Love's Miracles (16 page)

Zane
didn’t respond but sat in his usual place at the top of the steps. So it
appeared he had another silent session planned. She glanced at him. He didn’t
know it yet, but he was in for some serious jolting. She’d had enough of
one-sided conversations, but first she’d rest a minute and cool off in the
shade.

“There
were deer here a few minutes ago. The noise of the engine scared them off.”

The
sound of his voice almost startled her into dropping her glass. He rarely spoke
and never initially. Miracle of miracles. Maybe he’d finally realized how
ridiculous these silent sessions were.

“Think
they’ll come back?” she asked.

He
shrugged. “Could be, if we’re quiet long enough.”

She
sank back into the cushion and studied his features. They were still
implacable, still rugged and strained.
You won’t stay silent today
, she
mused.

She’d
wait a few more minutes. Her neck and arms still felt like they’d been
constricted with a rubber band. She needed to recoup before the big showdown.

The
scent of wildflowers warming in the sun drifted up to her. The birds were
singing in the meadow and she could hear the faint hum of insects. It was so
peaceful, and she could feel layers of tension begin to peel away with each
breath she took.

“Aren’t
you tired of making these trips for nothing?” Zane startled her again.

“Are
they for nothing?”

He
shrugged and leaned against the post. “Seems like a long ways to come and just
sit.”

“Is
that bothering you?” she probed, hoping for a response.

“Maybe.”

Then
talk to me.
Margo sat rigid and alert, afraid to break the mood.

“I
guess the trip isn’t a complete waste. You look better now.” It wasn’t what she
wanted to hear, but at least he was talking.

“You’re
always so tense and wound up when you arrive. When you first used to come you
rarely relaxed at all, but now you’re only here for a short time and already
the trappings of civilization are disappearing.”

Margo
quirked one eyebrow. “Trappings of civilization? It’s the lack of them that
gets me uptight. Like that road,” she informed him and held her breath, waiting
to see if he’d continue.

“There’s
that strain too, but it fades quickly. It’s the stress that lines your brow,
the tension that tightens your expression. Those are slower to ease.”

So
he had been noticing every detail about her. “Interesting theory. What do you
think it is?”

“Getting
away from the city, of course. Finding the peace and serenity of nature.”

“Ah.
You sound like Ralph Waldo Emerson.”

“I
agree with his theory. ‘We walk into the opening landscape until by degrees
home is crowded out.’”

Margo
sat up straight. She was amazed not because he could quote Emerson, but because
he’d actually done so – on his own, with no prodding.

“I
grew up in the city,” she said. “The country frightens me a little. But I think
I see what you mean. The stillness. The color. Its harmony creates peace.”

He
didn’t say more, but his glance locked with hers. The deep blue of his eyes
disappeared as she was drawn past the color and into their depths. There were
so many contradictions: peace, confusion, serenity, and turmoil. Mostly she saw
loneliness. She wanted to reassure him. Tell him she cared.

Abruptly
he turned and gazed across the meadow. His face hardened as he worked the
muscles of his jaw. He looked angry because he’d let her see. She reached out
her hand as if touching him would bring back the moment of sharing. Slowly she
let it drop and proceeded with caution. The moment was fragile.

In
silence they sat for several more minutes. Each seemed longer than the last.
Margo wasn’t aware that she held her breath until she finally released it in a
slow sigh.

Wispy
clouds floated in the blue sky. A single hawk that reminded her of Zane circled
high overhead. It was strong and self-sufficient but solitary. The hawk would
live like that forever. Would Zane? Her palms began to dampen with tension. She
wasn’t sure she’d be able to draw him back to civilization.

“If
I’d known you liked Emerson, I’d have brought you some of his works.”

Again
Zane didn’t respond but stared across the meadow. Margo clenched her fists and
ordered herself to be patient.

“I’ll
bring some next week. Maybe you’d like some Thoreau as well.”

Finally
he swung his glance back to her. “It would be an improvement over all that
other garbage you’ve brought.”

Margo
stiffened.

“It’s
depressing to read. Except I can be thankful I don’t have it as bad as some of
them.”

Interested
and alert, she swung her legs off the longue and sat upright. She’d been hoping
he’d see similarities he could relate to. It didn’t sound like he had.

“I’m
glad you feel that way,” she told him. “And as far as the literature goes, I
really don’t have any more.”

In
fact, last week, lacking anything else, she’d brought a case study of one of
her own patients, Amos Washington. She’d had success with Amos. Fred had
convinced her to write up the case and submit it to one of the professional
journals she subscribed to. She’d brought Zane the final draft.

Of
course, she’d changed the name to protect Amos. It wasn’t just that he was an
important businessman now, but few men cared to have it known they’d been
castrated. Amos had lost both testicles from gunshot wounds. Though physically
not as dramatic as losing limbs, Amos had been mentally crippled for many
years. He had worked hard with Margo and she’d been pleased with his progress
and success.

Zane
rose from the step and walked inside. Margo frowned, not wanting it to be the
end of the conversation. She was about to get up and follow him when he
returned. In his hand, he’d rolled up several papers. He stopped in front of
her and tapped the roll on the side of his thigh.

Curious,
Margo waited for his next move.

“About
this case.” He handed her the roll. “You wrote it. Is the patient one of
yours?”

Margo
took the tube and unrolled the resistant papers. Her heart beat with hope.
Maybe an article had finally reached Zane? Quickly she read the title. It was
last week’s – Amos Washington.

