Authors: Sharon Cullars
"I'm tired of talking about Bryan. He's a non-entity as far as I'm concerned.
"
"Good. Now put this bonehead in the same category and move on. Speaking of moving on, you need to get back in the water, swim around a little bit, bump up against some fine fish."
"Look who's talking," Maya quipped back at her sister. As attractive as Jada was, her last relationship was nearly three years ago. And it had proven Jada's belief that one shouldn't shit where one ate. Thankfully, he had moved to a district attorney's position in San Francisco County, ending the dilemma.
"Speaking of fish, I had some great ahi last week…"
"Don't change the subject. When are you going to find someone to at least fuck?"
Maya nearly choked on the biscuit she'd put in her mouth.
"You…what did you say?"
"Yes, that's right. I said
fuck
. And yes, I've at least found a fuck buddy. If I can't have a decent relationship, then at least I can do friends with benefits. Thankfully, he doesn't work anywhere in my building."
"How come I'm just now learning about this?"
Jada shrugged, her side ponytail brushing against her left shoulder. Unlike Maya, Jada "tamed" her curls to look more "professional."
"Nothing special to tell. But he's good at what he does. Sexual frustration is a mean ass bitch, which I was turning into. Can't you tell how relaxed I
've been these past weeks? Met him at a club…"
"Jada!"
"Don't you 'Jada' me Miss Judgey. As I was saying, you need to lie up against a warm body sometime. Take the edge off. Give you what to do with that student of yours…hey, maybe that's what you both need. A teacher's pet solution."
Maya was already shaking her head.
"What, is he ugly?"
"Far from it."
"OK, up to you," Jada said, pulling apart a biscuit with her fork. "Just a suggestion."
"He's…in a wheelchair," Maya said.
"Oh," Jada responded with a screwed up face. "OK, can't go there then."
"Wouldn't go there even if he wasn't in a chair. Like you said, I'm his instructor. There are rules, even if self-imposed."
"Well, one day Ms. Stickler, you're gonna find someone who's going to get you off that straight and narrow road, pull you into some burly, messy bushes for some really kinky and hot and…"
"I'm eating," Maya insisted.
"Hey, you can do that, too," Jada smiled. She'd worn that same smile nearly fifteen years ago, when she snuck back into their bedroom after a forbidden date and announced she had lost her virginity. Jada had never had a problem with grabbing pleasure where she could find it. Maya on the other hand had to at least feel something approximating love…or extreme like. But as much as she'd thought she loved Bryan, he had done nothing for her in bed. Not from lack of trying on her part, though.
"You mean to tell me you've got no prospects, even for
just a cup of coffee?"
Cup of coffee.
Or a cup of espresso.
The man at the fish market popped into her mind. He'd invited her out for a cup of espresso…or more. What was his name again? She'd placed his card in her purse. He'd seemed charming enough, but so had Bryan at first. She had to admit that she was still gun shy. No clubs or bars for her. She'd had men approach her before, but no one had even piqued her interest. But the guy at the fish market, there'd been something infectious about his smile and demeanor. Should she at least take him up on that cup of espresso? If she didn't get out of her rut, she could continue like this for years. Sometimes solitude got too comfortable. But it was preferable to heart ache.
Maybe later on
she'd pull out the card, give him a ring. Suss him out a bit.
Maya took another bite of her mother's favo
rite breakfast recipe. This time she savored the taste of it as she consciously let go of the heaviness that had plagued her since the class.
She
finally answered Jada.
"Yeah, I've got
a prospect. Think I'll check it out."
"Good for you,"
Jada said, satisfied. Sometimes Maya had to wonder who was the older of the two. Jada was stepping into mama's shoes and finding them comfortable. And Maya had to admit, that instead of feeling resentful, she was actually grateful when Jada gave her a shove or sometimes a needed kick up the butt. Got her off her ass.
The two continued their breakfast as Jada regaled her with the intricacies of her latest case. Double homicide. Hardly a fitting subject for breakfast, but Jada didn't bother about niceties. Decorum was not her sister's forte, which made her a kick-ass prosecutor. And a kick-ass sister.
The circle of five men and one woman, all current or ex-military, sat silently as Dr. Roger Madison, the only civilian, spoke from his seat at the head of the circle. Today, he wore a light gray cardigan even though the weather outside was warm and the temperature of the office somewhat stuffy. Zach knew the psychiatrist was playing his part, a comforting figure, paternal and trustworthy. The silver hair and moustache added to the illusion that here was someone you could pour out your darkest secrets to without fear of recrimination. But even in their occasional one-on-one sessions, the doctor still hadn't led Zach to any breakthrough other than that war was hell and he'd brought that hell home with him.
Dr. Madison's
office was also part of his persona. His two degrees, one from the University of Chicago and the other from Princeton, hung on the wall near the door. An overlarge cherry wood desk sat in front of a large window that looked out on a marina bare of boats. The official boating season wouldn't start until the fourth of May, the following month.
Right now the doctor was going through some boring spiel.
"Intersubjectivity is a relatively new approach to post-traumatic stress disorder but it has shown some success in very extreme cases of the condition where simple cognitive-behavioral treatment hasn't worked. To put it simply, this therapy focuses on addressing the elements of shame and isolation that often arise from acts of violence, especially in a war venue. Those negative feelings help revitalize the trauma whenever it's called to the surface, whether in flashbacks or nightmares. All of you have indicated that this is the case with each of you, that you feel that your lives are no longer meaningful, and you feel disconnected from those around you. As though you're living in a vacuum through which you can still see and hear, but not truly experience."
