Theo’s lopsided grin spread across his face as he and Andrew once again came through the kitchen. “It’s okay.”
“What do you mean?” I sat back against the chair, confused for a moment.
“I mean, it’s okay if Andrew and I serve dinner, considering all you guys did for us. Right Andrew?”
Andrew flashed his smile and winked at me. “Right.”
“And I mean we’re okay. I’m standing here, looking at you, at me, at all of us, and I’m happy. We’ll always be happy.”
Swallowing back emotion, I gripped the edges of my apron. “How can you say that?” Theo had always been the confident one. Did he know something I didn’t?
“I just know, Sadie, and I’ll leave it at that.” He took my fingers and squeezed them against his palm for a moment and then moved toward the chair. “I’m right where I want to be.”
Theo glanced at Andrew, who took two steps toward me and pulled me up for a hug. Not caring what the kids or Theo thought, he placed his hands against my cheeks, moved my face forward, and planted his lips against mine. After a quick nip he whispered, “Truer words have never been spoken.”
“Oh Mom, really?” Delia said.
“You’re blaming this on me?” I said. “What about Andrew?”
Delia blushed and smiled. Charlie, also laughing, stepped toward Theo and pulled on his shirt.
“Dad?” Charlie said.
“Yes?”
“Would you mind going to the den? Can you grab the two bags sitting on the desk?”
Theo looked at me, but I shook my head. I had no idea what Charlie had up his sleeve. When Theo returned, two small gift bags in hand, Charlie said, “Give one to Andrew, please. And open them.” Charlie’s wide smile, one of my favorite things about him, spread across his face.
The two men opened the bags and pulled something out wrapped in tissue paper.
Theo turned the object over in his hands, tracing an edge with his fingers, and furrowed his brow. “Is this—”
Charlie, still beaming, jumped up. “It is!”
Theo held up the gift. It was a framed photograph of the kids standing in front of the cottage we rented each summer at Walloon Lake. A picture of a happy time, an innocent time, taken two summers before. I looked closer at the photo and the frame, a clear glass rectangle with a blue tint to it, and recognition drew tears to my eyes. It was a salvage piece, formed from Charlie’s favorite cereal bowl—the one that had broken suddenly, the one I thought was still waiting to be repurposed.
There’d been enough scraps of the bowl to go around twice, for Andrew held a similar frame with a photo of his children and mine, standing at the Steepled Tree, and my heart clenched. I picked up the frame, marveling again at the new structure that had been created from something completely broken. Somehow, Charlie had managed to fit the pieces of blue glass together almost seamlessly, as if the bowl knew it had to transform so it could live. Those pieces had survived a death and been reborn and no one, unless they were privy to the information surrounding the incident, would have known any better.
I blinked away tears of contentment and reached for Charlie’s hand, pressing it to my lips. Theo was right: we’d be okay.
The End
Author’s Note
Theo Lancaster isn’t a real person. He’s based on hours of research on post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and depression as well as information freely given from friends and family who have firsthand experience with PTSD. But he could be real. He could be your friend, your neighbor, your grandson, your brother. He could be your spouse. He could be you.
Prevalence rates of PTSD in service members returning from combat vary by service era. Studies have shown the percentage to range from 11 percent to as high as 30 percent. But PTSD is not a condition exclusive to the military, and it can happen to anyone. In fact, the National Center for PTSD estimates the number of people with PTSD in the United States to be about eight million.
Treatments for PTSD can work, but it’s up to the those with PTSD or family and friends to pursue treatment. And many people who have PTSD do not seek the support they need. Often, that’s because the person living with PTSD is too ashamed to admit they need help, or loved ones might not recognize all the signs, or they may be afraid to speak up. But that’s where we all can help. By understanding what PTSD is and raising awareness of it, we can help minimize its devastating effects on everyone.
If you think you’re suffering from PTSD or know of someone who might be, say something. You’ll be glad you did.
Post-traumatic Stress Disorder
National Center for PTSD: U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs—ptsd.va.gov (1-800-273-TALK); veterans press 1 or text 838255
Coaching Into Care: U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs—mirecc.va.gov/coaching (1-888-823-7458)
Make the Connection: U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs—maketheconnection.net
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration—samhsa.gov
(1-800-662-HELP)
Suicide Prevention
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline—suicidepreventionlifeline.org
(1-800-273-TALK)
IMAlive—imalive.org
American Foundation for Suicide Prevention (AFSP)—afsp.org
Suicide Prevention Resource Center—sprc.org
Related Reading
The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien
Down Range: To Iraq and Back by Bridget C. Cantrell, Ph.D. & Chuck Dean
Rule Number Two: Lessons I Learned in a Combat Hospital by Dr. Heidi Squier Kraft
Acknowledgments
This story started in June 2012 as a wisp of an idea, and it took a circuitous route to become the book it is today. Many thanks to the team at Black Rose Writing for giving my story a home and making my dream come true. And while words are not enough to express my gratitude for everyone who played a role in shaping this story, they will have to do.
The Plot Sisters: Cindy Cremeans, Ruthann Kain, Jen Messaros, Traci Ison Schafer, and Jude Walsh. You helped bring this story to life, and I am convinced fate had a hand in our meeting.
The early, middle,
