Part Three
WINTER
As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts
Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms
Was it love or fear of the cold that led us through the night?
For every kiss your beauty trumped my doubt
Mumford & Sons ~Winter Winds
CHAPTER 13
13th December
London
I texted Ethan and wondered if he’d make it before my name was called by Dr. Burnsley’s receptionist. It wasn’t like him to miss a prenatal check-up. In truth, Ethan was probably more into all the details than me. He spent more time on the website and reading the book than I did, for sure. He was always telling me little snippets and factoids he learned from his research, about how our baby was doing and the developmental stages. I teased him relentlessly about being a super nerd who knew “everything about birthin’ babies”—to quote Prissy from Gone With the Wind—and as long as he was the expert he could just give me all the info, saving me the work of looking it up on my own.
Jokes aside, it really wasn’t like him to forget to message me, or call. I tried once more with a text. Is there a problem? Where r u?
I wondered if he would still meet me for lunch. We had a little routine after seeing Dr. Burnsley—lunch somewhere in the city, before he had to return to his office, which was keeping him busier than ever. He’d be leaving for the XT Winter Europe Games on an important assignment for the King of Something-burg right after New Year’s. Ethan didn’t seem thrilled about the job of babysitting a royal crown prince at an international sporting event, but when the king asked for him personally, I think he pretty much had no choice but to say yes. I couldn’t go with him to Switzerland anyway, because flying in the final trimester was a no-go. I’d be here on my own, but it was only for a week. I planned to use the time to get the final touches on the nursery finished up. Make that, nurseries—plural. I had two homes to get prepared by the end of February.
I decided I would go shopping once I was finished here, with or without Ethan. Originally, I’d thought that it would be a good day to get some Christmas shopping done. Only twelve days left to pull it all together, and the presents wouldn’t wrap themselves.
“Brynne Blackstone.” The nurse ticked something off on her chart, and held the door open for me. “Go ahead and leave a urine sample and then I’ll take your weight.” She smiled sweetly, probably to counter the stink eye she usually got from pregnant women who desperately needed to do the first task, as much as they dreaded having to do the second one.
Fun times.
REPLAYING the statistics Dr. Wilson has just rattled off to me didn’t really inspire a great deal of optimism for my future. One in five firefighters; one in three teenage survivors of car crashes; one in two female rape victims; two in three prisoners of war. Especially the last two items on that wretched list. What in the f**k did that say about Brynne and me? PTSD sufferers. Damaged souls who had somehow fallen into each other’s lives by a twist of fate. Brynne was owning up to her demons, and worked with Dr. Roswell to find a way to cope with what had happened to her. She amazed me with her strength—very British in her methodology—just like the WWII poster the doc had plastered above his desk: KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. Brave and beautiful was my girl. Straight-up truth.
Was there some hope for me, too? I wanted there to be. Now, I craved to find a way to be free of the f**king curse that had woven itself into the darkest caverns of my psyche. I needed relief so badly.
I needed it so I could be the husband and father I had to be for Brynne, and for our little one.
“So, I’m listening.” I gave the doc my focus and thought about why I was here with Combat Stress Psychiatrist, Gavin Wilson, at his nondescript office in Surrey, discussing the merits of a course of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.
“The goal is not to force you to dwell on events in your past, but to gain insight into your emotional state of mind at present. This is not a "lie on the couch and tell all" type of therapy, Ethan.”
Thank f**k-all for that. I took in a slow breath and felt relief at what he’d just told me. Talking terrified me. If I spoke of it, I’d go numb, freezing back in time to that place, hearing those voices, smelling the piss, and puke, and shit, feeling the cold, seeing the knife and the …rivers of blood. I’d only told Brynne a fraction of the worst part, because I’d felt so strongly that she deserved to know what I carried around, but it pained me terribly to share all of the ugliness with her. The shit was too dark, too horrible, just too f**king much for her to have to be burdened with.
“That’s good then, I think. So, how does the programme work for somebody like me?” I asked.
“CBT tends to deal with the here and now—over the events during your service in the BA that led to why you’re sitting here talking to me.”
“My wife…she’s had a traumatic event in her past, too. I worry that if I give into this—fuck, I don’t even know what to call it—my worst flashback memory, then I won’t be strong enough for her when she needs my support. We’re expecting our first child at the end of February…” I trailed off, wishing I didn’t sound so pathetically weak, but figured I should be honest with the doc.
“Congratulations to you both.” He wrote something down on a legal pad. “Is your wife in therapy?”
I nodded. “For over four years. She tells me she can’t imagine not having her doctor visits.”
“And you support your wife in seeking treatment and help through psychiatric therapy?” Dr. Wilson asked. I had an idea of where he was going with his line of questioning.
“Of course I support her. It helps her and that’s most important.”
His mouth turned up on one side. “I am sure your wife wants you to have the same level of support that she has, Ethan. But the decision will have to be yours, of course.”