Ring of Fire (23 page)

“I know for sure that being with people who've gone through, and are going through, the same kind of experiences as you can be helpful.” Her forehead wrinkled as she reflected. “The military one might be a good fit, but I'd bet you'd get more interesting perspectives and ideas from the local one. If I were you, I'd attend a few sessions and see how it goes.”

“A few sessions?” He'd had in mind trying it once and then deciding if it was a total waste of time.

“You did that with riding,” she pointed out. “I could see that you didn't enjoy the first lesson, that you didn't see the value in it. But you kept going, and you've found it useful.”

“More than useful. Enjoyable. I look forward to it. Though I can't imagine ever looking forward to sitting around yacking with a bunch of trauma survivors.”

She grinned and leaned forward to drop a kiss on his nose. “Life's full of surprises if you give it a chance.”

Chapter Sixteen

Lark's words rang in Eric's head as he entered the Cottonwood multipurpose room at the Caribou Crossing Community Center at 1925 hours on Monday. The room was what he'd expected: utilitarian. Folding chairs had been set up classroom-style. A table at the back held a water dispenser, coffee and tea urns, and cardboard cups.

The surprise was in the variety of people. There were almost twenty of them, ranging from an adolescent girl in sweats to men who must be in their eighties, wearing ties and cardigan sweaters. A guy with thinning hair in a scraggly ponytail looked like an aging hippie in his faded tie-dye. A middle-aged woman was all done up in a pink sweater set and pearls. The guy in studded black leather belonged on a tricked-out Harley.

Even more surprising than the variety of people were the interactions. Biker dude and pearls lady sat side by side, chatting like old friends. One of the elderly men seemed to be telling a story to the young girl. The other was listening with apparent interest to a twenty-something gal done up in what looked to Eric like a Halloween costume: a long, full skirt, a high-necked lace-trimmed top, an old-fashioned hat, and jewelry that featured gears and clocks. Was that what people referred to as steampunk?

Three others, two women and a man, sat by themselves, not talking to anyone else, looking as uncomfortable as Eric felt. He took a seat beside the man, leaving an empty chair between them. The guy was slight in build, a few years older than Eric, and wore a business suit.

Eric's neighbor shot him an assessing glance, then held out his hand. “Mark McCarthy.”

“Eric Weaver.”

They shook and the man asked, “What are you in for?”

Eric gave a snort of surprised laughter. Not that he'd ever been to jail, but attending this meeting did feel rather like he'd been sentenced to hard time. His amusement relaxed him a little, which helped him overcome his reluctance to admit the truth to a stranger. “PTSD.”

“Welcome to the club. I meant, what triggered it?”

“An IED in Afghanistan blew off my leg.” He figured it was less the loss of his leg as the loss of Danny's life that was his problem, but he wasn't ready to say that. “How about you?”

The guy let out a low whistle. “Yours trumps mine. I was a bank manager in Vancouver and there was an armed robbery. No one got hurt, they even caught the guys and put them in jail, but I couldn't handle going back to work there. I stressed out and had flashbacks of one guy holding a gun to my head. I was a nervous wreck. My employer was good about it. They transferred me to the Caribou Crossing branch and my family made a fresh start. But I still have problems. The minister at my church recommended this group. It's only my second time.”

“It's my first. Sure hope it helps.”

“I hear you.”

“Okay, folks,” a male voice said loudly. “Time to get started.”

Eric turned, surprised to see it was the aging hippie who'd spoken. The man had moved his chair to the front of the room and sat facing them.

“I see a couple new folks tonight,” the man said, “and another couple people who've only been here a time or two before.” His gaze drifted across the room and he gave nods here and there, including to Eric. “Welcome, folks. My name's Gary, and I've been facilitating this group for the past twenty years.”

A white-haired man spoke up. “And we've been coming for the past twenty years.”

Eric winced. That sure wasn't a testament to the effectiveness of Gary's approach.

But the old man was going on. “You new folks, don't let that discourage you. Us still coming is a good thing. It doesn't mean we're actively suffering from PTSD any longer, but I'm sure you all know that when something bad happens to you, the memories don't go away. Every now and then, it helps to be with people who understand.”

