Until I Saw Your Smile (24 page)

He stepped onto the sidewalk instead. “Good night, Angela. See you tomorrow night, right?”

Angela nodded and closed the door.

He watched her finish her routine of shutting off lights, and then he turned and headed home.

He flexed his elbow and winced.
She has to have the strongest hands of any woman on earth. I may have “Angela elbow.” I may need to wear elbow pads from now on.

Chapter 19

M
atthew slept in until noon, and when he woke, he called Angela.

The phone rang twelve times before going to voice mail.

She must really be busy.
He left a message: “Thank you for suggesting that I sleep in, partner. I really needed the sleep. I'll call you later, and I will be there to help you close. Bye.”

He spent the afternoon surfing the Internet and collecting information on PTSD, most of it from the Mayo Clinic Web site. What he learned reinforced his belief that Timothy had a classic case of PTSD:

In other words, doctors don't have many clues. It must be hard to gauge how a single event, such as 9/11, might
not
affect one person too badly while reducing another person to PTSD.

Criteria from the DSM—the
Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders
—cinched it. Timothy had witnessed events that involved death and serious injury. He felt fear and helplessness. He relived those horrific events daily. He avoided talking about any of it—until now.
Two years of silence! Does he seem “on his guard”? Not sure. He didn't seem too paranoid. Is PTSD destroying his life? Yes.

Matthew read down the list of treatment plans. Timothy would need antipsychotics, antidepressants, something to help him sleep, and psychotherapy—both group and individual—to help him cope. Even acupuncture might help.
All of these combined might help Timothy break the cycle of his fears.

Matthew thought about Mrs. Simmons.
She obviously has “compassion fatigue.” She may need some therapy, too.

Matthew looked back at his copious notes, focusing on the symptoms.

He checked the time.
Three-fifteen. I hope she isn't too busy.

Angela answered on the second ring. “Smith's Sweet Treats and Coffee.”

“I missed you this morning.”
I really missed her all day.
“You busy?”

“It's quiet now,” she said softly.

“I hope you didn't fix me anything for breakfast or lunch,” Matthew said.

“I didn't,” Angela said. “I knew you'd listen to me for a change. How much sleep did you get?”

“Twice as much as usual.”
Too much. I still feel groggy. I need some coffee.

“What are you doing now?” Angela asked.

“I'm researching PTSD,” Matthew said. “I think Timothy has a strong case. He has many of the symptoms.”

“What are they?” Angela asked.

“Flashbacks, nightmares, emotional numbness, avoiding the world, hopelessness, difficulty in his marriage, guilt, trouble sleeping, concentrating.”

“And what kinds of treatment will you recommend that the army pay for?” Angela asked.

He leafed through his notes. “Antipsychotics for starters.”

“Like Abilify?” Angela asked.

He looked down the list of antipsychotics and found Abilify. “Right. Or antidepressants such as Zoloft or Paxil, and something called Prazosin to help him sleep. None of those are cheap.”

“Should he be seeing a psychiatrist?” Angela asked.

“He'll need lots of individual and group therapy,” Matthew said. “I'm sure there are others out there who are in the same boat.”

“Are there any other treatments?” Angela asked.

“One study suggested that acupuncture might help,” Matthew said.

“Have you ever tried that?” Angela asked.

“No, but if all else fails—”

“I have a customer,” Angela interrupted.

Don't go yet!
“Did you get my message?”

“Yes,” Angela said. “When are you coming to help clean up?”

Is that eagerness in her voice? I hope so.
“I'll try to be there by seven-thirty, okay? I have some laundry to do.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Okay,” he said to the static. “See you soon.”

Matthew did two loads of laundry, showered, and shaved, arriving at Angela's a little before 7:30. He immediately put on his apron and got to work, mopping the kitchen floor, sweeping the dining area, and polishing tables. At 8:00, Angela locked the front door, and Matthew mopped the dining area. At 8:04, she finished counting down the register and looked at Matthew, who had already taken off his apron.