She
looked at him in surprise and then horror as sick realization dawned.
Not
this.
Amos had mentioned there’d been two other Marines he knew of with the
same problem, but he hadn’t mentioned names.

She
started to rise, her glance raking Zane’s body, searching for scars. Amos had
been covered with them. But the visible scars weren’t Amos’s problem. His
problem was the one people couldn’t see.

Her
glance locked with Zane’s.

Margo
fell back on the longue. Her reaction surprised her. When she’d found out about
Amos’ suffering, she’d felt professional sympathy. But trying to picture Zane…

“You
look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Zane hunkered down beside her. Concern showed
in his eyes. She should have been glad to see the emotion.

“It
doesn’t really matter if Amos is your patient or not. You don’t have to tell
me.”

Margo
sat up, quickly composing herself. “Don’t be so sure it’s anyone you know. It
could even be a hypothetical case.”

Zane
stiffened, his eyes becoming unreadable again. “Amos and I are good friends. I
knew he’d been going to therapy and I know his problem.”

“I’m
not at liberty to say whether it’s the same case or not. The conjecture is
yours.”

Margo
studied Zane’s features, wondering if the two men had commiserated because they
shared the same problem. Would Zane now open up and talk about it? “Regardless
of who it is, why don’t you tell me your reaction to the article?”

He
began speaking, but it wasn’t about the article. “It was so senseless and
unnecessary. They’d gone on a search and destroy mission north of Phu Bai.
Somehow radar contact got screwed up and Da Nang sent fighter jets to strafe
the area. Amos and his buddies got hit by American bullets.”

He
lifted his head and turned toward the meadow. Margo’s mind began to race. Amos
had been bitter about his wounds, but more because of the effects than whose
fault it was. Perhaps Zane had bottled up the bitterness for both of them.

“I
imagine there were a lot of unnecessary atrocities. War generates them.”

“But
a man’s whole life was ruined.”

“Life
situations change. Even without war. Look at all the crippling cases resulting
from car accidents. These circumstances ruin your life only if
you
let
them.”

“But
a man’s whole future…” His voice trailed off as he clenched his fists.

Margo
took a deep breath. “And you, Zane. Is this the way you feel about your
future?”

He
didn’t answer. For several seconds she waited silently, patiently. Birds sang
in the meadow, unaware of the emotional drama in their midst. A light breeze
rustled through the grass and swished the bright buds of the wild poppies and
lupines.

Zane
paused, obviously considering whether he should respond to her question. This
could be the turning point he needed.

Abruptly,
he swung down onto the rough redwood planks. He leaned back against the chaise
and doubled his fists at his side. Margo held her breath. “I was the one who
pulled him into the chopper. I had to try and repair the damage.”

He
leaned his head back against the longue and stared up at the sky. His hair
feathered the material of her jumpsuit and she wanted to run her fingers
through it. To comfort him like a mother does a hurt child.

“But
there were no medical supplies. No medicines or drugs. There wasn’t a thing we
could to until we got him to base.” He pounded his fists. “Not a damned thing.”

Again
he hadn’t answered her question, but Margo didn’t press. There’d be time to
find out all the answers. At least now he’d begun to talk.

“Amos
almost bit the dust – twice. His buddies weren’t so lucky. We tried. But they
died.” He pressed his fist to his forehead and took a deep breath. “Maybe they
were
the lucky ones after all.”

“Does
your friend feel that way now?”

“Amos
is doing fine. He’s working in the business district downtown.”

“Then
how can you say he would’ve been better off dead? It he’s doing well it’s
probably because he was getting help. I bet you’d find that most veterans who
saw combat have sought some sort of therapy.”

“All
but me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“You
have to open up. Talk about it like your friend Amos and the man in my case
did, before you can heal.”

“Why?”
His voice turned harsh. “Does it give you a
thrill
to hear the sordid
details? Is that how you get your kicks?”

Margo
stiffened and waited. Zane’s verbal abuse was a common reaction, a defense
mechanism. When a patient opened up, especially one who’d held things in as
long as Zane had, he felt vulnerable, exposed; often he attacked. So it didn’t
surprise her, but strangely it did hurt.

“I
wondered why you’d keep coming up here every weekend when it was obvious I
didn’t want to talk.”

“I
come because I care, Zane. And your family cares.”

He
spun around to face her. Bitterness reflected in his eyes, sounded in his
voice. “You care? What a joke that is! You were probably at Berkeley protesting
the whole thing. Don’t you hate Nam vets like everyone else?”

“Zane,”
she soothed, but he jerked away to face the meadow. “People protested the war –
like your mother – because they were afraid. They didn’t want their sons, their
brothers, and their friends to experience the dark side of life. Most of us
still remember the effects of other wars.” Like what the Korean War had done to
her father, she thought.

Zane
remained silent so she continued. “Don’t let the fears and confusion from those
times ruin your life now. All of us are struggling to heal those wounds.”

“I
don’t let it ruin my life. There’s beauty and peace around me now.”

“And
loneliness.”

His
face closed, but Margo noticed the stiffening that crept under the yellow tank
top.

“Open
up, Zane. Talk to me.”

“You
make it sound easy.”

“Was
it that hard to talk about your friend?”

His
eyes leveled with hers. Assessing. Judging. “No. I’m glad Amos made it okay.”

“Were
you injured like him?” This was it. She knew it. He was going to tell her.

Zane
jumped up so fast that he startled her. Birds squawked in the meadow and flew
away in fright. One look at Zane’s face sent warnings racing through her
system. Quickly Margo stood.

“It’s
over, Zane. We can deal with it.”