Ring of Fire (16 page)

Using the remote device, he programmed the activity mode for his prosthesis for running, and thrust the fob into his pocket. The soles of his shoes slapped the sidewalk as he began to jog, quickly kicking it up to a run. Blood pumped through his body, chasing away the chills and the pain in his legs. He sped through residential streets, out to the secondary road that led out of town. He ran that road until it met up with the highway and kept on running. As he ran, he thought about nothing except the motion and the importance of using his core, of keeping his gait balanced. Running with an above-knee prosthesis took a lot more energy than running with two sound legs.

Eventually, he turned for home. He'd been gone for more than an hour and a half by the time he turned his key in the lock, eased open the squeaky door, and snuck into the dark apartment. He was exhausted enough that, after shedding his sweaty clothes and prosthesis and climbing into bed, he fell asleep right away.

And didn't dream.

He woke slowly and automatically checked the time. Eight. Two hours later than he normally rose. His nose twitched at the scent of his own stale sweat. He was in desperate need of a shower. The fancy sheets, fresh yesterday, needed washing, as did his running clothes.

Remembering Quinn, he pulled on his dirty sweatpants for the sake of decency, gathered up clean clothes, and headed for the bathroom across the hall. Ten minutes later, he was clean, shaved, and dressed. The shower had refreshed his body, but his mind felt bleak. Maybe it was natural to still have an occasional flashback before he managed to kick them entirely, but last night's felt like another setback. And so did his thoughts about Lark and their relationship.

Should he break things off? Give her the opportunity for a graceful exit?

He stripped his bed and gathered up his laundry. In the living room, Quinn was still under the blanket. He took the stairs down to the laundry room in the basement of the building. After loading a washer, he ran back up the stairs.

When he entered the apartment, the smell of coffee made his mouth water. This time, the squealing door must have woken Quinn when he left.

His sister was in the kitchen, standing at the counter by the coffee machine. Clad in her purple dressing gown and fluffy slippers, she had a serious case of bed head.

“Sorry,” he said, “did I wake you?” Not that, in his opinion, anyone needed to be in bed past eight o'clock anyhow.

She filled two mugs and handed him one. “Which time?”

“You heard me go out last night? I tried to be quiet.”

“Where did you go?” She sat down at the kitchen table. “More nookie with Lark?”

If he hadn't been feeling so shitty, their mother's euphemism for sex would have made him smile. “No. A run.” He pulled a carton of eggs from the fridge, along with butter, milk, onions, mushrooms, and cheddar cheese. No need to ask if Quinn wanted to share an omelette. He knew the answer was yes, and that once he had sautéed the vegetables, she'd manage to stir herself to make toast and put out the jam.

“In the middle of the night,” she said. “For almost two hours. And you look like crap.”

“I'm at least showered and dressed, which is more than I can say for you.”

“I didn't get a lot of sleep, thanks to your comings and goings.” He had his back to her as he sliced vegetables, yet could feel her appraising gaze. “I like Lark,” she said, “but now I'm not sure she's good for you, E.”

Hah. It was the other way around. “I didn't ask. I don't care what you think about our relationship.” He tossed the veggies into melted butter and stirred them, then cracked eggs into a bowl.

“If she was good for you, you wouldn't look like crap.”

“That has nothing to do with her.”

“Then what's it got to do with? Is your good leg still sore even after all the surgeries? Or is the stump grinding against the prosthesis? Or do you have phantom limb pain?”

Yes to all of those questions, but none of those things was holding him back. “It's all coming along okay.”

“When you say ‘okay' I know you mean shitty.” Sounding indignant, she went on, “This is crazy, that the docs haven't been able to get you properly rehabbed in all this time.”

She didn't put any of the blame on him. Clearly, it never occurred to her that her brother might be the weak link in his rehab process. “My docs are good, Q. The best.”

As he poured the egg mixture into a second frying pan, Quinn rose and pulled out the loaf of multigrain bread. She stuck a couple of pieces of toast into the toaster, put butter and jam on the table, and topped up both their coffee mugs.