“That was a record,” she said. “Four minutes.”

“We'll beat it tomorrow,” Matthew said.

Angela nodded and walked to the front door.

That's it? No decaf? No conversation?
“I'll be here bright and early in the morning.”

“Good.” She extended her arms, took a step forward, and gave Matthew a fierce hug.

Matthew put his hands lightly on her back.

Angela stepped back and fumbled with her hands, staring at the floor. “I'll have your breakfast ready. What would you like?”

She's shaking. Her whole body is shaking. Why is she shaking?
“Surprise me.”

“I'll try.” She looked up briefly. “Bye.”

Matthew stepped outside.

Angela closed the door.

Matthew waved.

Angela nodded, then swept through the dining area, turned off lights, and disappeared into the kitchen.

That was
completely
unexpected. It was very nice, and as hugs go, that one . . .
wow
. Her shoulders pressed into my chest, her arms squeezed me like a boa constrictor, her head rested on my shoulder, and her hips locked onto my thighs. It lasted so long I could feel her heartbeat in my stomach. Or was it my own heartbeat? Maybe a little of both. And such heat! She kind of smelled lemony, too. Lemons and coffee and pastries. She smells as sweet—and sour, but in a nice way—as she is.

I should
not
see her more often.

Maybe if I stay away for
two
days, I can get a kiss.

Chapter 20

M
atthew beat Angela to Smith's Sweet Treats and Coffee, arriving at 5:55
AM
and peering up at swollen, black storm clouds moving through the gloom overhead.
We are going to have a major snowstorm.

Angela opened the door and cocked her head toward his booth.

“French toast?” Matthew said, entering and ripping off his coat.

“You said you liked variety,” she said. “I hope you like blackberry syrup.”

Matthew looked at his plate, powdered sugar floating on a lake of syrup. “I like.” He sat. “The clouds out there look pretty ominous today. And the temperatures seemed to drop the closer I came to the shop.”

“Ha ha.” Angela sat across from him.

What did I say?
“Oh, I didn't mean it got colder—”

“I know what you meant,” Angela interrupted, glancing at the window. “I've already turned up the heat twice. We're supposed to have quite a storm. Maybe even a blizzard. They're predicting up to two feet.”

“We'll still be open for business, no matter what, right?” Matthew asked.

“Right.” She glided out of the booth. “I have to check on the coffee.”

Matthew reached for her arm and missed. “Angela?”

She turned.

“Thank you for the hug last night.”

She nodded.

“It kept me warm all the way home,” Matthew said.

“Me, too.” She sighed. “I'll get your coffee.”

Matthew dug into his French toast, and the second Angela tried to join him in the booth with her coffee, a serious rush began.

“This always happens just before a storm,” she said. “You have work to do, right?”

Matthew nodded. “Thank you for breakfast, Angela.”

“You're welcome,” Angela said.

Matthew took out his notes and listened again to Timothy's interview. In the old days with SYG, he would unleash a media firestorm on television and the Internet to force a plaintiff to do the right thing. He knew he couldn't do that with this case.
I have to go in low-key. The U.S. Army probably doesn't like to be blindsided. I know they'll put up a wall of silence, but if I keep pushing gently, I may get somewhere.

He sifted through Timothy's files and found the name of William Wick, MD, the psychiatrist at the VA hospital in Manhattan who last treated Timothy.

He dialed the main number for the hospital.

“Good afternoon, how may I direct your call?” a bored female voice asked.

At least it's not a computerized system with all that button-pushing.
“Could you transfer me to Dr. William Wick's office? Thank you. It's an emergency.”

A few
minutes
later, a woman answered. “This is Dr. Wick's office. How may I help you?”

“I need to talk to Dr. Wick,” Matthew said breathlessly. “I'm just back from Afghanistan, and I'm in crisis. A buddy of mine told me Dr. Wick was the man to talk to in case of emergency.”

“Are you currently contemplating or in the act of committing suicide?” she asked.

What a question!
“No, ma'am, but thanks for asking.”

