Flashback (16 page)

And somehow she was telling him everything. It just poured out of her in a flood. Peter weathered the storm well, asking a quiet question here, interposing a word of encouragement there. She found herself telling of her horror and fear of the nightmares, how she’d thought she was going mad. She told him of the unbearable stretched tight feeling of the recent past, the strange waking nightmare of the day before, and her own attempted suicide. She told him of her recent lack of sensitivity, how she felt the world was being turned upside down on her, how she didn’t know what to trust in herself any more. When she mentioned to him that she thought of herself as an aberration of normality, he interrupted.

“And do you really think you are so unique?” he queried quietly, smiling at her in such a way that she couldn’t take offence at his words.

“I really don’t know what to think,” she said wretchedly. “I’ve nothing and no one to compare myself with.”

“And that is such an important part of our reality, isn’t it? It gives us a measuring stick and a common bond with each other. In our own individualities, we are similar and yet separate entities. What is your reality, Dana?”

She brooded, chin tucked in and arms wrapped around herself. “The awareness of my self and my awareness of others,” she finally whispered.

“And you are afraid that you are losing part of your reality.”

Echoing his words, she said, “And I am afraid I am losing part of my reality.” And she couldn’t keep her next words in: “But my reality is so abnormal, it’s not…I can’t survive with it, and I can’t survive without it!”

She covered her face and drew in a shuddering breath. She didn’t see the dark man appear soundlessly at the doorway, his questioning glance directed at Peter, who shook his head. David disappeared.

“Dana, listen to me a moment. Just listen to what you said. Do you know anything about psychic phenomena? Have you done any reading on the subject at all?” She felt one of her hands taken and forced down as Peter continued in his gentle, inexorable voice. “I’ve been doing a little bit of reading on the subject since I’ve been told about you. It hasn’t made me an expert on the subject, by any means, but it has been an eye opener in a lot of ways. Why should you view yourself as being abnormal? Why has this particular idea held on in your mind? We all—most of us, anyway—are presently using a mere fraction of our own brains. Who is to say either way whether your individual use of your mind is right or wrong? I certainly could not make such a judgment, and I’ve made medicine and the mind my life’s work. And you must know that you’re not the only one who has experienced some sort of Extra Sensory Perception. How can you explain away the psychic who helps police in their investigations of murder victims? How does one explain away the rocking chair that starts to move of its own volition in the middle of the day? How can one explain away a certain sense of danger or disaster that some people experience, or those who know just exactly when a loved one has died? The brain emits powerful waves of energy, Dana! What if these waves are somehow bouncing back and forth in a house, let off by the original mind of the occupant who has recently died? Do we call these old, unoriginal waves a ghost or poltergeist, fearing its existence? There are hundreds of tales of people who have sensed what a loved one was thinking, though they are across a crowded room. How many times is this sheer intimate knowledge, or perhaps a crude telepathy? What is normality? Isn’t your normality the existence of your particular gift?”

“I guess so,” she mumbled, almost afraid to trust the incredible easing of tension at his support.

“Don’t carry your talent around as if it were a blemish on your soul. You are what you are, and though I’m a great believer of a person’s ability to change for the better, there are some things one cannot alter. I will always be five foot eight. I may stoop more as I age, but I can never be four feet, nor seven feet tall. By the same token, dear girl, you have a powerful mind. It may at times be very hard to bear, but it is as precious as your very identity.” His hand tightened on her briefly and then dropped away.

“But I’ve never experienced anything as intensely as I have in the last few weeks with David,” she replied uncertainly, still groping for answers. “And I’ve never felt this—this lessening of sensitivity. What if I am really losing it?”

“What’s your mother doing?” Peter asked her, in such a normal, off hand manner that she answered quite without thinking.

“She’s taking a roast out of the freezer—oh!” She laughed a bit shakily as she encountered his thoughtful gaze.

“At an educated guess, I’d say your talent is inherent in you, Dana, and though it may change as you change, you’ll always have something in you of its nature.”

“Did—did David talk to you much about what—happened the day before yesterday?” she asked slowly and painfully.

Peter replied calmly, “Yes, he did. And from what you’ve told me, if sounds like you all had quite a fright.”

“I’ve never been so terrified of myself in my life,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to her temples, where a headache was beginning to pound. “I’d always been afraid that I would pick up a crazy person’s ranting and go completely mad myself, and then I blanked out like I did, doing just as I’d feared, and—”

And she looked up with a gasp, because David was standing there, his face a total, unfamiliar mask. He gripped a glass of water until his knuckles were white and she thought the glass would shatter, and then he thrust it into her hand, along with a bottle of aspirin. “Here,” he said emotionlessly, thrusting them both at her, as if he would like to throw them. “They’re for your headache.” And he disappeared before she had a chance to say anything.

Tears pricked at her eyes, and her face slowly crumpled into misery. Alarmed, Peter took a hold of the water glass, which had begun to shake violently. “What’s wrong, Dana?”

She looked at him sadly. “He overheard what I said,” she said dully. “He thought that I’d meant him.”

The sun was very bright, reminding her of the day when she’d nearly ended her life, the day of blackness. She trudged slowly up the hill, feeling the pleasurable tug of leg muscles, feeling them work. Now, instead of being dead, she was so very glad to be alive. As she reached the clearing on the hilltop, her eyes shot over to the pine tree and found him sitting there in the shade, gazing over the view, his face and mind closed against her scrutiny, completely walled off.

She walked over to sit down beside him, not too close, as she felt the pangs of uncertainty assail her. He never turned his head to acknowledge her presence, never so much as flickered an eyelid. She sighed. His head rested against the tree behind him, his dark hair falling back and brushing the wood, his profile rocklike, as hard as the bottom of the cliff. She searched his face, the expressionless eyes, the straight, thinned mouth, his hands on his knees. They clenched.

