As soon as Laurel returned tonight, I was going to come clean about not being ready for another baby. It would be an excellent way to test her, to see if she would open up and tell me the whole truth about Isaac, if there was anything more to tell.
This was either going to blow up in my face, or it would be the communication breakthrough we needed.
27
Isaac
As I pulled out of the parking lot at Sunny’s, I couldn’t contain my grin. I shouldn’t be so happy that Dylan quit his job, or that Vera was so upset. But I had faith that they would work out their differences. I was grinning because I knew how happy this would make Laurel.
She expressed to me her concern about Dylan not being true to himself. Next time she dropped by to work on the garden, I’d have to tell her what Vera just told me. And I hoped she dropped by soon or I’d have to take care of the pruning and mowing for her.
As I drove home from Sunny’s, I thought of this morning’s appointment with Harold Erickson, my VA worker. Harold had a bunch of paperwork for me to fill out. He also had a list of things I needed to bring with me to my next appointment, to prove that the event — referred to as an in-service stressor — that caused my PTSD happened during my service. I would have to bring my discharge papers, my medals, records of my unit assignments, an official diagnosis from a physician, and written statements from fellow veterans.
The diagnosis was made by a VA physician, so that would be simple enough. I kept my medals in a box in the attic. I hadn’t been up there since I put them away a couple of years ago, but they would be easy to find.
Getting copies of my discharge and unit assignment records should not be a problem. But getting written statements from my fellow vets was not something I was looking forward to. I was certain that most of us wanted to forget those “in-service stressors.”
But without the statements, the VA couldn’t establish the nexus — the link between my PTSD and my service. Without the nexus, I couldn’t take part in the prolonged exposure therapy program starting at the VA in January.
I didn’t want the damn disability compensation. If they made me take it, I would just donate it. All I wanted was to take part in that program.
My buddy Marcus called me last year to ask me to give a statement for his claim. He had to move from his podunk town in Kentucky to Atlanta so he could participate in the program. He called me about six months later to tell me that it was the best decision he ever made and I should sign up as soon as I could.
As I turned onto my street, my mouth spread in a wide grin at the sight of Laurel’s SUV in the driveway. I didn’t see her husband’s truck anywhere, though there was a black SUV parked at the curb. But even if he was there, I didn’t see the problem in heading over to say hi to her, and tell her the news about Dylan.
Luck shined upon me when I stepped out of my truck and heard the sound of Laurel’s laughter coming from the other side of the cedar fence.
As I got ready to head over, it dawned on me that I still hadn’t returned one of Laurel’s pruning shears. They had been sitting in my garage since I borrowed them from her when mine crapped out. If she’s working in the backyard, she might need those.
As I walked down the driveway toward the back gate, I smiled as I realized the hostas she’d planted along the side of the house were thriving with the recent rains. Even if I’d only played a tiny role in this transformation, it still made me pretty fucking proud to see it with my own eyes.
Maybe there was still hope for me. Maybe the prolonged exposure therapy would actually help me figure out what the fuck was wrong with my brain. Maybe helping Laurel was the key to finally coming to terms with the death and destruction I’d unleashed on this world.
I couldn’t wait to see Laurel and thank her for being a catalyst for change in my life. I wanted to get a good look at her, make sure she was still eating and getting plenty of sleep.
The six-foot high cedar gate wiggled and a deep male voice called out, “Matt, I’m going to put my phone charging in the car. I’ll be right back.”
I stopped in the middle of the driveway, about eight feet from the fence. The wooden gate swung open and out stepped an enormous beast in a suit. His buzz cut and the hard look in his black eyes screamed ex-military. But the way he immediately swept his jacket back and reached for his sidearm told me he was either a skittish bodyguard or a thug.
“Who are you?” he shouted, my ears picking up the faint sound of the leather strap holding his firearm securely in place being unsnapped.
I dropped the shears as my body flooded with adrenaline and a familiar feeling of sheer dread overcame me.
Most people had the wrong idea about what a PTSD flashback felt like, their perceptions warped by Hollywood’s sensationalism. A PTSD flashback wasn’t like watching a movie of a memory you’d been trying to suppress. It was more like re-experiencing a feeling you’d been trying to bury.
The feelings of terror, rage, disgust, shame; the sensations of oppressive heat, ringing in your ears, blinding pain; those were the things that overcame me in stressful situations. And nothing set me off worse than having a gun pointed at me.
When I didn’t answer the question, this man who was the size of a grizzly bear pointed what looked like a nine millimeter Glock straight at my face.
I lost all sense of reality.
28
Laurel
“Stop!” I shrieked with laughter, as Dylan pointed the shower hose at my face.
He giggled as he turned the showerhead back toward my arms. “Sorry! It was just too tempting.”
I gasped at his admission.
“I mean, it was an accident!” he corrected himself through his maniacal laughter.
My hands and wrists were so caked with soil, I had asked Dylan to come upstairs with me to help me rinse off in the shower. I was fully clothed, except for my bare feet. The sleeves of my green hoodie were pulled up above my elbows as I bent over the tub drain and held my arms out for Dylan to hose me off. Apparently, he thought it would be funny to “accidentally” spray me in the face.