“Would you like to set up an appointment?” she asked.

Ignore the question.
“My buddy's name is Second Lieutenant Timothy Simmons. Dr. Wick helped him about two years ago. I
really
need to speak to Dr. Wick.”

“One moment.”

I hope she's checking the records. She'll see I'm telling the truth—at least about Timothy. The next part is going to be tricky.
“You still there? It will only take a few minutes, I swear. Please. I beg you.”

The woman sighed. “I'll transfer you.”

“This is Dr. Wick. To whom am I speaking?”

No more lies now, and it's time to talk fast.
“Doctor Wick, I'm Matthew McConnell, and I'm calling in reference to a former patient of yours who I am representing, Second Lieutenant Timothy Simmons. You assessed him two years ago after an incident in the OR at Woodhull Medical. Does any of this ring a bell?”

“
First
of all—”

“I know you can't talk about any of your patients, Doctor,” Matthew interrupted. “I just want to know if you remember treating Timothy. He was an anesthetist at Landstuhl who claimed to have PTSD.”

“I can't—”

“All of this is completely off the record, I promise,” Matthew interrupted. “I only need some hypothetical information for argument's sake.”

“What kind of information?” Dr. Wick asked.

Always confuse them with vague phrases.
“Or I can talk, and you can feel free not to answer.”

“I'm really very busy,” Dr. Wick said.

“Yes, I'm sure you are very busy denying PTSD status to suffering soldiers,” Matthew said.
We'll let that hang in the air a second to let him feel the
real
reason I'm calling.

“I'm going to hang up,” Dr. Wick said.

“If you really wanted to end this conversation,” Matthew said, “you would have already hung up. You remember Timothy, don't you?”

“I can't say whether I remember him or not,” Dr. Wick said.

“Let me refresh your memory then, hypothetically speaking, of course,” Matthew said. “Let's say an OR anesthetist witnesses hundreds of gruesome operations and amputations, say, at Landstuhl, operations made necessary by combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, and two years after his discharge this anesthetist has severe difficulties. He comes to a VA psychiatrist, someone very much like yourself, for help, only this psychiatrist determines there's nothing wrong with him because he was not in active combat.” Matthew took a breath. “This hypothetical anesthetist then becomes numb, never leaving his apartment for two years, unable to hold a job or sleep through the night without terrible nightmares. You still there, Dr. Wick?”

“I am,” Dr. Wick said.

This is a good sign. Maybe his conscience is bothering him about Timothy.
“What do you think of my hypothetical situation?”

“Is this hypothetical anesthetist still taking the hypothetical antidepressant I might have hypothetically prescribed?” Dr. Wick asked.

Aha! Dr. Wick prescribed an antidepressant. Why do that if Timothy wasn't depressed?
“He cannot currently afford to take antidepressants because he cannot hold a job. He and his wife are living on her salary and the help of their church. Why would a psychiatrist prescribe an antidepressant to a soldier who had been out of the service for two years? Hypothetically speaking.”

“Perhaps because of separation anxiety,” Dr. Wick said. “Soldiers sometimes get depressed when they leave the service. They miss the order of things. They miss their comrades-in-arms. Thus, a psychiatrist might prescribe something like Abilify to ease the transition.”

Matthew found and circled “Abilify” in his notes. “In this hypothetical case I'm describing, is the
only
reason this soldier wasn't granted PTSD status because he was never in combat?”

“Hypothetically speaking, yes,” Dr. Wick said.

“This hypothetical soldier saw the
results
of combat, Doctor Wick,” Matthew said.

“And so did other military medical personnel and thousands of combat soldiers who are currently leading normal lives,” Dr. Wick said.

“As far as you know,” Matthew said.

“I only see them when they're in crisis, Mr. McConnell,” Dr. Wick said.

“So you agree that my hypothetical soldier was in crisis,” Matthew said quickly.

“This conversation—”

“What about the nightmares he has every time he closes his eyes?” Matthew interrupted.

