Behind the Walls (7 page)

‘The cops are calling you?’ Vicki wiped her mouth, dropped her napkin on the table. ‘Why? Something about Zina?’

‘Vicki.’ Harper was losing patience. ‘How can I possibly know why they’re calling? No one was on the line.’ She stared at the phone, trying to dismiss her ominous feelings. Telling herself that the caller hadn’t been Detective Rivers. That Rivers’ instincts hadn’t been right; the Coroner’s report hadn’t indicated that Zina had been murdered. That the police didn’t need to talk to her again.

But neither her feelings nor Vicki’s chatter would let up. ‘Something’s wrong, Harper. You know what? I’m thinking maybe Zina’s accident wasn’t just an accident.’ She paused. Then added, ‘I’m thinking the police don’t want you to take that position either.’

Harper was early for her appointment with Leslie. She’d been seeing her less often – every other week. Now that her flashbacks seemed under control and Hank’s health had stabilized, she didn’t feel an intense need for a therapist. Until today. Today, she couldn’t wait for Leslie to open the door to her cozy, candle-scented, plant-filled inner sanctum with its green leather sofa and steaming sweet teas.

Waiting, she sat, breathed evenly, tried to clear her mind. To think of nothing. Not sure how to do that, not able to picture ‘nothing’. So she envisioned an empty room, but Zina appeared inside it, her chest blood-soaked – no. She took another breath, started over. Closed her eyes. Counted, focusing on the numbers. One. She saw it, ‘1’, straight as a spear, strong as an impaling rod. Great. She’d counted all the way to one.

Harper stood, began pacing around the tiny waiting room. Heard Detective Rivers saying that people didn’t usually spend the night fearing for their lives and coincidentally end up dead the next morning. Heard Vicki telling her not to take the assistantship, Hank withholding his support. Hank. She worried about him. He was changing. Harper walked in circles, literally spinning. When would Leslie open up? What time was it, anyway?

Finally, the door swung wide, and warm green eyes and a cup of hot spicy chai greeted her. Harper took her place on the sofa beside Leslie and spewed words. About Zina’s death. About the assistantship. About Hank.

‘He was just lying in bed. Hadn’t showered or shaved. He said he didn’t see any reason to get up.’ Unexpected tears welled in Harper’s eyes. ‘Which sounded like he didn’t see any reason to live. He said he wasn’t a man any more. That he couldn’t help Zina, couldn’t protect her or anyone else.’

Leslie tilted her head, nodded slowly.

When Harper blinked, a tear rolled down her cheek. She swatted at it, despised crying. ‘I reminded him that it wasn’t his fault, what happened to Zina. And that we’re lucky that he survived. And that we still have each other. ’

Leslie said nothing.

‘And he seemed all right again, for a while. But when I told him about the assistantship, he got distant again. He said that the position was bad luck, but that it didn’t matter what he thought because I’d do what I wanted to do anyway. As if his opinion was irrelevant. And the truth? The truth is he was right; I took the position even knowing he didn’t want me to.’

Harper stopped. Realized that she was whining. These weren’t survival issues. They were trivial, in the scope of life’s calamities. What the hell? Why was she sniveling about her husband’s moods, her job opportunity? She was tougher than that, Army strong. Not a self-pitying sniveler. And yet, here she was, sniveling the hell out of her hour with Leslie: oh, poor me. Look at what a bad time I’m having.

She began to back off, change the subject.

‘No, Harper. Don’t try to gloss over this. It’s important.’

It was?

‘Fact is I’ve been waiting for something like this to come up.’

Really?

‘Sadly, the catalyst was the death of your friend, which we also need to talk about. But one thing at a time. First, let’s focus on you and Hank.’

Oh dear. ‘OK.’

‘Frankly, I think it’s a good thing that he’s expressing his feelings. Given all that’s he’s been through, don’t you think his attitude has been a little too positive this last year?’

Maybe. Yes, actually.

‘Look, Harper. After his accident, the two of you went through incredible stress and anxiety. Both your lives changed dramatically, but – face it, Hank’s changed far more than yours. He suffered physical losses like his speech, and professional ones like his professorship. Beyond that, he’s inevitably coping with psychological and emotional issues. He’s a strong guy, but he’s still only human. How has his injury affected his sense of self? His identity? The fact is that Hank needs to rediscover himself and find out a new way to be Hank.’

Harper nodded. She’d known all that. She thought Hank had been working it out, that he’d find his new path with time. ‘He’s been dealing with all that. It’s been over a year, and so far, he’s been fine.’