The toast popped just as he was dividing the finished omelette and plating it. She added a slice of toast to each plate, and they both sat down.

As they ate in silence, he snuck glances at his sister. She was concerned about him. He'd always been the strong one, capable of handling whatever situation came along. He'd nagged her about not being responsible, and yet maybe he'd overprotected her and enabled her irresponsibility. Perhaps she was more capable and mature than he gave her credit for.

His psychologist had recommended that he discuss his post-traumatic stress with his family, and tell them what had happened in Afghanistan. Lark had said that, even if he didn't feel like he could talk to his parents, maybe he could to Quinn.

His sister got up to make more toast, flipped a slice onto his plate, and then slathered her own with butter and raspberry jam.

“You eat when you're unhappy,” he pointed out. “You pack on pounds, then you get pissed off that your clothes don't fit.”

She shot him a slitted-eye glare. “Yeah? So? Bite me.”

Quinn was his sister. The person he was closest to in the world, even if they didn't see each other all that often. Even if they were quite different people.

He poured more coffee for both of them. Staring into his mug, not looking at his sister, he said, “I get nightmares sometimes.”

He half expected her to come back with some flip comment, but she didn't say anything. Finally, he raised his gaze and found her staring at him.

“Everyone gets nightmares, E,” she said, not teasingly but dead serious. “You're saying you get different ones. Ones that make you go run for two hours in the middle of the night.”

Not so stupid, his sister. He nodded.

“About Afghanistan? What happened over there?”

Another nod.

“About what happened when the IED blew up?”

He swallowed a lump in his throat. “Yeah.”

Ignoring her toast, she sipped coffee and studied him over the rim of her mug. “Do you have PTSD?”

“Shit.” He jerked his chair back from the table and rose to pace across the kitchen. Of course he'd known where this was leading the moment he decided to mention his nightmares. And yet nightmares were a lot easier to confess to than PTSD.

“It's nothing to be ashamed of,” Quinn said.

“Tell that to our dad,” he snarled.

“I don't care about him. His head's up his own fucking ass most of the time.”

Startled, Eric choked out a laugh. “Man, Q, tell me what you really think.”

“Dad's not perfect. He's not God. I doubt he's even a really good soldier.”

“What the hell do you mean? He's been decorated how many times?”

“He was a crappy father. Which, okay, only proves he doesn't function well out of the army. But, E, he doesn't understand PTSD. He doesn't understand people. He motivates by fear, and by pretending he's this godlike being that everyone wants to emulate and wring words of praise from, but a leader shouldn't be godlike.”

Quinn had bitched about their dad before, but not from this perspective. Eric sat back down across from her and listened as she carried on.

“He should be human. His people should be able to talk to him, to relate to him.” She dragged her fingers through her messy, pink-streaked hair. “Yeah, he shouldn't be a wimp and he shouldn't excuse wimpiness, but he should listen, he should understand, he should help people rather than just order them around.”

She reached across the table, took Eric's hand, and wove her fingers through his. “You know how he says that thing all the time about how tough times are sent to test your mettle?”

“Yeah, of course.” Eric had pretty much lived his life by that.

“What he means by ‘test your mettle' is that people should react the way he would. But his way isn't the only way, and it isn't always the right way.”

“No, I guess not,” he said slowly, feeling almost like he'd spoken heresy.

“And that thing about ‘mind over matter'? Eric, you have as much discipline, as strong a mind, as anyone I know. And yet you have PTSD. You can't stop those nightmares. Nor can a whole lot of other people—soldiers, victims of abuse, people who've suffered horrible tragedies. They're not all weak people who lack mental discipline. They're messed up, they're injured, and it's in a far more serious way than what happened to your leg. Don't you get that?”

He didn't, not really, even though Karim and Monique had said similar things. Maybe it was the fact that this was his sister, sitting across from him in a purple bathrobe, her fingers entwined with his, who was talking, but he was listening in a different way now. “Go on, Q.”