“This is a bad time of year,” his bald friend said. “With November 11 coming up, the memories weigh heavily. We'll be here every week for a while, but after that you may not see us again until next year.” He paused. “By the way, I'm John and I'm a veteran of the Korean War like my old pal, Herman. Gary likes us to introduce ourselves when we speak, so we get to know each other.”

“We're pretty informal here,” Gary said. “But since we have new members, it'd be good if those who feel comfortable speaking up would briefly say who they are and why they're here. I'll start. I was born in California and was drafted to fight in Vietnam. I saw some bad things, did some bad things. Got wounded and sent home. To a country where lots of people condemned me for fighting in what they thought was an immoral war. Maybe I even agreed. I was drinking, hooked on drugs, a real mess. Probably would've ended up committing suicide except I met this nice Canadian girl who saw something in me. She brought me home with her, married me, and then made me go to counseling. I still have ghosts that haunt me, but this group helps me deal with them.” He glanced around. “Who's next?”

“I'll go,” the adolescent girl said with remarkable self-assurance. “I'm Amanda and last winter there was a car accident. I lost my leg. I'm doing really well with my prosthetic one, and I'm getting back to my normal life, but I have horrible nightmares. And when I have to get into a car, it's, like, a major struggle. So a month ago I joined this group and it's actually helping.”

Huh. Another amputee who was doing fine with her leg, but not so fine with the incident that caused her to lose it.

Gary thanked her, and then pearls lady spoke. “I'm Tillie and I'm forty-two. When I was a girl, I was sexually assaulted by my uncle.”

Eric shot a glance at Amanda, thinking this was pretty heavy for a girl her age. But the expression on her face wasn't shock, just sympathy. Clearly, her health care team and her parents figured she was mature enough to cope with, and benefit from, the things she heard in this room.

Tillie went on, “It went on for three years and I never told anyone. I tried to forget about it. But it affected everything. My confidence, my relationships with men. A couple of years ago I was so depressed that”—she pushed up one sleeve of her pink sweater to reveal a scar—“I tried to commit suicide. Thankfully, I was unsuccessful. That was when I decided I was tired of letting that man's criminal actions have such power over me.”

That was exactly how Eric felt about his flashbacks.

Biker dude, seated beside pearls lady—make that Tillie—said, “I'm Anton and I'm a rape victim, too. It was my football coach, when I was twelve and thirteen. Like Tillie, I didn't tell anyone, just let it screw up my life.”

Well, shit. Who'd have guessed?

A few other people spoke, including an army nurse who'd served in Afghanistan. “I have PTSD,” she said, “and it seems so silly because I wasn't even fighting. But the things I saw, and the lives we couldn't save . . . I'm having trouble moving past that.”

Exactly.

If the nurse could do this, so could he. He squared his shoulders and spoke. “I'm Eric, and I was in Afghanistan, too. An IED took my leg and another soldier's life.” He swallowed. “Like Amanda, I wear a prosthesis and I'm doing well with it.” He'd never admitted in public to having PTSD, but the fact that he was in this room made it obvious. Still, it took a major effort to go on. “It's not the leg that's my problem, it's the flashbacks. Until they go away, or I learn how to control them so I can function, I won't be fit to go back to duty.”

Gary thanked him, and then Eric's neighbor, Mark, told his story. A few others spoke, and then, with Gary facilitating, people talked about the symptoms they experienced, how powerless they felt, and various strategies they were using to cope.

Eric kept quiet, listening and absorbing, realizing that he could relate to most of the people in this room. They suffered; they were doing their best to get better; they got mad, frustrated, and depressed; and many of them also felt guilty. There were so many kinds of guilt: guilt for being in a bad situation in the first place, guilt for surviving, guilt for not coping better, guilt for letting post-traumatic stress mess up their relationships with loved ones.

It was damned heavy, and by the time the session was over he had a splitting headache. He forced himself to shake Gary's hand and thank him, then he strode out of the community center as fast as he could walk.

Outside, sucking air into his lungs, he realized Mark had exited, too, and was keeping pace with him. “It's rough, isn't it?” the other man said.

Eric could only nod.

