A Conard County Homecoming. Rachel LeeЧитать онлайн книгу.
isn’t always a cause. It just happens. It happens less when I’m away from known triggers, but it still happens. And I guess you’ve figured out that Nell does more for me than open doors and grab my socks.”
“She seems wonderful,” Ashley answered sincerely.
“She is. She responds immediately when I start to...slip, and she helps call me back quickly. Before Nell I could fall into flashbacks that lasted hours. Once it was even days.” He grimaced. “My neighbors didn’t much appreciate that last one.”
She hesitated then asked because she wanted to know. “The flashbacks...they don’t help you at all?”
“No.”
Well, that was pretty grim. Dissociative episodes with no purpose except to make him miserable. A mind so overwhelmed that it kept trying to absorb what had happened and was totally unable to do so. Reliving horror.
“Thank God for Nell,” she said finally. It seemed like such a weak response to what he had revealed.
He patted his lap, and she watched with amazement and amusement as Nell jumped up and did her best to curl up on him. The dog licked his chin, and for the first time she saw Zane laugh. Such a nice laugh. The dog apparently liked it, too, wagging her tail rapidly.
“She barely fits,” Ashley remarked.
“She has to work at it,” he agreed. His hands ran down Nell’s furry back. “She’s a lifesaver.”
Somehow she didn’t believe he was exaggerating.
“Anyway, I was lucky. Some of my friends got together and gave her to me. I guess the little boy in your class could use the same kind of luck. So this Cadell guy is also trying to provide service dogs?”
“He’s trying. He mainly trains police dogs, search-and-rescue dogs, but he’s aware of the need. He consults with people who can help him figure out how to do it. Your advice might be very helpful.”
He nodded. “Thing is, I don’t know how she was trained. When I got Nell, she was on top of it all. I guess I could email one of my friends to see if they know who the trainer was. The trainer would be more helpful than I could ever be.”
It was probably true, but Ashley suspected this was another way of keeping his isolation intact. Who was she to question his methods of dealing with his problems?
“Thanks,” she said. “Mikey could sure use something to brighten his days. He hasn’t been paralyzed long, only the last year, and he still has trouble dealing with it. The idea that kids can just bounce right back from anything... Well, it’s not always true.”
“How was he hurt?”
“Thrown from a horse. His mom told me his back was broken in several places and he became quadriplegic. They’re grateful he’s still alive, but I’m not sure Mikey always is.”
“Why should he be?” Zane asked roughly. “God spare me the Pollyannas. Pardon me, but it doesn’t always help to hear how lucky you are.”
Ashley drew a breath. She wasn’t shocked—she knew he was right, but few people said such things so baldly.
“Count your blessings,” he said. “Sure. That works. On a good day. On a bad day you just wish you’d never survived.”
The stark truth rendered her speechless. Every single word that sprang to mind in answer struck her as a useless aphorism. This man was dealing with very real and very ugly memories and impulses. No words could offer any kind of succor.
“Now you know,” he said. “That’s why I don’t want to fill my life with people. I’ve rattled you badly several times since you walked through my door. Who the hell needs to be around that?”
“I’m fine,” she protested. Then, seeking safer ground immediately because she wanted to change the direction of his thinking as quickly as possible, “Don’t you need some modifications in this kitchen?”
Startled, his head jerked back a bit. Nell jumped down from his lap and took up her watchful position. “My kitchen?” he repeated.
“Well, what else can I talk about?”
He frowned faintly. “The weather?”
“Cold and getting colder. I love autumn. What about the kitchen?”
To her amazement, a slow smile made it halfway across his face. “The kitchen has to wait. Expensive, and there’s no point in doing it unless I decide to stay here.”
“Ah.” So he wasn’t sure he was settled.
Deciding once again it was time to make her departure, she rose. “I hope you enjoy the pie. It was a pleasure to see you again, Zane. Sorry I intruded for so long.”
She zipped her jacket, knowing it would be even colder outside now. “I’ll see myself out. And, by the way, if you should need anything, I’m next door.” She pointed. “I’m home most afternoons and evenings, because a teacher’s day doesn’t end when school lets out and I always have paperwork. Good night.”
Then she marched out of that house with enough to think about that she’d probably be up late into the night.
She had no idea what she’d expected when she knocked on his door, but now she was deeply disturbed. Whoever Zane had become, he didn’t at all resemble the young athlete she remembered.
He probably remembered that kid, though, and it couldn’t make his life one bit easier now.
* * *
Zane sat in his kitchen, not moving, for a long time. The smell of the apple pie filled the room, and he clung to it as he kneaded Nell’s neck.
Simple things. Good things. The schoolteacher had reminded him. Neighbors and apple pies. Running next door for a cup of sugar. Friendly faces on the streets. A world he hadn’t known for a long time.
She was cute, that one. Beautiful, even, but there was no room in his hell for a woman. He’d only drag her down. Adapting to a wheelchair hadn’t been as difficult as dealing with himself and the wars.
Would he like to have the use of his legs back? Sure. Would he like to erase his memory? Absolutely. He’d trade his legs for a clean slate.
But he wasn’t going to get either, so he had to find a way to make peace with himself. That was proving difficult indeed.
He’d tried group counseling with other vets. It had helped to know he wasn’t alone in his reactions, feelings and nightmares, but that didn’t get rid of any of them. He’d tried medications that were supposed to improve his PTSD, but he’d tossed them all because of Nell. She did more good for him than any pill. Anyway, until they invented a pill for selective memory loss, he was bound to live with himself.
It wasn’t that he hated himself. But he’d been a sailor and done a SEAL’s job, and inevitably horror had been etched on his memory.
Sighing, he rolled out of the kitchen, away from the enticing aroma of the pie and to his bedroom where one carved wooden box, a gift from a friend, waited on his aged dresser, set there by Carol when she unpacked the boxes he’d sent ahead. Opening it, he took out the medal presentation cases within and looked at the wages of his war.
A Purple Heart with a cluster pinned to the ribbon, the cluster for his second wounding, the injury that had paralyzed him. A Bronze Star with multiple clusters. A Silver Star with clusters. A Navy Cross. Campaign and other ribbons, but they didn’t hold his attention. Those stars and the Navy Cross in particular said he was a hero.
Why didn’t he feel like one? He snapped the cases closed and put them back in the box. Once he’d mentioned that he was thinking of ditching them, but an aging Vietnam vet had told him not to. “Someday,” he’d said, “you’ll want them. Or someone else who loves you will. Put them away and save them. They’re the only reward you’ll get.”
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