved being a Marine,
especially now. Now he was a sergeant. Now he had a shot at making the Corps a
real career. He had stood out as a leader, and the Corps had been there to let
him try and reach his potential. How could he explain it to this woman, whom he
loved so dearly, so completely? He wanted desperately to be at home with his
girls, to sit with them, to watch them, to play with them. He hated being away—hated
it more that he could ever make his one true love understand. But being a Marine
was no longer what he did. It had become who he was. He couldn’t imagine what
he would be without the Corps, not anymore.

And here I am
in this dusty-ass country, dying in the street seven thousand miles from home.

 What had he
done? How could he make her know? He loved them both so much. He had to get to
them. He needed so much to tell them that he never loved anything more than
them, but that he believed in what he did. That he did it for them as much as
for the rest of the country. More. It was for them that he was fighting.

Pam, Claire…I
love you so much!

“Bird’s on the
ground.”

“Great.” Doc’s
voice. HM2 White, the Navy corpsman. “Doc Barton on board?” Barton, the
battalion surgeon.

“He’s here.”

Another
squeeze on his hand. He felt so fucking weak, but squeezed back. His mouth was
so dry. He wanted a drink of water—wanted it with desire bordering on hysteria.
Casey blinked his eyes as he saw red lights approaching. Flashlights. Then
there was a loud explosion, close this time, and he felt Doc White lean over
him to keep the blowing dust from settling on his face.

“Shit! Jesus,
where did that come from?”

“No! Goddamn
it, no. Check left! Check left!”

He heard short
bursts of M16A rifles, then the loud burp of a squad assault weapon letting
loose a ten‐ or fifteen‐round burst. There was shouting as well, farther away.

“Holy shit!
How long has his neck been that big?”

Barton’s
voice? He felt fingers probe the left side of his neck, which sent a shocking
burst of pain up into his jaw and head.

“Goddamn. Got
the carotid artery for sure. If that thing lets loose we’ll sure as hell lose
him.”

“Doc, he’s
awake. He can hear you.”

“Sergeant
Stillman? Casey? It’s Doc Barton. You’re gonna be ok, buddy.” He felt a squeeze
on his left shoulder, but was not reassured. Casey felt a strong terror growing
inside him. He didn’t want to die here in this shit hole. He didn’t want to die
at all.

“Pam…Claire,”
he mouthed the words but there was no sound. He had to get back to his family.
He had to tell them how much he loved them. Casey felt the world getting dark
again, felt again like he was tumbling, falling to the left. It was nauseating
and he felt a horrible sharp pain grow in his left temple. He could also feel
tears run out of his eyes and down his grimy cheeks.

I just want to
go home. I want to go home to Pam and Claire. I just want to go home.

Then he felt
himself being pulled down into a warm darkness, like the night was wrapping
around him in a comfortable blanket.

Pam.

Chapter

10

“PAM!”

It was a
bloodcurdling scream, and it came from his own throat. Jack sat up, clawing at
the air. Again his heart pounded in his chest. Again he was bathed in sweat and
his breathing came in harsh, raspy grunts. Again his eyes darted around madly,
looking for his Marines, for Doc White, for Simmons, for the enemy.

The house was
quiet as his scream faded away. It was light and he was on the couch, a blanket
over his thighs, the TV off. He was home, home with Pam and Claire Bear. Jack
got slowly and stiffly to his feet, letting the blanket fall to the floor in a
heap. He walked to the hall bathroom and shuddered as a chill ran up his spine.
The light in the bathroom was off, and he reached awkwardly around the corner
searching for the switch, afraid to go inside until he found it and clicked it
on.

Normal. No
blood in the sink or on the walls. No grimy tooth on the floor. No urine or gore
in the toilet. He felt a bit more calm and walked through the kitchen and found
the back door closed. He looked cautiously out the window, lifting the frilly
blue curtain with a finger. Nothing. No young Marine sat in his yard, grinning
his toothless grin from his half face. No red trail.

Jack leaned
his forehead against the window and enjoyed the cool on his face. Then he heard
the front door open and felt a moment of growing panic. Simmons?

“Jack? Baby,
we’re home!”

Pam.

“Daddy!”
Claire squealed as he walked as casually as possible into the living room.

“Hey, guys,”
he said, kissing Claire on the cheek, then Pam lightly on her lips.

