Jenna's Cowboy (26 page)
“I’m sure you do a great job.” Nate took some more of the stir-fry.
“I give it my best.” So far things had run smoothly, so that must be good enough.
“Chicken.” Zach looked at his mom. “Please.”
“Oh, good boy.” She checked his plate. The celery pieces were pushed together in a neat little pile, but he’d eaten all of the broccoli and a few more pea pods. “You ate some vegetables and remembered to say please. Yes, you may have more chicken.”
Nate carefully picked out some small pieces of meat and placed them on Zach’s plate. He glanced at Jenna. “Is that enough?”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
“T’ank you,” added Zach, around a mouthful of food.
“You’re welcome.” Nate’s gaze shifted to Jenna. “Both of you.” His smile warmed her clear to her toes.
She wanted to lean her elbow on the table, rest her face on her hand, and simply stare at the sweet, handsome man across from her. But that would be acting like a schoolgirl with a crush. And what she felt for him went way beyond that.
“The Mission is a strong reminder of how blessed I am. To be honest, it makes me feel really good to work there. We’re a small community, but it’s surprising how many people need a little help sometimes.”
“You mentioned a shipment from Abilene earlier. Is that a regular thing?” He started on his second plateful of food.
“Yes. We’re associated with the Food Bank of West Central Texas in Abilene. It’s part of the Feeding America network, so we benefit from corporate and government donations. Miller’s Grocery gives us their surplus too. Between them and the things citizens bring by, we have nonperishable staples, canned goods, meat, dairy products, baked goods, and fresh fruit and vegetables. That’s why we’re only open for customers two days a week, right after we receive the shipments. All the fresh stuff goes fast. Actually, almost everything goes quickly.”
“So locals also contribute the clothes and furniture?”
“Yes. I love it when people clean out closets or their kids outgrow their clothes. Or someone redecorates their house. It’s like Christmas anytime of the year.”
They moved on to other topics but didn’t discuss anything else that had happened at the hospital until supper was over, the dishes were done, and they’d played with Zach for a couple of hours.
After the toddler was tucked into bed and sound asleep, Jenna sat down beside Nate on the pale yellow leather couch, snuggling a little closer when he put his arm around her shoulders. “Do you feel like telling me about the rest of your day?”
“Well, I got up at 6:00 and had water for breakfast. No food because of the blood tests. Brad picked me up, and we drove to Big Spring. Had the physical exam, then I ate. Want to know what I ate?” His eyes twinkled as he tipped his head and looked down at her.
“Not really. Bottom line it, cowboy. What did you think of the psychiatrist? And what did he say?”
“I like Dr. Silverman. He seems to be a good man with a heart for God and for taking care of his patients. He quoted things from various studies, some of them done in the last six months, so he keeps up on all the latest things. According to some research in the last few years, PTSD actually changes the chemistry in the brain, which increases the fight or flight response. So though I passed the regular physical, this weird trip I’m on isn’t all a psychological thing. It’s partly biological and physiological too.
“He also thinks I had a mild concussion when that house in Iraq blew up. I had a bad headache for several days, ringing in my ears, and dizziness, but I didn’t lose consciousness, so I didn’t think it was a concussion. I doubt I ever mentioned it. The headache only showed up when the pain meds for the burn and shrapnel wound wore off. It was gone before I got out of the hospital, so I didn’t think any more about it.
“But Dr. Silverman specifically asked me if I’d had any of those symptoms after the bomb. He said they’ve discovered that mild concussions due to a bomb explosion can cause brain injury. Unlike a concussion from a fall, a car wreck, or sports injury, a bomb throws off energy waves that affect the body differently. He said that might be causing some of my problems—or it might not. I don’t have the light sensitivity, dizziness, or hearing problems that often go along with a brain injury. I’ve had a headache for about two weeks, but he agreed that’s probably from tension.”
“If there is brain damage, can they do anything about it?” Jenna leaned her forehead against his jaw, admiring the subtle fragrance of his light aftershave.
“I don’t know. We didn’t get into it that much. He said it was something he’d keep an eye on. He believes regular ol’ PTSD is my main problem.”