“Especially the first time,” Mark said. “You get hit with so much. This time, I knew what to expect, and that made me anxious. But it wasn't as bad as before. I guess I focused less on all the horrible things that happened—and are still happening—to these people, but on how brave and hopeful everyone is.”

“You're right. Thanks, that helps.”

Mark stopped beside the parking lot, so Eric did, too.

“And people are seeing improvement,” Mark said. “That's encouraging.”

“But those old Korean War vets, still needing to come even after all these years . . .”

“Yeah, I know. Maybe for some people there is a magical solution, and it all goes away. But I think for me it'll be more like with John and Herman. I can't imagine that the memory of that gun barrel against my head will ever leave me, nor the thoughts about my wife and kids that flashed through my mind. What I need to learn is how to put the memories and the fear in their place. I guess it's good to know that when things get to be too much, there'll always be a safe place here that I can come to.”

That was fine for Mark, and the others in that room who planned to stay in Caribou Crossing. Eric would be wherever the army sent him. He needed to be able to handle memories, fear, and PTSD all by himself.

“Well, I'd best get home,” Mark said. “I need to kiss my kids good night, and my wife will be wanting to hear how it went.”

Eric felt a moment's envy. But that kind of life wasn't for him.

“Can I give you a lift?” Mark asked.

“Thanks, but I like to walk. It'll do me good.”

The man straightened his tie. “You going to be okay?”

“Yeah, sure. You?”

“You bet. See you next week?”

Eric reflected for a moment. “I'll be here.”

Mark sketched out a wave, and hurried toward a minivan.

As Eric turned in the direction of his apartment building, he reran the meeting in his head. There'd been so much to take in. How could he process it?

By talking to Lark. He'd told her he planned to attend the meeting, forcing accountability on himself. She'd said she hoped it went well, and that she'd love to hear about it.

He checked his watch. She'd have put Jayden to bed by now. Unless she'd been paged to a fire or other emergency, she and Mary might be sitting around watching TV or reading. He could drop by. Would that be intruding? But then he'd have to make polite conversation with Mary. Not that he didn't like her—he did, a lot, and respected her—but right now he felt raw. The only person's company he could imagine was Lark's.

No harm walking past the fire hall and scoping out her house. It was only half a mile out of his way.

When he got there, the fire hall was dark. Her house was uninformative; the family room window was curtained, with a light glowing. He pulled out his cell.

Lark answered. “Eric. How did it go?” She sounded slightly breathless.

“Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, I was just getting in a workout session.”

She'd told him there was a gym at work. “At the fire hall?” He glanced again at the dark building.

“Yeah.”

“By strange coincidence, I'm standing right outside.”

“Hang on a sec.”

It was barely more than that before a light came on, and then the door opened to reveal Lark in loose shorts and a baggy tank top worn over an exercise bra. Sweat gleamed on her walnut brown skin.

When he stepped inside and reached for her, she protested, “I'm all sweaty.”

“Don't care.” He hugged her, and the warmth and solidity of her body, the accepting way her arms came around him, grounded him.

They stood for several minutes, just holding each other.

“Was it bad?” she asked.

“Yes, but no.”

She eased free. “I need water. Come on back with me, and tell me all about it.”

They were in an office area right now, with a reception counter, desks, and a bunch of computers and other equipment. She led the way into the hall, clicking off the office light behind her. Down the hall was a bare-bones kitchen, where she opened a fridge and pulled out a couple of bottles of water. She tossed him one, cracked open the other and took a long swallow, and then led him to a nicely equipped small gym. There, she grabbed a towel off a weight bench. She wiped her face, slung the towel around her neck, and sat on the bench. “It was pretty rough?”

He nodded. Full of nervous energy, he paced around the gym, drinking water from the bottle and telling her about some of the attendees. Not naming them, just speaking in general terms. “Everyone was so different,” he commented, “but we all have this big thing in common.”

Lark, watching and listening from her seat on the bench, said, “A thing the rest of us really can't understand, no matter how hard we try. It sounds good, Eric. Will you go again?”

“Yes.”

“I'm glad.”

He went to stand in front of her. “Know what I realized? I'm not so special.”

She frowned, but before she could say anything, he went on, “What I mean is, I'm one of a large number of people who've been emotionally traumatized.”