"Ah, man, this is g
oobly glop bullshit," Jerry interrupted. "Ain't nothing gonna make us better unless we have all of our memories erased. Other than that, I'd be all for some stronger drugs that can at least take the edge off. The ones I have now aren't doing shit for me."
Jerry Easton's unkempt ginger hair
and beard matched his personality: fiery and ardent. He had become a rabid anti-military advocate since his discharge a couple of years ago and often spoke out. Which made him an interesting contradiction as he always wore his camouflage jacket and dog tags. In civilian life, he couldn't seem to leave his military life behind.
Dr. Madison turned to address him.
"Well, Jerry, I happen to know that therapy can help soldiers dealing with PTSD, if it does nothing more than defuse some of the emotions pent up inside. As for medications, you should discuss maybe changing your dosage with your primary. He may decide that you need to be put on some other prescription altogether. At times it may seem hit or miss, but I can assure you, we'll do all that we can to help."
Jerry
mouthed something silently to himself. To Zach, it appeared to be the word
bullshit
. He'd only spoken to Jerry a few times after a number of sessions. Jerry could be combative one minute, then in the next minute his demeanor changed to someone under the thrall of a severe depression. His pity partying was too tiring for Zach; for all the man's bitching, at least the asshole could walk.
"OK, you all know the drill. Each of you can take
fifteen minutes to present anything that's bothering you in terms of your condition, any new problems or recurrence of old symptoms. Then the group will discuss, sort through possible solutions. Delia, let's start with you."
Delia
Montez was a beautiful woman by any man's measure. Or woman's measure, for that matter. Dark-haired, olive skinned, dark almond eyes, full lips. But totally messed up soul. It would take a special person to deal with her shit, some of which preceded her two stints with the Navy. Iraq had done a head job on her, and each Monday at group they were regaled with yet another of her issues involving her husband, which she blamed on the post traumatic stress. But what everyone was starting to realize was that she simply had certain trust issues that had little to do with the war.
Still, she had the nightmares; they all did.
Arnie sitting two persons down from him and Melvin sitting across from him often told of flashbacks that brought terror into their homes, sometimes while they were on the streets. And they never knew when the episodes were going to happen. Zach thanked whatever gods that he didn't have to deal with that, at least.
"And that's the stuff
that's been going on with me," Delia finished up. Zach realized that he had spaced out on her, as he had done before. Jerry's first commentary on Delia's latest problem:
bullshit
. Then he offered an even more solicitous observation.
"You shouldn't even be here. So you
say your husband's stepping out on you. Word, most men do that. It's an underlying contract in the "I Do's" notarized by the kiss and the cake. Only clueless bitches don't seem to understand that. You don't have any serious problems that a kick to your husband's nuts wouldn't settle…"
"No, you're not hearing me Jerry
," she whined, her face distorted with frustration. "The dreams and memories have me so on edge, so paranoid, that I wouldn't trust the Pope. I don't know whether Raoul is actually seeing someone. He says he's not, and I don't have the ability to just trust him…or anybody else for that matter. It's so bad now I think my kid is lying when she says she's going to a friend's house. I…I just want to feel like somebody has my back, you know…"
Dr.
Madison piped in. "We hear you, Delia. And we understand your frustration. Many who return from the war have subsequent trust issues involving friends and family members. I don't think what you're dealing with is just a matter of possible infidelity or your daughter possibly lying to you. As Jerry pointed out…in his very blunt way…is that these are ordinary occurrences. But I think the issue is much broader than that for you. On the battlefield, you rely on others for your very life. One mistake on the field can feel like a betrayal and it does mess with your ability to freely rely on another."
Zach began to squirm in his chair which didn't escape Dr. Madison's notice.
"Are you uncomfortable, Zachary?"
"No, I'm fine."
"That's good to hear. How did it go this week? Are things working out with your art class?"
With Dr. Madison's attention elsewhere, a still frustrated
Delia looked at Zach somewhat resentfully.
In
his last personal session with the doctor, Zach had purposely omitted a few things, like his acting out in the first class. He felt guilty about the omission now, but omissions weren't exactly lying. Yet he knew that if he was going to get anything out of these sessions, he had to lay down some truth from now on.
"
The instructor, Ms. Temple…she thinks her class isn't challenging enough for me."
"Oh?" Dr. Madison raised an eyebrow. "And what do you think, Zachary?"
"She's right. It isn't."
"So, you'v
e decided to quit her class then?" Zach could hear the censure in the doctor's voice.
"She wanted me to. But then she came up with an idea
she proposed to me at our last class."
"And what was the idea?"
"She wants me to draw my soul for everybody to see," he said, not trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.
"I don't understand, your "soul"
?"
"The way she put it
was that she wants me to draw what is quote unquote pissing me off."
"I see."
Dr. Madison looked intrigued now, touching a finger to his chin.
"Hmmm, that is not a bad idea, not at all. As a matter of fact, it is going in the direction I wanted you to travel, using the art to touch at that space you want to keep hidden from the world. If you can somehow put that on a canvas, have it stare back at you…yes, this could be a good thing for you, Zach."
"I haven't decided whether to do it."
The reproach was there on Dr. Madison's face, in the way he held his mouth tightly. Then he asked,
"And why wouldn't you do it?"
"Because…it's personal to me."
"And keeping it personal is what's holding you back here in this office as well as other parts of your life. You want to take control of your condition, to combat your nightmares, you're going to have to take responsibility for your getting better. And here is a positive way for you to achieve that goal."