Pam looked at
him critically, concern again in her eyes.

“Are you ok, baby?
You’re pale.”

“Fine, honey.
I’m fine.” He hugged his family tightly. Then pulled back and looked at his
wife. “I just missed you guys.”

Pam kissed his
chin.

“We missed
you, too, Jack.” She placed Claire into his arms and he Eskimo kissed her,
making her giggle. “I need to fix her dinner, okay?”

“Sure,” he
said. Pam frowned.

“You sure you’re okay? Did you
have a nightmare? You weren’t watching the news channels were you?”

Jack squeezed her hand and they
headed for the kitchen.

“No, baby.
Just woke up and you weren’t here. I’m great now.”

Jack followed
his wife into the kitchen, his baby girl warm in his arms. Thoughts of Iraq, of
Simmons and Kindrich, of the horrible pain in his neck and throat, swirled
around his head like ghosts. He did his best to shake them off, but felt their
pull no matter what he tried.

His fantasy
that all he needed was a pill in the mornings to dissolve the nightmares
slipped through his fingers. He needed more—much more—if he was going to save
his girls from this horror. Tomorrow he would take another day off. He would
call this Dr. Lewellyn and try to get an urgent appointment. Tomorrow he would
try and make this madness stop.

Chapter

11

Jack sat uncomfortably in the
waiting room of the slick and expensive-looking office and flipped through a
magazine without seeing the pages. He was hot. The dark leather chair looked
luxurious but felt uncomfortable, at least to someone nervous and fidgeting.
Every time he shifted positions, which he did frequently, the chair made an
obnoxious farting sound that made him glad he was alone in the small room.  He
had filled out the patient information sheet (Do you have thoughts of suicide?
Have you ever had thoughts of harming someone else? Are there any sexual problems?
How much alcohol do you drink per day/week? Do you use any recreational drugs?
Why are you here today?) and set it on the armrest. He briefly fantasized of
bolting from the room and taking his soft yellow patient information sheet with
him. Only his need to get his insurance card back kept him in this little room,
fidgeting in his large farting chair.

And the need
to save my family from my madness. Let’s not forget that one.

The door
cracked open and the sharply dressed receptionist poked her head in.

“Hi, Jack,”
she said softly, as though they shared some secret. “Dr. Lewellyn is ready for
you now.”

 “Thank you,”
Jack said and followed the receptionist down a short hall, lined with expensive-looking
and brightly colored art, intended no doubt to fill him with happiness. They
came to a dark wood door with “David Lewellyn, Ph.D.” engraved on a gold plate
at eye level. The receptionist opened the door quietly and ushered him into a
well-lit and spacious office.

“Dr. Lewellyn,
this is Jack.”

David Lewellyn
looked a bit younger than he had expected. He was very fit and dressed in
expensive dark slacks, a white dress shirt, and a yellow tie. He was smiling
broadly, his hand outstretched.

“Hi, Jack.
Come on in.”

 Jack took the
outstretched hand and shook it, the grip firm and confident. Dr. Lewellyn
looked familiar somehow, at least in the way that the smartly dressed models in
GQ
looked as if you had seen them shopping in the mall.

 “Please sit
down.”  Lewellyn motioned vaguely towards the two chairs and couch. Jack stood
there a moment, unsure.

“Where?”  Jack
asked.

Dr. Lewellyn
laughed warmly and clapped Jack on the back with his well-manicured hand as his
receptionist closed the heavy door behind them.

“Wherever you’re
most comfortable, Jack. It’s not a test.”

Jack smiled,
embarrassed, and felt himself relax a little. He walked over to the couch and
sat down awkwardly. The psychologist sat in the large chair closest to him and
crossed his legs. He pulled out a pen and picked up an expensive‐looking
leather folder, but didn’t open it. Jack wondered how he had known where he
would sit, but then noticed that the little wood and marble tables next to the
other chair and at both corners of the couch all contained identical folders.
Clever. Lewellyn smiled softly.

“So,” the
psychologist said, and looked at him expectantly.

“So,” Jack
answered, unsure what else to say, then felt like an idiot.

Dr. Lewellyn
leaned forward, still smiling.