I tried to wipe my wet face off on my shoulder. “Oh, I’ll get you for this,” I declared, rubbing the inside of my wrist to scrape off the dirt.
A very loud noise, like the crack of an ear-splitting firework or small explosive, cut through our laughter. Unable to stop myself, I batted the shower hose out of Dylan’s hand and slid in the bathtub as I hastily attempted to escape. Dylan attempted to help me up, but I swung at him.
“Don’t touch me!”
“Laurel, let me help you up,” he pleaded, reaching out to me again.
“Laurel! Are you okay?” Jack’s voice got louder with every word, and within seconds he was standing in the doorway of the bathroom.
I looked up at him, my body bristling with horror. “What was that? Was that a gun?”
Dylan slowly reached past me to turn off the water.
“I don’t know,” Jack replied, his eyes wide with horror. “Just stay here. I’ll take a look outside.”
“No. No, no, no, no. You can’t go out there!”
“I have to!” he shouted, then he disappeared down the hallway.
“It’s okay,” Dylan assured me as he helped me out of the tub. “He’ll be fine. You should get changed into something dry and I’ll go see what’s going on outside.”
“No, you can’t go out there. Jack can’t go out there.” I clutched at the painful spasm in my chest. “I have to go. I can’t let Jack go alone.”
Before I even stepped out of the bathroom, another loud bang startled us both. Dylan and I dropped to the floor, holding onto each other as another shot rang out.
“Mrs. Stratton! Are you okay?” It was Matt.
“We’re fine!” Dylan shouted back as he held me tighter and whispered, “You’re fine, Laurel. We’re all fine. Everything’s fine.”
But as he stroked my hair and murmured consolations in my ear, I remembered that Jack was downstairs. Or wa
s he outside?
I pushed Dylan off of me and sprung to my feet. “Jack!” I shouted as I ran out of the bathroom, through the hallway, and raced down the steps toward the open front door. “Jack!”
Matt tried to stop me as I barreled past him onto the front porch, but I was moving too fast. I raced down the steps and followed the sound of male voices and grunts to the driveway. When I got there, my heart nearly exploded when I saw Jack on the concrete, his enormous bicep and forearm locked tightly around Isaac’s neck.
“Stop fighting!” Jack grunted.
Ace held his left arm close to his body, as if he was injured. He seemed to be unsuccessfully trying to stop Isaac from kicking, but he was at a serious disadvantage as he could only use his right arm. Isaac clawed at Jack’s forearm, attempting to free himself.
“Stop!” I cried. “Stop it! You’re hurting him!”
As I approached, I saw the dark-red glistening blood pouring out of a wound on Isaac’s leg.
“Stop it, Jack!” I shrieked. “Stop! You’re killing him!” I took one more step before Matt grabbed both my arms from behind and pulled me backward. “Call 9-1-1!” I shouted, hoping Dylan or another neighbor would hear me. “They’re killing him! Call 9-1-1!”
The last thing I felt was my heart thumping a million beats per minute before I blacked out.
* * *
I woke in a dimly lit hospital room. My lips and throat dry, my nose stuffy, and the skin around my eyes raw and taut. The harsh fluorescent lights burned holes in my vision, dark spots that danced around as I tried to sit up.
“Don’t sit up yet. Give yourself a minute or you’ll blow.” Jack’s voice sounded annoyed, almost angry.
I turned my head slowly to the right to look at him. “What’s going on? Why am I in here?”
The muscle in his jaw twitched. “They had to sedate you,” he said, rising from the chair. “I’ll let the nurse know you’re awake so we can get you signed out.” He stopped in the doorway with his back to me, his head turned slightly so I could see the side of his face, but he didn’t look my way. “I’ll send Dylan in. He was pretty worried when I left him in the waiting room.”
I drew in a long breath as I took in my surroundings. I was still in my clothes, which still felt a bit damp along the backs of my legs. Except for a couple of scratches on my forearms and a cotton ball taped to the crook of my arm, I appeared unscathed.
I was lying on top of the bed, not tucked beneath the hospital blanket. There were no IVs in my arms, like the time I was strapped to a gurney and placed on a 72-hour psych hold. This all had to mean I wasn’t being committed. Jack would be able to take me home today. But, what exactly had I done that I needed to be sedated?
Dylan stood in the doorway, his hands tucked in the pockets of his skinny jeans. “Can I come in?”
“Of course,” I replied, slowly pushing myself up into a sitting position.
“Here, I’ll help you,” Dylan said, leaning in to whisper in my ear as he adjusted the pillows behind me. “Jack is pissed.”
I narrowed my eyes at him as he stepped back. “Why? What happened? Where’s Isaac?”
Dylan ran his hand over his hair as he glanced through the doorway at the corridor beyond. “Isaac is in surgery. He tried to attack Ace, so Ace shot him in the leg. The bullet must have nicked an artery, because he lost a lot of blood. Ace is in surgery too. I guess Isaac got the gun away from him and shot him in the arm. It’s such a mess.”
My breathing grew shallow. “Is he… Are they going to be okay?”
