Chapter 1
My palms are sweaty and my heart drums against my chest. I fight to keep from trembling, allowing my breath to slow, willing my body to relax. It’s been decades since my tour in Nam, battle with booze, and success as a counselor. Now, this. Looking into the prematurely aged eyes of the young vet just returning from Iraq, I realize I need a drink.
Ignoring the nervous tap of his prosthetic leg against the chair, I rest my pad and pencil on the polished surface of my desk, lean forward, look into those eyes gripped by despair and lie to him,” Son, I know your tour was hard. I feel you. We all been through that. We survived. You’ll survive.”
“My fight was against terrorist. Not,” Marsh said closing his eyes against the pain and running his hand through blond stubble. “Now, the worst fight is against myself. I’m losing my mind. I don’t ...don’t want to hurt my family...have to wonder if my son is safe with me?”
Didn’t want to tell him that I am wondering the same thing. Is he a danger to his family? I decide to let that question rest in the air. It doesn’t bear answering. Can’t be answered truthfully. I fish around in the desk drawer, drawing out a neatly typed document-a suicide contract. I walk him through it, identifying three people for him to contact before he harms himself. Although he didn’t say that he was considering it, at least I’m on familiar ground with suicide prevention and it’s a useful resource either way.
I hum, “Where Have All the Flower’s Gone”, absentmindedly, as usual.
“Yeah doc, you’re really cheering me up with that one.” He says.
“You’re right. How ’bout we try this,” I say, ignoring the fact that he continues to address me as doc. I’ve told him many times that I’m just a counselor. It’s too petty to go into now. “You listen to some uplifting music for a while and at the end of the day, write down three things that you’re grateful for. Here,” I grab the discarded pad, tear off a corner, scribble the suggestions on it and hand it to him.
“I’ll do my best, doc.”
"Yeah, and what will I do?" I ask myself.
Moments later, I crash into my C.E.O, Stewart’s, office without knocking. He’s standing disarmingly close to his secretary in a pose I’m sure his wife wouldn’t appreciate. I don’t have time for their games. I got business to take care of.
“Stacy, can you excuse us, please,” he says, as he eyes me.
“I quit, “I say as the door closes on Stacy’s shapely legs, ponytail, and her gum popping is silenced.
“Again.” He says, straightening papers on his desk.
“I’m good at what I do. I survived Nam and have a good track record with our vets. But these new guys...I can’t take the chance they won’t go home and hurt someone.” I clasp and unclasp my large, dark hands.
“You’re just overwhelmed. It’s been tough with all the new discharges. They need you,” he said, looking me in the eye, lightly salted hair pulled back from his lined forehead, he feeds me my own lie,” You’ll survive.”
I back away slowly. Head throbbing, I exit, ignoring his plea to stop. I’m gonna need that drink.
