“You witnessed a lot of trauma over there,” Dr. Shingler told me. “You lost friends. You experienced terrible things. At the time, you probably didn’t have the opportunity to process all of that. You had to survive.”
I hadn’t even told her about the worst of it: the thing I did that sealed the deal for my ugly heart and guaranteed me a spot in the hottest corner of hell. The thing that would swim back to me in the darkest of dreams. The thing I never told a single soul about. Not Jake, not Cindy, no one.
“You’ve got to ride them out,” Dr. Shingler said. “They feel terrifying, but you need to tell yourself that there’s nothing physically threatening. By that I mean that you’re not in cardiac arrest or anything, though it may feel that way. Has it happened at work?”
“Once.” I’d gone to the bathroom and locked the door until it passed and then told my supervisor that I must’ve eaten something bad for lunch.
“Well, if it happens again, try to keep working, if you can.” She took off her glasses. “I’ll teach you a breathing exercise. It might help.”
I sat and just looked at her, and she must’ve sensed that I was skeptical.
“Come on, Kenny. Let’s give this a try. Take a deep breath in through your nose,” she said. “Then breathe out through your nose. Slowly, gently. Think only about the breathing, nothing else. The breathing is all there is.”
I breathed in, I breathed out. Let me tell you, I felt a little stupid sitting there practicing how to breathe with Dr. Shingler. But it did work, and when my medication ran out, six months into our time in the woods, I remembered that day in her office. The big window, the little electric fountain in the corner that hummed and bubbled, the sound of it supposed to help patients relax, and Dr. Shingler with her blue eyes, telling me to think only of breathing.
Deep breath in, deep breath out.
* * *
Finally, what I smell is earth. Rich, sweet dirt. Grass bent and poking at the side of my mouth. At first I’m not sure where I am. But then the river murmurs close by, and I remember: Finch and me, hunting. The doe and fawn, the girl. I push myself up to sit and look around, but it’s almost dark, the woods a wreckage of shapes and shadows. Everything spins.
My lips are parched and stiff, but I attempt a whip-poor-will. “Finch?”
“Here.” Her voice floats out of the darkness and I see the silhouette of her, huddled close by, tucked next to the King of Trees, the camouflage blanket wrapped tight around her body.
“You all right, sugar?”
She nods, and even in the dark I can tell she’s been crying.
“I’m sorry. How long was it this time?”
“A long time. I’m cold.”
I stand up, legs weak, and then take a few steps to her. I kneel down and pull her small head against my chest. “I’m sorry, Finch.” I apologize, always, because I know it’s hard on her to have to witness it, to have to wait it out. I tousle her hair. “Come on. Let’s get you home. We’ll make some hot chocolate.”
She nods, and we stand and start making our way back to the cabin, stumbling on tufts of cat grass, our pants getting hung up in the brambles. The fact that my feet are numb from cold doesn’t make the trek any easier. I keep the headlamp in the backpack, and we use it to guide our path, but tonight the clouds are thick and the night is unforgivingly dark. Finch holds tight to my hand.
Her jacket gets snagged in a thorn, and we stop. “I get scared when it happens,” she whispers.
“I know. I do, too.” What’s the point in trying to hide it or come up with some line about how there’s nothing to be scared of? Finch always knows the truth, anyway.
“Do you think it’ll happen to me someday?”
I stop then, squat next to her and pull her against me, her long hair cold against my cheek. Terrifying, the thought that I could pass any of it on. That Finch could suffer from these very same things, and it would be entirely my fault. Genetics, proximity, influence. “Tough to say, Finch, but I don’t think so. I didn’t always have them. Not until— Well, I never had them until I was a soldier, in a place far away. There were things that happened over there that were hard for me, hard for all of us, and sometimes when you come off a thing like that, your mind and body have a hard time readjusting. Anyhow, that’s how it all started. And since you probably won’t ever be a soldier, I’d say you’ll likely be fine.”
She nods, her face still pressed to mine. I squeeze her hand twice, and we keep on walking.