The Difference a Day Makes (Perfect, Indiana: Book Two) (30 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

R
YAN WIPED HIS SWEATY PALMS
on his jeans for the third time. His heart pounded so loud he swore he heard the echo off the walls as he headed down the corridor of the Marion VA center toward the mental health unit—toward hell. His pits were soaked, and the stain had spread under the arms of his shirt. What a mess. Was it too late to hightail it out of there, find a bar, and hide himself in the bottom of a bottle?

Paige’s image sprang into his head. Yep. Far too late to bail. The yearning for something better outranked the bunker he’d built around his heart and soul. He longed to be free of the ghosts, nightmares, and anxiety plaguing him.

Meeting up with Noah’s group of veterans Tuesday evening hadn’t been so bad. They met in the back room of the VFW, ate dinner, drank coffee, checked in with each other, and mostly just hung out. He hadn’t said much, and no one pushed. Maybe Dr. Bernard wouldn’t push either, and he could ease into things at his own pace. He gulped in a breath and walked up to the check-in counter. “I’m Ryan Malloy. I have an appointment with Dr. Bernard.”

An older woman with silver hair and a bored expression handed him a clipboard with a pen attached to a thin chain. “Fill
this out. I’ll need to make a copy of your VA insurance card and driver’s license.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He removed the requested items from his wallet and handed them to her. She walked away to make a copy, and he slid to the end of the counter to fill out the medical history forms. In true military style, the questionnaire went on and on, with plenty of repetition thrown in for good measure. The last box to be checked finally came into view, and he returned the clipboard to the assistant behind the counter.

She took the forms from him and handed back his cards. “Have a seat. Dr. Bernard is with someone right now. He’ll come get you when he’s ready.”

“Great.” He surveyed the reception area and chose a corner chair, away from the others waiting to be seen. Picking up a hunting magazine from the stack on the end table, he flipped through the pages and thought about the past couple of years.

Letter. Pictures. Gun. Bottle.

If Noah had waited one more day to make that call…
Shit.

“Ryan Malloy?”

A powerful surge of adrenaline hit his bloodstream, and a whole new drenching sweat broke out. “Yes, sir.” He shot up out of his chair.

“I’m Dr. Bernard.” A tall, balding man with piercing gray eyes and a lean, fit body gestured toward the hall. “Come on back to my office, Mr. Malloy. Let’s talk.”

“Sure.” He followed the doctor down the narrow hall and into his office. “Call me Ryan, sir.” He noticed the doctor walked with a slight limp. The edge of his slacks rose up, giving him a glimpse of a prosthetic inside his shoe. Had he lost his leg in active combat? Ryan’s tension eased a fraction.

He cased the room. Several pictures on one wall formed a circle around the doctor’s credentials. Military units, marines. Ryan moved closer. Yep. He found a younger version of Dr. Bernard in every picture.

“The Gulf War and Afghanistan.” The doctor sat in a leather chair and indicated the chair opposite to his. “Have a seat.”

Ryan moved away from the pictures and sat as ordered. A fat file with his name on the tab caught his eye. Bernard picked it up, spread it open on his lap, and put on a pair of reading glasses. The requisite forms he’d filled out a week ago for his caseworker lay on top of the pile. He braced himself.

“You can call me Doc, by the way. Everyone does.” He continued to scan the contents of the file, giving nothing away in his expression. “Nightmares, flashbacks, anxiety, self-medicating, and suicidal. Hmm. It says here you’ve been playing a solo version of Russian roulette for the past two years.” Dr. Bernard glanced at him. “Tell me about that.”

Swallowing hard a few times first, Ryan forced himself to begin. “I had this vintage .357 revolver. I’d get home from work, lay everything out on my coffee table, spin the cylinder with one bullet, and start drinking.” Sucking in a huge breath, he blew it out slowly. “I got it into my mouth several times, but I only managed to pull the trigger once. Most of the time, I passed out drunk.”

Doc’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second. “It’s a good thing you hit an empty chamber.”

“I didn’t. I hit the chamber with the bullet.”

Doc shot him a questioning look.

“I was aiming at my couch that night. I killed it dead.” Ryan studied the ceiling and tried to blink the burn away. “I didn’t really want to die, Doc. I was just desperate to get away from the pain of not knowing how to go on living.”

Dr. Bernard nodded and cleared his throat. “Two twelve-month deployments in three years”—Bernard flipped through his file—“as an artillery specialist in a heavy combat unit.”

“Yeah, Uncle Sam was experiencing a severe shortage of boots on the ground.”

“Your last deployment, you were injured in a suicide bombing? I see you’ve already been adjudicated for PTSD.” He raised his gaze. “You went through therapy then. Tell me about that.”

“I fronted—did what I had to do to get through.” Ryan scrubbed his hands over his face. “I wasn’t…interested. The doctor assigned to me had never been deployed…never engaged with hostiles. What did he know about what I was going through?”

“What’s changed?”

He shifted in the chair.
Everything.
“The night I shot my couch, I got a call from my former lieutenant, Noah Langford. He offered me a great job, and I moved here a few months ago. One morning, his sister found me passed out next to my suicide letter, a couple of pictures, and my gun.” He chuffed out a breath. “She tossed that .357 into the Ohio River and read me the riot act. She ordered me to cease and desist, or else she’d shoot me herself.” The memory brought the flicker of a smile to his face.

“Noah said if I want to keep my job, I have to work on my issues.” He swiped his hand over his face. “I don’t want to lose what I have here. For the first time in forever, I have a reason to get up in the morning. For the first time, I
want
to work on getting better, and I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“Here’s the deal. You can’t front with me, Ryan. Nothing will take if you do.”