“Is that good?”
He shrugged lightly. “Well, it has to be better than having two things wrong. I sought treatment fairly early, compared to a lot of guys. That will work in my favor. He put me on an antidepressant, which is supposed to help the depression as well as the anxiety. That’s in addition to the medicine I’m taking to help with the nightmares. I like his philosophy of starting off with minimal medication and changing it until we find something that works. I’ll go see him twice a week for about a month. Hopefully, after that he’ll turn me over to Pastor Brad for counseling, with only an occasional visit to Big Spring.”
“That would make it easier, plus he’s great to talk to. I don’t know how many times we stopped in the middle of a visit and prayed for guidance. You’ve been more relaxed tonight, so are you encouraged after seeing Dr. Silverman?”
“I am. He thinks we have a good probability of getting things under control. He’s a strong Christian and definitely believes in God’s mercy and healing and the power of prayer. That’s a big encouragement right there. I’ll have to take medicine for a while, maybe forever. I don’t like it, but if that’s what it takes to be normal, then I’ll do it.”
“If you had some other kind of illness that required medication, you’d take that. This is no different.”
He tightened his arm around her shoulders. “Thanks. I needed to hear that. I’m very fortunate—make that blessed— to have you, my folks, and your family supporting me. A lot of people don’t have that kind of help.”
“We come from good stock.”
He chuckled and tickled her nose with his fingertip. “Yes, we do.”
Footsteps tapped on the back porch, loud enough to warn them someone was coming, but not loud enough to wake Zach. “Sounds like your herd has come to check on us.” He leaned down and gave her a lingering kiss. “That’s probably the last opportunity we’ll get tonight.”
Someone knocked lightly on the door.
“I could tell them to go away.”
“Honey, you know that would be as useless as a milk bucket under a bull. Go let them in, and I’ll hide the banana muffins so those brothers of yours don’t eat up my breakfast.”
Laughing softly, they tiptoed into the kitchen. Jenna waited for him to stash the muffins in a drawer, then opened the door so her parents and both brothers could come in.
After hushed hellos, they walked quietly into the living room and sat down. They asked how things had gone, and Nate told about his day all over again. “Well, I got up at 6:00 and had water for breakfast . . .”
Jenna smothered her face in a throw pillow to muffle her laughter and thanked God for his mercy and blessings.
Nate initially went to the VA the first week in November. He quickly decided Dub had aptly described what he was going through—a battle for his peace of mind. After that first good night’s sleep, he had a couple of bad nights with only a few hours rest and nightmares followed by one with three hours sleep but no bad dreams. Then he started therapy with Dr. Silverman, and he had a solid week of dreams that had him waking up in a sweat, heart pounding. Sometimes he was yelling too.
He blamed it on the doctor’s keen insight and ability to encourage Nate to talk, to draw out experiences and feelings he’d deeply buried and never wanted to visit again. At times the anger and frustration were so great that Nate would raise his voice and pound on the arm of the chair. Once, he jumped up and paced around the room, finally picking up a book from the doctor’s desk and throwing it against the wall. He’d had no idea that he had so much rage simmering inside.
More often, however, instead of rage, relating his experiences and feelings brought tears, some of grief, some reflecting an emotion he couldn’t define. Despite the gut-wrenching aspects of the sessions, he often felt better afterward. Drained, but with the sense that some healing had taken place.
They also spent time discovering how to cope with his thoughts and emotions, what might trigger flashbacks or flares of anger and how to deal with them. Dr. Silverman believed the flashbacks and sudden anger might soon disappear. The sessions always ended in prayer, which he concluded wasn’t necessarily the doctor’s standard operating procedure with every patient.
Nate continued to work no matter how bad he felt. His appointments were on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, so he worked those mornings and managed to put in full days the rest of the time.
It had been a hot, rainless fall with plenty of wind. The soil dried out and so did the grass. They gathered up the calves and loaded them into trucks to ship to a pre-condition feed-lot. The animals would have plenty to eat for the next several months before Dub sold them.