“Can you
prove
he has nightmares, Mr. McConnell?” Dr. Wick asked.

“No, but you can't prove he
doesn't
have them, can you?” Matthew asked.

“Good day, Mr. McConnell.”

Matthew frowned and finished his cup of coffee.

Angela refilled Matthew's cup. “That didn't sound too good.” She rolled her eyes. “You were in crisis?”

Angela's cute little ears pick up everything, even when she's swamped with customers!
“I had to get my foot in the door somehow.”

“You're a pretty convincing liar,” Angela said. “I only caught the first part, though. Who were you talking to?”

“Doctor Wick, the psychiatrist who originally examined Timothy after his meltdown,” Matthew said, shaking his head. “You know, if Timothy went out and committed a crime, he wouldn't be able to use PTSD as a defense because according to the U.S. Army, he doesn't have it, and if the U.S. Army says it, it must be true.”

“Get another psychiatrist to examine him,” Angela said.

“I could, but I don't know that many psychiatrists, especially ones who deal with PTSD on a regular basis,” Matthew said.

Angela went behind the counter and came back with a business card. “You could call him.”

Matthew looked at the card. “Doctor Kenneth Penn.”
With an address on North 7th Street, a few blocks from here.
“How do you know him?”

“He's a friend of the family,” Angela said. “He's retired now, but he still sees patients.”

“How long has he been retired?” Matthew asked.

“Five, maybe six years,” Angela said.

Shoot.
“I need a practicing psychiatrist.”

“Doctor Penn served in Vietnam as a medic,” Angela said. “And if a Vietnam medic turned psychiatrist says a current vet has PTSD . . .”

“He was regular army?” Matthew asked.

Angela nodded.

“So he should know all about PTSD,” Matthew said.

“Yes,” Angela said. “Want me to give him a call?”

“You're not my receptionist. Angela. I'll call him.”

“I know the man,” Angela said. “I have to vouch for you first. He's retired, remember? He has his own hours, just like you do.” Angela placed the business card on the table and picked up Matthew's phone. “May I?”

“Sure.”

She punched in the number. “Oh, I have some cookies coming out.” She walked around the counter. “Hi, Doctor Penn? Angela Smith . . .”

Matthew stared at the business card.
What makes a person become a psychiatrist? How can anyone listen to other people's misery for a living? Hmm. I kind of do that, too, don't I?

Angela returned a few minutes later. “The doctor will see you now.”

“Just like that,” Matthew said.

She handed him the phone. “Don't keep him waiting.”

“Where are the cookies?” Matthew asked, putting on his coat.

“Oh, they weren't quite ready.” She smiled. “Hurry back, or I'll eat them all.”

“Okay.”

Matthew walked through snow flurries that turned into a steady rain of snow by the time he reached North 7th and Roebling and Dr. Penn's all-brick house, a classy brass nameplate on the door announcing: “The Doctor Is In.”

Matthew rang the bell, and a tall black man wearing jeans and a T-shirt under a brown blazer opened the door.

“Mr. McConnell?” he said.

He was in Vietnam? His hair doesn't have a speck of gray in it.
“Yes sir,” Matthew said.

“Come in, come in,” Dr. Penn said.

Matthew followed Dr. Penn up a shiny wooden staircase to an open area where comfortable-looking brown leather couches and wingback chairs surrounded a coffee table.

Dr. Penn sat in one of the wingback chairs, Matthew in the other.

“Thank you for meeting with me on such short notice, Dr. Penn,” Matthew said.

“I'd do anything to help another soldier,” Dr. Penn said. “We're all in the same family. Tell me about his case.”

Matthew took the microcassette recorder from his briefcase. “I'll let him tell you.” He played the tape.

When he finished, Dr. Penn smiled. “You drew him out very well, Matthew.”

“It wasn't easy,” Matthew said. “Do you think we have a case?”

“It seems clear-cut to me,” Dr. Penn said, “but I will need to examine Timothy in person to make a more accurate assessment.”