Song of Renewal (36 page)

“It’s called Survivor Guilt Syndrome,” Dr. Abrams told them all as Liza, Garrison, Charlcy, and Penny sat around the conference room table. “It’s a good thing you all got your heads together to nip this in the bud. Angel was well on her way to a suicide attempt.” He shook his head grimly. “A close call.”

Liza was thankful that Penny had put a bug in her ear about Angel’s suicide talk earlier today. Liza had found the capsules while Angel napped. She’d asked the nurse about them and figured out that Angel had been stockpiling them for days.

“I don’t doubt that she meant business,” Dr. Abrams said, looking gravely at Liza. “And I seriously doubt that she could have survived had she taken all those pain capsules you found. She’s still too fragile from the accident trauma.”

Penny spoke up. “Let me get this straight. You mean – she feels guilty that Troy died in the accident and she survived?”

“That’s exactly what I mean. I’ve talked with Angel at length. From our conversation, I’ve gathered enough to sense that’s what’s happening. And though I’ve passed my suspicions on to Dr. Carlsbad, I’ve scheduled the actual therapy with Dr. Blair. Angel requested her. Dr. Blair will work her through this critical stage.”

“Actually,” Charlcy inserted, “I’ve been surprised that Angel hadn’t shown these symptoms earlier. I mean, she went through the accident itself…losing Troy and learning the odds against
walking again. All that should’ve made her a basket case. But she came through like a trooper.”

“Too well,” Dr. Abrams agreed. “She talked about some of the repercussions, but not about the current nightmares and such. She’d nearly drowned in it all by the time you all discovered the seriousness of her syndrome. I feel certain Dr. Blair will pull it all out into the open.”

“Then she’ll be on her way to complete healing,” Garrison spoke confidently. “If there’s one thing our girl is not, it’s wimpy.”

“You got that right,” Charlcy said.

“She’s the most fearless cheerleader I’ve ever known,” Penny piped in. “Nothing ever, ever defeated Angel.”

“Anybody who can hurl themselves into triple backward somersaults can whip anything,” Liza declared proudly.

Dr. Abrams smiled then. A face-splitting one that altered his rather austere features. “We all agree, then. We have a winner on our hands.”

“Hi, Angel.” Dr. Blair drew her chair up to Angel’s bedside. A wonderfully light floral scent followed her and tickled Angel’s nose in the nicest of ways. She felt daggum
privileged
to have her request for Dr. Blair granted. And she found herself gaping openmouthed, in awe of the complete recovery this former paraplegic had made in so short a span of time.

Dr. Blair got right down to business. “Tell me about the bad dreams.”

Angel began to share them. “They start out good. But they end up crappy and scary.”

“They involve Troy?”

“Always. Sometimes even his mama and daddy. They’re always sad or crying when they see me.”

Over the next few days, Dr. Blair showed Angel things she’d not been able to see for herself. “You’ve been through so much, Angel. More than many others who suffer from survival guilt.”

She had suggested that Angel remain in bed during their therapy sessions because of the sometimes stressful divulgences. “It makes it easier for you,” she told Angel. So today, Angel watched her from her head-raised position on the white-tucked bed. However, now Angel was insisting upon wearing sweats and more sporty attire.

The lovely doctor continued. “In your case, you’ve weathered pure survival. Then you took on the task of overcoming paralysis. And note, I said, ‘overcoming.’”

They shared a moist-eyed smile then, one that spoke of an affinity not shared by others. One that joined them in sterling trust, faith, and hope for the best.

“Then,” Dr. Blair continued, “when you emerge from the protective shell of shock, you begin to realize all that’s happened. Right?”

“Right.” Angel gulped back a sob, surprised at its sudden advent, but glad to finally
feel
again.

“Tell me about the night of the accident.” The request was mild and sensitive and Angel felt suddenly that she could finally talk about it.

She took a deep, rattling breath and began in her halting speech. “Daddy said I couldn’t go…to the Vines concert that night because…the weather was so bad. He was upstairs… working. I went downstairs and told Mama that he was being an old fart and that – ” She stopped and snuffled back tears. “T-that he’d said I was like her, tying to get my way by…manipulating, y’know? He didn’t exactly say that but I…kinda lied to get my way.”

“So what did your mother say?”

“Oh, it worked. She said to go on, to enjoy ourselves. We left and… went out into the rain.”

“How does rain make you feel?”

“H-horrible! Like I want to d-die, y’know?” Angel felt a clutching pain in her chest and fresh tears stinging behind her eyes.

“What else do you remember?”

“Not much. Just talking. Troy teasing me about a…present he had for...me.”

“Angel, how do you feel about Troy’s death?”