With no grass worth eating, they began hauling hay and cottonseed cake to the cattle and horses. They carried feed to each pasture three times a week, rotating through the various areas of the ranch on a daily basis. At the same time, they would inspect the cattle and drive along the fences to look for breaks. The most rugged pastures, with steep hills, low mesas, or many gullies, still required a man on horseback to check the fences and watch for sick or hurt cattle beyond where a pickup could go. Windmill maintenance remained in the work routine too.
The brittle grass and windy weather heightened the fire danger. Keeping on the lookout for smoke and fires became more crucial. Under those conditions, it would only take a spark to start a blaze. Their county, along with most counties in the South Plains and West Texas, declared an outdoor burn ban. It made things a bit difficult for folks living in the country who didn’t have garbage pickup and usually burned their trash in burn barrels. But the inconvenience was a small thing compared to staying safe.
There wasn’t too much to do at the farm right then, so his dad handled most of it. They left the cotton stalks in the fields to help hold the topsoil and keep the dust from blowing. Under such dry conditions, they might not break up the land until early spring.
By Thanksgiving week, Nate’s medication had kicked in on a regular basis. The nightmares dropped dramatically, and he was sleeping five to six hours most nights, occasionally more.
Catching up on his rest did wonders. The dark circles beneath his eyes faded, and his energy was pretty much back to normal. He was still jumpy sometimes and forgot things occasionally. But he no longer caught glimpses of shadowy al-Qaida figures slinking around the edges of the room.
He thought about Iraq or Afghanistan every day. Sometimes they were good memories; sometimes bad. From what he’d been told and read, that might continue for years. He still had an occasional flashback, and that worried him. Generally, he was feeling better about the situation, but he wasn’t as far along as he wanted to be.
On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, his session with the psychiatrist went longer than usual because the doctor was evaluating his progress. Pastor Brad would be handling his twice-a-week counseling sessions after the holiday, with Nate seeing Dr. Silverman only once a month.
On the way home, he stopped in town at the Boot Stop and picked up two catfish baskets. Each contained three pieces of fish, fries, a hushpuppy, and small container of coleslaw. He planned to eat one order for supper and warm up the other for breakfast. The extra coleslaw would probably sit in the refrigerator until he tossed it.
As he drove by the Callahans, he checked Jenna’s house. It was dark except for the back porch light. He expected she was still at the ranch house. Though he wanted to see Jenna and knew he’d be welcome if he stopped by her folks’, he was too tired to deal with a lot of people right then.
But neither did he want to go home to his empty house. Since the lights were on at Chance’s, he decided to drop in and hang out with him. Nate spotted him in the kitchen as he drove up, so he parked out back and walked up to the door. He’d barely knocked when Chance opened it.
His friend eyed the bag of food. “Did you bring supper?”
“Sure.” So much for warming up the fish for breakfast, but he didn’t mind sharing.
Chance stepped back out of the way. “I was late comin’ in, so I missed eating with the family. I was about to make a scrambled egg sandwich. That won’t cut it now that I’ve smelled catfish.”
“There’s no comparison.” Nate set the food on the kitchen table and shrugged out of his brown leather coat, hanging it on the back of an extra pine ladder-back chair.
“Want some coffee? It’s decaf. I got cold out at the building site this afternoon and haven’t warmed up yet.”
“No, thanks. Do you have any root beer?”
“In the fridge.”
Chance offered him a glass, but Nate shook his head. He didn’t mind drinking from a can. After retrieving the soda from the shelf in the refrigerator door, he stopped by the kitchen sink and washed his hands, drying them on a paper towel.
“How’s the new house coming?” Nate sat down and took their meal out of the paper bag, setting one cardboard basket heaped with food at Chance’s place and one at his. Tossing a wrapped set of plastic silverware across to Chance’s spot, he kept the other one for himself. He piled the napkins and catsup packets in the middle of the table but divided the tartar sauce cups equally, two for each of them. Otherwise, his friend would hog it.
Chance poured a cup of coffee, added sugar, and sat down across from Nate. “The foundation is poured. The framers start to work next week. The design has a couple of tricky angles, so it will be a challenge.”
“Just what you like.”
