She’d kissed him tenderly as she went off to work a few hours ago, asking him for the twentieth time if she should take the day off and drive him to his appointment. He’d refused. No telling what he’d be like afterward. Maybe better, but he couldn’t expect miracles after a single hour. He’d been dealing with this shit too long. Instead, he’d warned her he might need some time alone. Hell, he might need to spend the night away.
Even though his imagination conjured images that scared him, he had to do this. He was a Marine, damn it. He’d do whatever it took. He always did.
He let Maverick out into the yard one last time and refilled his bowls with kibble and water.
“I’ll be back in a few hours, boy. Be good. Don’t answer the phone.”
Maverick looked at Rob with his intelligent, brown eyes as if the dog knew he’d forced the humor.
“Wish me luck.” God willing, it would be worth it.
His cell dinged with an incoming text. He looked at it as he walked toward his truck. It was from MJ.
Good luck. Thinking of U.
He smiled. She was a special woman. One he’d fight demons to win.
Forty-five minutes later, he sat in a crowded waiting room, filling out paperwork. He had just finished the details of his military service when the receptionist called his name.
“Give the clipboard to the doctor,” she told him as she handed him off to a young man who escorted him down a long hallway and into a small office.
“Take a seat,” he instructed. “The doctor will be in soon.”
Hurry up and wait. Some things about the military never changed. Ignoring the butterflies that dive-bombed his stomach, he looked around the room. He sat in a chair next to a large L-shaped, cherry desk. Behind it were bookcases from floor to ceiling, filled with books. He leaned forward to sneak a peek at the titles. War and Trauma. Modern Warfare and Its Effects on Troops. Hypnotherapy Scripts for Trauma. Yep. Looked like he was in the right place.
The door opened and a thirty-something Hispanic male burst through it. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Dr. Rodriguez.” He stopped a few feet away and stretched out his hand.
Rob reached and shook it. “Nice to meet you, Doctor. I’m Rob Michelini.” He remembered the clipboard clutched in his left hand and handed it to the man. “I suppose you want this.”
The doctor gave him a warm smile. “Thanks.” He glanced at the form for a few moments. Not enough to read it thoroughly.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here? That’ll likely be more helpful than trying to read where you’ve been deployed and guess how it has affected you.”
Rob swallowed and dived in head-first. He described the incident that had killed his best friend, how he’d tried to cope, but lost his edge, making him vulnerable. How his lack of attention had led to his own wounds and eventual discharge.
“Let’s back up a bit. When did you join up?”
“After high school. I didn’t know what I wanted to do and thought the armed services would give me a career and let me serve my country. I loved the Marines. Loved the comradery. The people I met were the best, and we worked hard to keep ourselves at peak readiness. After my best friend was killed, I felt overwhelmed by all the waste. The lives destroyed. Not just the loss of life, but also the destruction to those who loved them. I felt disillusioned. There was so much—I don’t know—butchery, I guess you could call it. Our troops, civilians, the Taliban, children. Even the loss of whole villages. Their homes and businesses were destroyed, their livestock killed. Some places, there wasn’t much left. I couldn’t figure out what could justify the enormous loss.” He fell silent, wondering if he’d said too much. He didn’t want this guy to think he wasn’t a good Marine.
“Sounds like you began to question what you were fighting for.”
Rob studied the psychologist and decided the man was stating the obvious, not judging. It felt safe to continue.
“Yeah. I wasn’t sure why we were there. The toll was too high. We kept taking and retaking the same pieces of land. It didn’t seem like we made much headway.”
“These wars are like that. They involve insurgents and guerrilla tactics, and you lose sight of why you are fighting. What have you experienced since you got out?”
“Nightmares hard to wake up from. Flashbacks. I get lost in my head and at other times, I startle easily.”
“Been aggressive?”
Rob hung his head. “Yeah. The woman I’m living with tried to wake me up from a nightmare, and I attacked her, tried to choke her before I realized what I was doing. That’s what led me to call. Obviously, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I thought it would go away with time. Instead, it seems to get worse.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because instead of having nightmares once a week, I have them nearly every other night. They’re gory. Horrific.”
“Sounds like you’re ready to deal with things.” Dr. Rodriguez asked several other questions about whether he’d lost his interest in things he liked to do, whether he experienced anxiety or depression, the frequency of mood swings, his use of alcohol, and finally, whether he’d thought about suicide.
Rob looked at his lap. “I thought about suicide at first. When they medically discharged me from the Marines.” He winced, remembering his inattention had nearly cost him