She flexed her fingers and spoke, softly, “You misunderstood what you heard.”

No answer. Wind sighing, trees bowing, mind silence. She was at a loss; she didn’t know how to break through this barrier, what to say to him. He’d blocked himself up so, she wasn’t even sure if she knew just exactly what was wrong. All she could do was guess. And the only thing she could do about it was to send to him a wordless wave of longing and intensity, and strong reassurance. She put everything she had into it. He flinched physically, bowed his head, ran his fingers through his dark, thick hair. His wide shoulders hunched.

“Get out of my head,” he muttered lowly, and it was such a shock to hear the words, so familiar from her, coming from someone else. Her mouth shook.

“Excuse me,” she whispered. “I’m very sorry.” Feeling incredibly hurt, she stumbled to her feet and turned away, intent on getting far away from him, appalled that she had intruded on something she’d always valued more highly than anything else: a person’s privacy.

She only made a few steps, only managed to get just beyond the shade of the pine trees and into the hot sunlight when something behind her moved, rustled, and then she was grabbed from behind, turned very roughly, and yanked into his arms, so hard the breath was knocked out of her. Surprise hit her hard, and she parted her lips on a shocked gasp. His mouth was swooping down on hers, lips shaking, teeth hard and bruising. She moaned, and then she was let go, only to have her shoulders gripped and shaken hard.

“Do you know what you’re doing to me?” he shouted, dark eyes glittering. She stared into them, mesmerised. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

“Stop it!” she screamed, her hands on his wrists, twisting in an effort to get his grip loosened. “Stop it! Stop it!”

And much to her horror and dismay, she watched as David stood stock still, his eyes widened and suddenly very vulnerable as the realisation of what he was doing to her sank in, and he slowly sank on to his knees in front of her, wrapped his arms quite gently around her waist, and buried his head in her stomach. Absolutely no sound came from him, but a shudder hit his frame, and then another, and she became even more horrified as she realised that he was crying.

Dana had never seen or heard a man cry before, and it was a terrible experience. The only man she’d ever been close to had been her father, and her memories of him were of a strong, self-reliant man; they were god-like in their childish simplicity, and one-sided. All of her impressions of David had been that he had been a very powerful man, powerful in character, emotions and instincts, and powerful in convictions. This sight of him so vulnerable and in such need shook her to the core. She couldn’t take the sight.

“Oh, David. Oh, David,” she said, in words that shook. Her hands went out, touched his hair, stroked it tentatively. There was still no sound from him, and the violent tremors had not ceased. She dug her fingers into his hair and pulled his head back, her own face crumbling. They stared at each other for a very long time. She touched his wet face. His eyes were bleeding. Her own shoulders quaked as she sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around him as tightly as she could.

Ribs aching from pressure, heart aching from pain, she leaned her face into his neck and he rocked her back and forth. His hard shoulders dug into the fleshy part of her upper arm as she closed them about his neck, his hard cheekbone jutting into her own soft cheek, the wetness making it slippery. She wasn’t sure if the wetness was from him alone anymore, or if it was from her. She wasn’t sure of anything except the bright yellow sunshine, her own chest ache, and his.

“What do I need from you?” he whispered. “What do I need? Why can’t I get you out of my mind and my life?”

At that she cried out, more hurt than she could possibly say. She tried to get her arms away from him and draw into herself, but he wouldn’t let her. He took her face between his big hands and searched her eyes. His own were so close, she shut her eyes against it. “What have I done to you?” He asked lowly. “What I done to myself? Why couldn’t I let all of it go like others have, and carry on with my life, instead of becoming this strange sort of psychological cripple that can’t even function—”

“And do you think you are so unique?” she returned very quietly, intentionally repeating Peter’s words to her of not three hours before. “Do you really think you have a corner on the market here? Oh, David, have you been talking to Peter at all?”

His features hardened, the bone jutting into the muscle, the face angling out. “Some.”

“Then you know that Peter thinks we’ve experienced what he called a flashback experience. According to him, it happens to other Vietnam veterans. There were so many men thrust into a bizarre situation and a nightmarish way of life! In a matter of days, all of you were, after training, pushed into guerrilla warfare in a strange, surrealistic setting. Boys were expected to kill as a livelihood, and then after their eighteen months or two years, or whatever they were supposed to be serving, they were sent back home in a matter of days, no deprogramming, no deconditioning—wham! From fighting for your life in a jungle and watching your buddies die to suddenly peaceful Small Town, U.S.A. That’s a severe culture shock to the system, David—”

“I should have been able to handle it!” he grated out, teeth white and snarling, his hands crunching her delicate bone structure. She winced. “I was older! I saved lives, dammit, I didn’t take them! I should have been able to handle it!”

His fury ignited hers. “And, oh, save us from mister God Almighty Himself!” she burst out angrily, jerking her head out of his hold and pushing away from him with both hands. She fell back into the dust, rolled away, came to her knees and glared at him in fury. “Why can’t the simple fact sink into your skull that you are just a man! Just one man, David! Stop tying all of those destructive feelings up in a bundle and let them out before you fester until you’ll never be well! Look at whom you’re talking to!” She pounded at her own chest, hurting herself in her anger. “I know what happened, too! I know about those dreams and the horror! I experienced the flashback!”

“And I have to live with that fact!” he roared, pounding the ground with a huge, clenched fist. He frightened her so much, she jumped, eyes huge on him. His shoulders were hunched, one hand supporting his weight while he glared at her as if he hated her.

“Do you think I don’t?” she whispered. “I’ve never held a gun in my life. I’ve never lost control like that before in my life. I’ve never tried to commit suicide, and I have to live with that!”

“Because of me,” he said tightly.