“I know.”

“It’s not going to be easy. The nightmares and flashbacks will get worse before they get better. You might want to talk to
your primary physician about meds to help you manage your symptoms.”

“Let me think about that, Doc.” Ryan rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands. “I kind of went off the deep end with my good buddy Johnnie Walker Red. I don’t know if I want to start taking anything right now.”

“All right. Let’s see how you feel in a few weeks.”

No fronting. If this was going to work, he had to be honest and bare all. “I’ve got something to say, sir. I want to tell you about something that happened before I enlisted.” Tightness banded his chest, and his hands formed fists in his lap. “Is that allowed? It’s not military related.”

“Of course.” Doc closed the file and placed it on the small table between their chairs, replacing it with a legal pad and a pen. “What we do here is about you—the whole you, not just the part pertaining to your military service.”

Once he could manage it, he took a fortifying breath and launched into the horror that had been the beginning of his end. “I was engaged before I enlisted.” He related the entire tale, leaving nothing out, including the way he’d forced Theresa to go riding that day. “She died in my arms, and it’s my fault.” Swiping at his eyes, he forged on. “After her death, I enlisted because I wanted to blow shit up and shoot off a gun until I couldn’t shoot anymore.” In his heart, he’d always carried the niggling fear that his desire to fire at an enemy made him a bad person. Bad people didn’t deserve good things.

“Rage is a normal part of grief.” Dr. Bernard reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter. He handed it to Ryan. “Do me a favor.”

Confused, he stared at the quarter in his hand. Did the doc want him to go feed a parking meter somewhere? “Sure.”

“Behind my desk over there, you’ll find one of those plastic watercooler jugs. I want you to drop this quarter into it for me.”

Ryan moved to the area behind the desk and found the container shoved into a corner. The thing was almost half-f of quarters. It would add up to some serious money once the jug was full. He added the quarter and went back to his chair, totally baffled.

“That’s my fishing trip fund. Every time another soldier comes into my office and blames himself or herself for something completely out of their control, the jar gets another quarter.” Doc peered at him over the rims of his reading glasses.

Ryan blinked. “There are a hell of a lot of quarters in there.”

“The visual has quite an impact, doesn’t it?” Doc smiled. “Think about that the next time your mind goes into shame and blame mode.” He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me about the woman who threw your gun into the river.”

Ryan’s entire body relaxed. “Paige. Her name is Paige, and she’s as tough as nails and soft as dandelion fluff, all at the same time. She’s brilliant. It took her all of ten minutes to figure me out, but when it comes to figuring herself out? She’s clueless.” One side of his mouth quirked up. “She’s a spoiled little rich girl with a heart of gold. Paige is a gorgeous package of contradictions, and I’m crazy about her.”

“Is she a major factor in your decision to seek help?”

What was the doc getting at? “I guess. Is it important?”

“I want to be clear about what motivates you.”

“You mean, if things don’t work out with Paige, am I going to slip back into the abyss?”

“It’s not about what I think. This is about you, Ryan. What are your thoughts?”

“Paige has already made it clear she plans to go on to bigger and better things, Doc. Is she one of the reasons I’m here? Yeah, but not in the way you think.” He looked him in the eye, firm in his resolve. “I need to be here, and I want to get better. When she leaves, I’m not going to survive the loss if I’m not already working through some of my shit and building a support network.” His throat constricted, and his eyes misted again.

“Losing her is a foregone conclusion in your mind?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” What did he have to offer to a woman like her? A new truck?
Shit
. He wasn’t any good for anybody, not even to himself, if he didn’t start building a ladder out of the hell he lived in—one rung at a time. “No fronting. No bullshit. You have my word.”

“Good. I’d like to see you every week for now. Do Thursday afternoons work for you? If they do, we can set up a schedule for the next six weeks.”

“Let’s do that. Thursdays work for me. My boss has given me permission to leave early for this.” The doc wrote something down on yet another form and handed it to him. Ryan couldn’t help it. A few hot tears slipped out, and he sagged with relief. He’d taken the first step.

“I’d like to get you into a group. We’ll talk more about that next week.” Dr. Bernard took off his reading glasses and rose. “Ryan, I’ve been where you are, and I promise, things will get better.”

“I hope so, Doc.” He pushed himself out of the chair and walked toward the door.

“Stop by the front desk to set up those appointments.”

“Yes, sir. I will.” His insides had turned to a washrag that had been wrung out one too many times. His legs barely supported his weight, and he had to lean against the counter while
he handed over the sheet of paper the doc had given him to set up the six-week schedule.

Only five in the afternoon, and all he wanted to do was go home and go to bed. First, he had to pack for the trip to Philly. Thinking about his weekend with Paige went a long way toward perking up his energy level. They were going to stay in her condo. The two of them. Alone. “I’ll bet she has a really nice bed.”

“I beg your pardon?” The silver-haired receptionist stopped entering his appointment dates into the calendar and stared wide-eyed his way.

“Uh…Sorry, ma’am. I was just thinking out loud. Are we about done here?”

“Will you get the cooler on the porch?” Paige tossed her overnight bag and backpack into Ryan’s backseat next to his stuff and set two thermos bottles between the front seats. “Noah has to go into Evansville this morning. He’ll be in later, but he said we can head out whenever we want. I packed food for the entire trip. If we leave at ten instead of lunchtime, we can be at my condo by eleven tonight.” She pulled out a wad of folded papers from her purse. “I have a Google map for you. I’ll navigate.”