Leslie paused, pursed her lips. ‘Hank’s had a lot of physical healing to do. That took his energy for quite a while. And you’ve said he’s pretty macho, right? So I imagine he’d fight his emotions. He wouldn’t let himself admit how powerless he feels, or how depressed. I mean, would he?’

No. Definitely not. Harper should have known, should have anticipated Hank’s emotional reactions to his accident. After all, she’d been terribly depressed after her injuries in Iraq; she was still suffering Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Why should she expect Hank to be any less vulnerable?

Obviously, because she’d wanted him to be. She’d wanted to believe he was basically unchanged. Still the old Hank.

Leslie went on. ‘The fact is that to fully recover, Hank needs to go through this phase. He needs to see himself as he is, to mourn what he isn’t any more, to accept what he’s lost. He can’t really heal or integrate what happened without allowing these feelings to emerge, however sad or angry or frustrated they may be. So in a way, it’s a healthy sign that he’s not pretending any more that everything’s just dandy. He’s admitting his emotions, and that’s a big step toward coming to terms with what’s happened.’

So Hank’s depression was a good thing? Harper thought of his losses. Remembered him preparing a lecture, hiking up a mountain trail, setting up a tent in the woods. Whooshing past her downhill on skis  . . . No. She couldn’t go there. That Hank was gone.

The hour was almost up. Harper’s chai sat untouched on the coffee table.

‘Next time, we’ll need to talk about your friend’s death and that assistantship. But about Hank – given his tough exterior, I’d bet that he’s struggling a lot more than he’s letting on. I’d keep a close eye on him.’

She would?

‘Make sure he knows that help is available. It’s good that you remind him how important he is to you, but he’s dealing fundamentally with himself, not your relationship. You can’t fix it for him, Harper.’

Leslie’s voice was soft but firm. She waited for her comment to sink in. Then added, ‘I can refer him to someone. If he’s willing. If he’d go.’

Oh God. Did Leslie think Hank was seriously in a crisis? That he needed professional help? ‘What are you saying?’

Leslie paused, her eyes steady on Harper’s. ‘What I’m saying is this: you love this man. You helped him survive. Now, he’s got to want to.’

On her Ninja, Harper roared down the hill, letting the chill air slap her. Thinking about Hank. How insensitive she’d been. How oblivious to his feelings. She’d been wrapped up in their life, getting it back, having him home. Continuing her PhD program as if he’d never been hurt. Pretending he was fine. How selfish of her. How superficial. How lonely he must feel.

Well, she’d make it up to him. She’d encourage him to explore new options. Maybe suggest he see a therapist? She pictured it. ‘Hank, Leslie has a referral for you. A colleague who can help you.’

He’d resent it. He’d glare. Maybe snarl. ‘You think. Need. I. Damned. Shrink?’ And stomp out of the room. Slamming the door.

No. Better to be supportive. Wait and see.

Harper stopped for a red light. Looked around the intersection. Pedestrians crossing. Cars waiting. Leaves scattering the street, golden and red. The sky pillowed with purple clouds, foreshadowing winter. She closed her eyes, collecting herself. Focusing on the moment.

Almost time to meet Burke Everett. Damn, she hadn’t even mentioned him to Leslie. Or Peter Murray’s obituary. Who had sent it? And why?

The light changed. Harper rode, taking a long route to the Ithaca Bakery, concentrating on motion, the wind on her face, the chill of the air. Trying to think of nothing.

Burke had lost his swagger. He dashed into the Ithaca Bakery, looking over his shoulders, glancing out windows. Drawing attention to himself by trying not to. Spotting Harper at a table near the door, sliding into the seat opposite her.

‘We should move.’

Not, hi. Not, good to see you. Not, you look great.

‘Move?’

‘To the corner.’

He was on his feet, leading the way. Harper followed. Burke positioned himself where he’d have the greatest view of the area: against the wall, facing the room, windows nearby. He looked around, satisfying himself that no one was watching him. Not the table of students across the room, not the elderly man reading the paper, not the guys behind the counter, not the construction workers buying coffee.

Finally, Burke’s eyes stopped wandering, settled on Harper. ‘You look good.’

‘What’s going on?’ She pictured him back in Iraq. Complaining about the rations. Or the ninety-second showers. Or the heaviness of his gear. Complaining. Always. ‘Why are you so jumpy?’

He snickered. ‘So much for foreplay.’

