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The thought of what she relives every night makes me nauseous. I hate that she’s ashamed of having night terrors, loathe that she sees herself as weak. Jesus, after what those fuckers did to her, how could she not have nightmares?
Charlie’s coping method has always been to ignore her pain and pretend it doesn’t exist. She tells herself it doesn’t matter, that it’s not important, to forget it. She repeats this mantra until her subconscious dulls the pain and suppresses the memories. But an event this significant isn’t something she can bury, especially not with constant reminders each time she looks in a mirror. It’s been four years, but that doesn’t make it any less traumatic. Some damages can’t be hidden. She’s got to acknowledge and deal with what happened.
Maybe the nightmares are her mind’s way of demanding that she does.
There’s a lot I don’t understand about trauma and PTSD. I reach for my tablet on the bedside table and start scouring the internet. Charlie found a way to ease my pain when all the doctors at BAMC couldn’t. My new purpose is finding a way to help Charlie with hers.
CHARLIE
Mark’s physical therapy starts the day after he comes home. When I walk him over for his first appointment, he looks around our lobby with interest. He’s heard Lila and I discuss our clinic a lot these past few months, but this is the first time he’s seen it.
The majority of our clients have endured a military-related trauma or injury. Because of this, Lila and I intentionally designed the space to exude a sense of tranquility, using soft neutral colors with crisp white and matte silver accents. Our artwork consists of huge nature photographs taken by Tucker’s famous photographer brother. Lush green forest paths, bubbling streams filled with mossy rocks, starry midnight skies, and calm mountain sunrises grace our walls. I have some of these same prints hanging in my own home.
“Let me show you around,” I offer, leading him down a hall to the right and opening a door. “This is one of our massage rooms. The tables are electric, so we can lower them for our wheelchair-bound clients, then raise them to a comfortable working height.”
Mark examines the room. The rockwork along one wall, the floors, and the cabinetry echo the interior of my home, another space designed to be calm and peaceful. Soft lighting keeps the room soothing, and a tabletop fountain trickles while meditative music flows from an unseen source. His eyes travel over the serene space. “Nice.”
“We have four rooms like this.”
He glances over. “I thought it was just you and Lila.”
“Lila had to hire another therapist when I flew to Texas for three months, and when we built this place, Lila insisted we plan for the future we want. Apparently, her future includes four massage therapists.” I grin and open a door directly across the hall, and he follows me inside. This room’s design is similar to the massage room, with one rock feature wall and soft lighting. A large whirlpool tub occupies most of the space. A bench perches alongside the tub, providing easier transfers for wheelchair-bound clients. In the corner is an open shower stall for rinsing off the mineral soak afterwards. “This is one of our hydrotherapy rooms. We use these in conjunction with PT. Tom works his clients pretty hard, and then they receive hydrotherapy and massage to prevent muscle spasms,” I explain.
Mark nods. He’s endured numerous challenging PT sessions followed by late night spasms.
We walk back through the lobby and past the reception desk where I point out the communal kitchen, bathrooms, Lila’s office, and my office.
“I’m down here on the right,” I say, leading him into my normally soothing space. My jaw drops as I glance around. The usual serenity of the room is jarred by precarious stacks of paper obscuring my desk, credenza, coffee table, and sofa. It’s even piled on and behind the sofa.
My inner OCD organizer nearly faints at the sight. I wince as Mark raises an eyebrow. “Lila doesn’t usually deal with the paperwork, so I’ll assume this is her filing system. I’ll sort it out.” From the look of things, it’s going to take several days and a couple of bottles of wine.
Large bottles.
We return to the lobby, veering left into a huge open area as large as all the other rooms combined. “This is our rehab gym. Tom’s office area is in that corner,” I point to the far left, “and this seating area is for family conferences. The rest of this space is for equipment and treatment.” Mark’s familiar with most of what he sees here. BAMC’s rehab gym is gigantic. We have much of the same equipment, just in smaller quantities.
I direct Mark to the seating area. “We’re starting with a group planning session. Tom wants us to complement each other’s therapies, so Tucker and Lila will be joining us for this since we’re all working with you.” I glance up just as they stroll in, hand in hand. Tucker’s clearly just left the gym. His light brown hair is still damp from a shower and he’s wearing shorts and a tee shirt emblazoned with his business logo. Lila’s dressed in our standard khakis and a loose white shirt. Her curls are pulled up in a loose twist, though a few blond tendrils have escaped.
I flush, feeling Tucker’s gaze. Lila came by this morning and we called Dr. Martin. My appointment is first thing tomorrow. This is the first time Tucker’s seen me since I nearly shot Mark.
He seems completely unfazed, winking at me as usual. “Hey, Charlie.” Then he lightly punches Mark’s shoulder. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”
Mark grins. “That’s right, baby. I’m your dream come true.”
Tucker rolls his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Tom appears with a stack of papers. “Hey, guys, sorry I’m late. My conference call ran long,” he apologizes. I watch Mark size Tom up. Tom stands a couple of inches shorter than Mark, but his chest and shoulders are even wider than Mark’s, and he’s as solid as a bulldog. His eyes and smile are warm, though his nose has a couple of distinctive crooks. I see Mark’s gaze stop there, probably trying to gauge whether the breaks were acquired in a bar fight or a boxing ring. “Everybody grab a seat and we’ll get started. Anybody want water?”
“I’ll grab it.” I collect several bottles from the corner fridge and pass them around as we all settle into the comfortable grey chairs.
Tom plops the pile of papers down on a table, then leans over and sticks out his hand. “Hey, Mark. Tom Edwards. It’s great to finally meet you. I’ve heard about you for years. Everything the ladies said was complimentary. Tucker, not so much.” He grins.
Mark shrugs. “Never trust the opinion of a petty, jealous man.”
Tucker snorts, and Mark grins.
“We’re taking a team approach to help you achieve your recovery goals. My job is to work with you on exercises and techniques to improve mobility and strength. Tucker will focus on rebuilding muscle. Lila and Charlie will help with massage, hydrotherapy, and home exercises. I’ve gone through your records from Brooke,” Tom gestures toward the papers on the table, “and I just spoke with Rick, your lead therapist. He shared his input on where he thought we should focus, but I’m more interested in your personal goals, because if our goals don’t align, we won't be successful.”
Mark answers immediately. “I want my leg strong enough for osseointegration. I want to get my permanent prosthesis and look and walk like a normal guy.”
