streamed down her
cheeks, and he felt guilty as hell.
“Pam?”
His wife
stopped punishing the fruit chunks and leaned her hands on the counter, her
shoulders sagged and her head dropped, a blue plastic spoon clutched in her
right hand so tightly that her knuckles were white. She said nothing. Jack
didn’t see where the remote had ended up, but saw that the tall plastic trash
can’s lid was up and had a pretty good guess. From upstairs, he could hear
Claire talking to herself as she often did before she drifted off to sleep,
happily oblivious that Pop was losing his marbles. Her voice was soft and far
away, and held an innocence that could only mean she didn’t know that daddy should
soon be wrapped giggling in a sheet on his way to a padded room somewhere and
the peace of mind dulling, psychiatric drug therapy. Jack waited a moment then
cleared his throat nervously.
“Baby?”
Pam turned around
slowly, the blue spoon still clutched in her hand, fruit syrup dripping onto
the linoleum floor. Jack shifted his weight nervously and looked at his feet.
How could he make her understand? Pam sighed heavily, her eyes red and her
cheeks wet with tears.
Jack’s chest
tightened when she dropped the plastic spoon to the floor and covered her face
with her hands, fruit cocktail syrup smearing on her cheeks. Her body shook and
so he walked heavily across the kitchen towards his crying wife and took her
into his arms. Pam pressed tightly against him and laid her head against his
chest, still crying. Not sure what to say or what else to do, he just rocked
her gently. After a moment she pushed softly away from him and turned her anxious
eyes up to meet his. Her beautiful face looked frightened and eager for
comfort. Jack kissed her forehead and she closed her red eyes again.
“It’s gonna be
okay, Pam,” he said and closed his own eyes, hoping he sounded more convincing
than he felt. He opened his eyes and saw she watched him expectantly.
“I’m sorry, baby,”
she said, her voice full of anguish and fear. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I’m just
very scared and confused.” Pam gripped Jack’s hands tightly in her own. She
blinked the tears from her eyes.
Here it comes .
“Baby,” she
said, then paused and sighed heavily. “Jack, I need you to do something for
me.” Her eyes held his.
“Anything,”
Jack said as he stroked her cheek, reading his lines and playing his role
perfectly.
“Please,
Jack,” she sobbed a little again. “I want you to see someone, a counselor or something.
Please, baby. I‘m so scared for you. Please, let’s go and see someone. Someone
you can talk to.” Pam leaned against her husband, not able to look him in the
eyes anymore.
“Ok,” Jack
sighed heavily. “Ok, Pam. I will. I promise I will.”
He knew it wouldn’t
help. What in the hell would he say? How could he possibly explain to a
stranger how he felt, the awful things he saw in his sleep, and sometimes even
when he was awake. How he could tell them things he couldn’t even tell his
wife? He realized Pam was still talking.
“…therapist.
Or maybe a psychiatrist. I heard about this on Good Morning America .
Post stress, or something, it was called. It’s from all the shit on the TV. All
the horrible things right in our living room.” She held his face in both her
hands now, looking at him, her eyes pleading.
“No,” Jack
said and pulled away a bit. Pam’s eyes filled with tears again. “Not a shrink.
I…I…Pam, I couldn’t tell this to a stranger. I need…” he sighed heavily. “Maybe
the battalion surgeon.”
Pam’s face
wrinkled in confusion.
“The
battalion…” Jack realized his mistake. “Our doctor,” he corrected. “Our primary
care guy?”
“Oh,” she said
leaning back against the counter. She unconsciously wiped syrup from her sticky
hands onto her jeans. “Doctor Barton,” she said and her eyes locked on his
again. “Soon, Jack?” she asked, her voice unsure.
“I’ll
cheeks, and he felt guilty as hell.
“Pam?”
His wife
stopped punishing the fruit chunks and leaned her hands on the counter, her
shoulders sagged and her head dropped, a blue plastic spoon clutched in her
right hand so tightly that her knuckles were white. She said nothing. Jack
didn’t see where the remote had ended up, but saw that the tall plastic trash
can’s lid was up and had a pretty good guess. From upstairs, he could hear
Claire talking to herself as she often did before she drifted off to sleep,
happily oblivious that Pop was losing his marbles. Her voice was soft and far
away, and held an innocence that could only mean she didn’t know that daddy should
soon be wrapped giggling in a sheet on his way to a padded room somewhere and
the peace of mind dulling, psychiatric drug therapy. Jack waited a moment then
cleared his throat nervously.
“Baby?”
Pam turned around
slowly, the blue spoon still clutched in her hand, fruit syrup dripping onto
the linoleum floor. Jack shifted his weight nervously and looked at his feet.
How could he make her understand? Pam sighed heavily, her eyes red and her
cheeks wet with tears.
Jack’s chest
tightened when she dropped the plastic spoon to the floor and covered her face
with her hands, fruit cocktail syrup smearing on her cheeks. Her body shook and
so he walked heavily across the kitchen towards his crying wife and took her
into his arms. Pam pressed tightly against him and laid her head against his
chest, still crying. Not sure what to say or what else to do, he just rocked
her gently. After a moment she pushed softly away from him and turned her anxious
eyes up to meet his. Her beautiful face looked frightened and eager for
comfort. Jack kissed her forehead and she closed her red eyes again.
“It’s gonna be
okay, Pam,” he said and closed his own eyes, hoping he sounded more convincing
than he felt. He opened his eyes and saw she watched him expectantly.
“I’m sorry, baby,”
she said, her voice full of anguish and fear. “I’m so sorry, Jack. I’m just
very scared and confused.” Pam gripped Jack’s hands tightly in her own. She
blinked the tears from her eyes.
Here it comes .
“Baby,” she
said, then paused and sighed heavily. “Jack, I need you to do something for
me.” Her eyes held his.
“Anything,”
Jack said as he stroked her cheek, reading his lines and playing his role
perfectly.
“Please,
Jack,” she sobbed a little again. “I want you to see someone, a counselor or something.
Please, baby. I‘m so scared for you. Please, let’s go and see someone. Someone
you can talk to.” Pam leaned against her husband, not able to look him in the
eyes anymore.
“Ok,” Jack
sighed heavily. “Ok, Pam. I will. I promise I will.”
He knew it wouldn’t
help. What in the hell would he say? How could he possibly explain to a
stranger how he felt, the awful things he saw in his sleep, and sometimes even
when he was awake. How he could tell them things he couldn’t even tell his
wife? He realized Pam was still talking.
“…therapist.
Or maybe a psychiatrist. I heard about this on Good Morning America .
Post stress, or something, it was called. It’s from all the shit on the TV. All
the horrible things right in our living room.” She held his face in both her
hands now, looking at him, her eyes pleading.
“No,” Jack
said and pulled away a bit. Pam’s eyes filled with tears again. “Not a shrink.
I…I…Pam, I couldn’t tell this to a stranger. I need…” he sighed heavily. “Maybe
the battalion surgeon.”
Pam’s face
wrinkled in confusion.
“The
battalion…” Jack realized his mistake. “Our doctor,” he corrected. “Our primary
care guy?”
“Oh,” she said
leaning back against the counter. She unconsciously wiped syrup from her sticky
hands onto her jeans. “Doctor Barton,” she said and her eyes locked on his
again. “Soon, Jack?” she asked, her voice unsure.
“I’ll
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