“Aagh.” She shook her head, but her eyes were sympathetic rather than annoyed. “And you're supposed to be the smart sibling. Despite what our idiot father thinks, PTSD is real. It's as real as a leg that's so badly messed up it has to be amputated. You couldn't ‘mind over matter' fixing your leg. You needed doctors to amputate it, people to build a prosthesis, therapists to help you with rehab. Yes, you applied that tough, disciplined mind of yours to contribute to the process, but you couldn't do it all by yourself. So, how much tougher must it be when it's not your leg that's fucked up, it's your mind?”

“Hmm. Maybe. But I do have help. I have a psychologist.”

“Good. Are you doing everything that he or she has suggested?”

“Well . . . he told me I should tell my family what happened.”

Her chin went up. “And you didn't.”

He cocked a cynical brow. “Tell Dad?”

“I guess not. That'd be like shooting yourself in the foot.” She winced. “Sorry.”

“Or Mom? She'd totally stress out, and then she'd want to baby me to death. It about killed her, me losing a leg.”

“True.” She frowned and pulled her hand back. “But what about me? You didn't tell me.”

“I just did.”

She shook her head, the pink streaks tossing. “You wouldn't have told me a thing if I hadn't showed up here, and called you on going running in the middle of the night. Would you?”

“Probably not,” he admitted.

“Hmph. What else did your psychologist say?”

“That I should talk about what happened over there,” he said slowly.

“And have you?”

“To him, over and over. Which wasn't helping much. But then I told Lark. And maybe that did help. Something's helped. Being with her, getting to know Jayden and Mary, maybe even going riding. Which, by the way, is another thing my physiotherapist and psychologist suggested. The nightmares and flashbacks have been fewer in the past week and a half.”

“That's wonderful. I'm so glad.” She rose, cleared their plates from the table, poured the last of the coffee into their cups, and then sat down again. She reached across and took both his hands in hers. “Now tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“About what happened in Afghanistan.”

He pulled his hands away, and rose, restless. “It's not pretty.”

“I kinda figured. Jeez, how dumb do you think I am?”

This morning, he was starting to think she was actually pretty smart. “I don't. But it's my shit, Q.” He leaned back against the kitchen counter and faced her uncompromising stare. “You shouldn't have to listen to it.”

“How many times have I dumped my shit on you? And no, mine isn't life and death, it's not IEDs and amputations, but it matters to me. It's stuff that's hurt me, messed me up. You've been there to listen and prop me up again. I want to do the same for you. I want you to trust me with your shit, Eric. I want you to let me into your life. Into that stressed-out mind of yours.”

He paced across the kitchen, his legs both aching, his body twitchy with nerves. “I can't tell the story sitting down. Put on some clothes and let's walk.”

“Give me two minutes.”

It was more like five, but that was quick for Quinn. She'd put on jeans and a green sweater and had combed her hair, but she was missing her usual dramatic eye makeup. He thought she looked prettier without it.

Soon they were out on the street, and the fresh air calmed Eric a little, as did stretching his legs. “Okay,” he said. “There was this sergeant, Danny Peller.” And, as they walked the streets of Caribou Crossing, he told her exactly what had happened on that fateful afternoon.

She listened, and she shed a tear or two when Eric told her about Danny's death.

After he finished, she hooked her arm through his. “That's awful. I'm so sorry, E.”

“Yeah. Me, too.”

“I get it that you feel guilty that Danny died. I'm not saying you should, but I get it. Hell, I feel guilty for everything that goes wrong in my life. That's what comes from having a dad with impossible standards, who's seriously into blaming.”

“You really feel that way? I didn't know that.”

“I'm not big on confessing it. I bluff a lot, but underneath I always feel guilty. Like, even with Jonas, deep down I keep thinking I shouldn't have hassled him about flirting. That it was my fault he hit me.”