‘You didn’t come all the way from Milwaukee for foreplay.’

‘No.’ He looked around again. Shifted in his seat. ‘Thanks for meeting me.’

Harper riveted her gaze on him. He was practically quivering. ‘You hear about Murray?’

Burke’s eyes looked away, darted side to side. He hunched forward. Lowered his voice. ‘You got the obituary? I sent it while I was there, down in Atlanta. For the funeral.’

Why was he whispering? The funeral was no secret. Burke seemed downright paranoid. Was he having a breakdown? Some vets had trouble adjusting to civilian life, lost their grip. He looked thin, gaunt. Maybe he should eat something. Aromas of fresh bread, sugar, chocolate and cinnamon surrounded them, closing in.

‘Why don’t we get some food?’

‘No – don’t get up. Just let’s stay here a while.’ More looking around. At the door. Out the windows.

‘So you drove here all the way from Atlanta?’

He nodded. ‘Couldn’t risk buying a ticket. Look, I can’t stay long. Gotta keep moving.’

‘Burke.’ Harper leaned back. ‘I’ve got to say it: you seem – nuts.’

He let out a harsh, cough-like laugh, made a nervous, twitchy nod. And looked around again. ‘Don’t hold back, Harper. Tell me what you really think.’

‘Why do you keep looking around? Are you paranoid? You think someone’s following you?’

‘Shh – not so loud.’

‘Burke. No one’s listening.’ She picked up the sugar dispenser, looked underneath, pointed to the bottom of the glass. ‘See? No wires. No bugs. No one’s here but you and me.’

She wondered if he was dangerous. Delusional people could get violent. She readied herself, sat alert just in case.

‘It’s not a joke, Harper. Not after Pete. But you’re right; I can see where you’re coming from. I’m on edge.’ His leg bounced, vibrating the table. ‘But I’m not crazy. I swear.’

Harper said nothing, doubtful. Wondered what her responsibilities were, what she should – or even could do for him.

‘You got to believe me, Harper; you’re one of the good ones. I mean I think about the people I’ve known. There aren’t many I can trust. No matter what, though, even in the worst times, I always knew – right from the beginning back in Iraq, at that camp outside of Mosul – I could count on you. I knew that the first time I saw you.’

He did? Harper tried to recall meeting Burke. Pictured him sweating in his T-shirt, filling a Humvee’s gas tank, swatting at flies.

‘That’s why I came to you. I swear this thing is out of control. People are fucking killing each other.’

Harper watched him. ‘Burke. I’m thinking you need to sign yourself into a VA clinic. Get some meds.’

‘Fuck I do.’ Another quick look around. ‘OK. Let me explain. James Henry Baxter. Remember him? Our detail?’

Their detail? The walls of the bakery faded; Harper recalled sweat and sand coating her skin, the grumble of a Humvee’s engine, a hot white rocky road stretching out ahead. An ambush. Yes, she remembered. She’d been in charge of the special detail, driving the colonel around Iraq. ‘Sure. What about it?’

Burke smirked. ‘We thought we lucked out, getting assigned to light duty escorting Baxter. A real plum. You, me, Maurice Shaw, Pete Murray and Rick Owens.’

The detail had lasted just one week. They’d taken Colonel Baxter around so he could attend meetings, befriend local leaders, boost troop morale, inspect projects and sites. Except for one minor skirmish, it had been nothing memorable.

‘Turned out the duty wasn’t so light – with that ambush. We saved the Colonel’s life.’

OK. So what? They’d saved the Colonel from a ragtag bunch of insurgents who’d tossed explosives at their caravan. It hadn’t been all that difficult or memorable.

‘Shaw never came home, you know. IED.’

Harper hadn’t heard. ‘Shit. I didn’t know.’ A flashback rumbled; she saw a burst of white, felt herself flying on to the top of a burnt-out car. Lifting pieces of her sergeant off of her belly. She bit her lip hard, grounding herself with pain. Focused on the smells of cinnamon and baking bread. Burke was still talking.

‘ . . . and now, Murray’s bought it.’

Murray? Oh, right. The obituary. ‘What happened? The obituary didn’t say.’

‘Because they think he fucking killed himself.’

What? Pete Murray? He’d been in her unit. Handsome, in a gingery freckled way. And good-natured, a gentleman even in war. Saying please and thank you even when asking for rounds of ammo. Promising to have people over for sand-free Sunday pot roast when they got home. Never ever cursing, careful to say ‘gosh’ instead of ‘God’  . . .