Dylan shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not family, so they won’t tell me anything. But…” He glanced at the doorway again, then leaned in to whisper. “You had to be sedated because when you woke up, Jack was having trouble keeping you from trying to get into the ambulance.”
“What? That’s… I don’t remember any of that.” I looked down at my legs and arms again.
The sleeves of my green hoodie were still pulled up the way they were when I was rinsing off in the tub. When I tugged the right sleeve down, a dark stain stretched out before me from where it was hidden between the folds.
“Is that… blood?” I whispered, my breathing quickening. “Whose blood is that?”
Dylan glanced into the corridor again. “You want me to close the door so we can switch tops? Here. Take my T-shirt.”
Before I could protest, Dylan shut the door and pulled off his white and black The Weeknd T-shirt. I quickly pulled off my hoodie and handed it to him, then I tugged on his shirt. It was warm and smelled crisp, a little like Jack’s aftershave.
I gasped as a thought suddenly occurred to me. “Where’s Boomer?”
Dylan’s eyes widened as he pushed up the sleeves of my hoodie. “Oh, shit! I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. Boomer’s at home alone.”
“You have to go check on him. He’s not used to Isaac being gone,” I insisted.
He nodded. “Will you be all right without me?”
I smiled at his concern. “Yeah, of course.”
He flashed me a weak smile. “I know shit is probably about to go down with you and Jack. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything at all, okay?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “So, is that everything that happened after I blacked out?”
Dylan winced at my question. “No, but… Well, I think Jack might be even more upset because… while they were wheeling Isaac toward the ambulance, he said he loved you.”
“What? That can’t be true.” I chuckled nervously. “You’re joking, right?”
He shook his head. “He had this sort of glazed look, like the lights were on but nobody was home. So you might be able to just chalk it up to hysteria,” Dylan continued, glancing at the doorway again before he whispered, “But he definitely said ‘I love you, Laurel.’”
29
Jack
The ride back to our house was fifty-eight minutes of ugly, seething silence. Only one other time in my life had I wanted to hurt someone as badly as I wanted to rip that fucking leatherneck to shreds. I didn’t care if he was gasping his last fucking breath, he was either shaved-Britney insane or terminally stupid if he thought I was going to let him get away with what he did.
Laurel’s body tensed as we turned onto our street. As I pulled the SUV into the garage, she paused for a long moment with her hand poised on the door handle, then she finally shook her head and shoved the door open. I didn’t watch her go inside. I couldn’t look at her right now.
I walked out to the black SUV on the curb and sent Gustaf, Wendell, Rich, and Matt home for the rest of the week. Then, I headed inside and closed the garage door behind me.
I couldn’t get the images out of my mind. The way Laurel reacted to seeing me trying to restrain that fucker, I thought she was kidding at first. I couldn’t imagine my wife, my pixie, in a state of utter panic over another man. But she wasn’t kidding.
And everything happened so fast, everything was so chaotic, I didn’t feel I could blame her. Until I had to restrain her to keep her from following him into the back of the ambulance.
But when I heard him say those words…
I never thought of Laurel as the type of person who would betray me like this. My stomach burned with anger and guilt as I thought of how I had wanted to confess that I had been lying about wanting a baby.
Was my lie worse than her deceit?
I didn’t know. And, at this point, I was too fucking angry to care.
As I entered the laundry room, she stood in the hallway and watched as I approached. “How long?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said as I held the laundry room door open for her. “I talked to Dylan and he said Isaac said something to me while I was blacked out. I have no idea why he would say that.”
I shook my head as she walked backward toward the kitchen. “How long, Laurel?”
She narrowed her eyes at me and turned around. “Is there an accusation somewhere in there?”
>
“How long have you been fucking him?” I said, still maintaining an even tone.
She shot me a prickly glare. “Jesus Christ. You really think I would do something like that to you? You don’t know me at all.”
I laughed as I followed her toward the kitchen. “That’s some fucking irony for you. You’re telling me I don’t know you when you’re the reason I don’t know you. What else have you been hiding from me?”
She snatched a glass out of the cupboard and poured herself some water from the pitcher in the fridge. “Why don’t you tell me? What the fuck was Matt doing with the boxes in my mom’s garage?”
“How about you answer my question before you ask your own?”
“Why? What’s the matter? You can dish it out but you can’t take it? Can’t bear to hear someone questioning your crystal-clear rationale?”
I nodded, always impressed with how good she was at the War of Words. “Take a look in the mirror, baby, because you’re the one who wrote me a fucking goodbye letter and left before I even had a chance to respond. Then, you moved an hour away from me and fucked another man.”
“I didn’t fuck Isaac!”
I snatched the glass out of her hand and hurled it at the wall. “Don’t you fucking say his name.”
Her nostrils flared as she glowered at me. “Why? What are you going to do if I say his name? Gonna add wife-beater to your Professional Asshole resumé?”
“You sure didn’t waste any time adding adulteress to your Shitty Wife resumé.”
She drew her hand back, preparing to slap me.
I caught her wrist in my hand. “Does this make you a husband-beater? Or do you still not understand the concept of irony?”
“Not everyone can be a genius prick like you, Jack.”