“Jack, relax.
I’m not testing you or trying to analyze you.” He sat back again. “Just think
of me as a friend with a helpful education. Maybe I can help you sort some
things out. The way this works is I am just here to talk to. Together we’ll
help you figure out for yourself what we can do to help you feel better.” He
smiled that warm smile again. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Jack
said, not much relieved. He looked around the office awkwardly, not wanting to
meet the doctor’s eyes.

“Well,”
Lewellyn said, “I’ll start. Jim Barton tells me that you’re having a lot of nightmares.
But I want to start with what made you call today. You seemed quite eager to
come in.” He looked at Jack again, his notebook now open in his lap, his pen
ready to turn Jack’s mind into scribbles on his legal pad. He looked relaxed,
but expectant.

Jack had
decided yesterday, after the terror on the couch, that he needed to commit to
complete disclosure with the psychologist. He needed one person he could tell
everything to, and it might as well be someone who could help make sense of all
this crap. Doc Barton trusted this guy, and he liked and respected Barton. No
more putting it off. If he was nuts, he was nuts. But better to know and let
the chips fall where they may.

“Well,” he
began, shifting, grateful that the leather couch was less fart prone than the
chair in the waiting room. “Jim says he has several patients with this kind of
thing,” he felt pretentious calling Doc Barton “Jim,” but no going back now. “I
have these bad dreams—”

“Nightmares?”

“Well, yeah. Nightmares,
I guess. Jim thinks it’s some kind of stress thing, I think he called it,
related to all the war shit I’ve been watching on TV, in the paper— you know.”

 “Let’s start
with the first thing that happened that caused you distress. The first time you
felt there was a problem. When was that?”

“Last week,”
Jack answered. He liked this better. Simple question and answer. Hard to fuck
that up, right?

“When last week?”

“Thursday. Or maybe Wednesday,
I think.”

“Okay, what
happened?” Lewellyn watched him again, still patient, unhurried. Jack tried again
to relax.

“Well, that
was when I had my first dream—nightmare, I guess.”

“Okay,” the
doctor scribbled again. “Tell me about the nightmare as best you can.”

And Jack did.
He tried his best to give every detail of the late afternoon in Fallujah. He
began slowly and with difficulty, trying to read Dr. Lewellyn’s expression (there
was none, really), but as he told the story he relaxed, and it poured out of
him more easily and more and more quickly. He told about Kindrich taking a
round in the head which split his team and drove him, Bennet, Simmons, and the
others behind the wall. He gave a detailed description of Bennet taking a round
then dying beside the wall. He told Lewellyn of his plan to get his guys across
the road to join up with the rest of his platoon and of the RPG round that had
buried Bennet’s body. A few times the doctor interrupted him for a brief
moment, trying to catch up on his notes.  Then he would nod and look at him
without speaking. He seemed fascinated by the story. During the pauses Jack
became aware of the tears that streamed down his face, of the tremor in his
voice. He didn’t care. Now that he’d started, there was no stopping. It was all
he could do to pause briefly while Lewellyn caught up his notes, then his
trembling voice would begin again, and out it would come. He told him every
detail of the bullet he took in the chest, of struggling back to his feet, and
then the feel of the second round that tore open his throat. He wept openly now
as he told of the terror of not being able to speak, of the burning pain, of the
fear that he was dying. He told him about wanting desperately to get to his wife
and daughter. When he was done, he collapsed backwards, exhausted.

Dr. Lewellyn
finished writing and sat back as well, watching him without speaking. The pause
seemed eternal, and Jack felt himself grow more uncomfortable again. He began
to fidget and looked around the room nervously.

“What happened
then?” the psychologist finally asked.

“That was it,”
Jack answered, uncertain what else to say.

“You woke up?”
Lewellyn watched him, but his expression remained soft and sympathetic.

“Yeah, sort
of, I guess.”

“What do you
mean, sort of?”

“Well,” Jack
was unsure how to explain it, “I mean I woke up, but I was confused. I wasn’t
sure where I was. I wasn’t even sure who I was. I mean, I think I knew who Pam
was—”

“Your wife?”

“Yeah, I mean
I knew it was Pam, but I didn’t know who the hell I was. For a moment, I mean.
I was scared, terrified really. I fell out of bed. The room seemed unfamiliar.
It scared the shit out me. And something else.”

Jack paused
again. He was going into scary territory now, but he was more afraid of keeping
things back than he was that David Lewellyn might think he was crazy. He had to
get help, had to know what the hell was wrong with him. He needed this classy
but seemingly compassionate man’s help. He needed help to make this shit stop.

“Well,” he
began, “it was like part of me was still there, you know, still in Fallujah.
Like the ceiling seemed to be missing—”

“What do you
mean missing?”

Jack felt more
frightened than ever. He had forced his mind away from these thoughts the last
week. This was the stuff that felt crazy. But it was too late to stop, so he
continued.

“Well, I
looked up, and I could see sky, you know, instead of a ceiling. And I could
still hear shouting. And gunfire.”

Dr. Lewellyn
considered this for a moment and jotted something in his notebook. Then he
looked up again.

“How long did
that last?”

Jack thought a
moment. “Just a few minutes, I think, maybe even seconds, I’m not sure. Then
the ceiling just kind of, I don’t know, filled in or something. Maybe I was still
kind of half asleep?” He desperately wanted some reassurance.

“That’s not
really very unusual,” Lewellyn said, crossing his legs again. “Sometimes when
we awaken from a really terrifying dream, it lingers in our mind. It can be
very distressing.”

“Terrifying,”
Jack corrected.

“I’m sure,”
Dr. Lewellyn agreed. “Go on. What happened next?”

“Pam was
scared.”

Lewellyn
nodded and started writing again.

“She was
crying on the floor beside me. I had a cut on my head that was bleeding a
little. She didn’t know what the hell was wrong. Then Claire—”

“Your
daughter?”

“Yeah, our
little girl. She started crying and I was better.”

“What do you
mean better?”

Jack thought a
moment. What did he mean? Better how? He was himself again, he thought. He was
Jack, and not Casey Stillman.

“I sort of
figured out who I was—and where. Her cry—I knew it was Claire, and it just sort
of, I don’t know, oriented me or something.” Jack was tired. He felt
perspiration on his forehead. The telling had taken a lot out of him, and he
had a long way to go. There was the incident in the school lounge when he had
seen the report on the news. There was fucking Simmons and his two ghastly
visits to him. He had been awake for those for sure, hadn’t he? How could he explain
that, a dead Marine visiting him at work? There was the bloody bathroom, and
the tooth. Mostly there was the calling, the pull he felt, to go back to his Marines
in Fallujah.

Come back,
Sar’n. You belong here with us.

Jack doubted
he had the energy to go on. He looked up and saw that Dr. Lewellyn was watching
him patiently. He said nothing, but held the doctor’s gaze, wondered if the
fear and desperation were obvious in his eyes. The doctor leaned back in his
chair.

“Can we switch
gears a second?” he asked.

“Sure,” Jack
answered, relieved. “But there is some other stuff. Strange things…” Jack’s
voice trembled again, and he felt tears well up again in his eyes.

“I’m sure,
Jack,” Dr. Lewellyn said softly. “And we’ll get to all that. I want to talk
about your family a moment. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Jack
said. He felt more like a passenger now, an observer as this kind man worked to
twist the top off of  his head and peer in. Dr. Lewellyn stood up and placed
his leather folder in his chair.

“What else do
you have going on today, Jack?” he asked as he walked over to his desk.

“I took
another sick day,” Jack answered. “I’m yours as long as you need.” He tried to
screw a smile onto his face, but failed. “I just want this shit to stop.”
Another tear spilled out onto his cheek and wound its way to his chin, where he
wiped it away with the back of his hand.

Dr. Lewellyn
picked up the phone on his desk and called his receptionist to clear the next
hour, as well. Then he came back to his chair and handed Jack a small box of
Kleenex, squeezing his shoulder as he passed. He resumed his position and
opened his notebook, getting his pen to the ready.

“Tell me a
little about your family, Jack,” he said.

And Jack did.
He didn’t know how long he talked, was unsure if he could even summarize what
he had said. He painted a picture of Pam, his one true love, and the powerful
force her love had been in his life. He talked about her unconditional support,
how he felt most like himself only when he was with her, how he believed he was
a better person because they were together. He talked about their ability to
communicate with just a look from across a room. And how they could spend an
entire afternoon, just sitting and talking about nothing and everything, and
have more fun than he thought most people had on a Caribbean vacation.