Angel sucked in a deep breath and then erupted in the greatest weeping she’d ever experienced. It ripped at her throat and flooded her chest, making it hard to breathe. When she could she began to howl and wail and sob aloud, fists pressed to mouth as tears cascaded from the corners of her eyes, across her ears, and soaked into her pillow.

“It was my fault,” she cried out. “It should have been me instead of Troy. Oh my God! I should have…died. He would be alive if not for my…selfishness.”

Dr. Blair sat quietly while Angel sobbed and gasped and howled her grief, one that came from deep, deep inside her soul, one germinated that rainy night when the variables had sided for her and against Troy.

Finally, Angel’s grief abated, leaving her breathless, boneless, and slightly hicuppy.

“Angel,” Dr. Blair spoke softly, “that night was a no-fault occurrence. You did not invoke Troy’s death. Nor your own serious injuries. The variables of that situation were many. No one has control over them. Nor can you predict what will happen. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, don’t you know?” Dr. Blair’s smile emitted compassion and understanding.

Angel felt her mind begin to unfurl and begin tossing out some of the garbage it had accumulated. “Am I – weird to feel like this?”

Dr. Blair firmly shook her head. “No, you’re not. Not by a long shot. Let me give you some examples from life. Did you ever see the movie
Schindler’s List
?”

Angel nodded. “Mama and I saw it together on TV.”

“Well, remember when Schindler had an agonizing breakdown? He’d spent many war years saving the lives of a small group of people. In this one particular scene he’s being honored and thanked by some of the survivors. Remember?”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“Rather than accepting their appreciation, Schindler apologizes. He gets distraught that he’d not saved all the people on his original list, some of the survivors’ families. The gold ring on his finger becomes a symbol of his perceived selfishness, because he kept it rather than using it to save one more person.”

“I remember.”

Dr. Blair continued, slowly shaking her head “He can’t see the good that he did. He can’t accept the love and gratitude of the people he saved. He feels it’s wrong that he lives when so many millions died so brutally.”

Angel began to see things from an entirely different perspective. “But he did so much for others, he couldn’t help – ”

“Mr. Schindler had an extreme case of survivor’s guilt,” Dr. Blair interrupted, “It can happen in any national disaster, like 9/11, war, school shootings. Even in natural disasters like hurricanes, fires, and so on. The survivor goes on with life but – ” She spread her well-manicured hands.

“But not really living,” Angel added.

“Exactly. They don’t allow themselves joy or happiness and feel even worse if they enjoy something even for a short time. Sound familiar?”

“Yeah,” Angel said humbly. “Too familiar.”

Dr. Blair went on to cite other examples such as Waylon Jennings’s narrow escape when he gave up his plane seat to the Big Bopper on that fateful flight that ended in the man’s death along with Ritchie Valens’ and Buddy Holly’s.

“Jennings says he suffered guilt over that for a long, long time,” Dr. Blair said.

“I can understand that,” Angel muttered.

“It’s not your fault, Angel, this emotional crisis. Many, many people feel these unjustified reactions following traumatic situations.
Unjustified.
If you’d died, would it have saved Troy’s life? I think not. So your guilt is unjustified.”

Angel felt a trickling of hope, mixed with the dregs of despair she’d carried so heavily in recent days. “But I can’t sleep lately. It keeps going over and over in my mind. I don’t want to eat…or talk to anybody. What’s…wrong? Will it stop?”

“There is treatment. That’s why I’m here. Do you trust me?” She smiled and reached out for Angel’s limp, cold hand laying across her chest.

Angel tangled her fingers in the doctor’s and returned her smile.

“Absolutely.”

“You know, you’re lucky to have such a wonderful family and friends. I’ve never seen such rallying in all my life. To save you from yourself.” She laughed then, a peal of pure humor. “I meant that as a joke, by the way. Partly. But you
are
lucky, Angel. Don’t ever forget that rescue.”

“I won’t.” Angel knew she never would as she returned the squeeze and felt her hand released. Dr. Blair efficiently recorded notes on her chart, making Angel’s curiosity stir. What was she writing about her? But Angel knew that it didn’t matter. A wonderful feeling of security came with the knowledge that she did trust Dr. Blair.

“I’m going to prescribe some medication to help you slide into a healthy sleep pattern and a mild antidepressant, temporarily, until you level out. I suspect you won’t need either for long. Because you’re already halfway there when you release yourself from the culpability.”

“Do you think I’m gonna be okay?” Angel murmured a bit anxiously.

Dr. Blair’s smile was dazzling. “I’m one hundred percent positive.”

Charlcy swiveled herself before the mirror and frowned. She and Raymond were going on a real date this evening, dinner and dancing, the whole shebang. Lordy, did they know how to have a good old time or what? Never a problem there.

She’d already heaped three outfits on the bed. None seemed right, including this one. She shucked it off and tossed it onto the growing pile. Charlcy wanted to knock Raymond off his feet tonight. She didn’t want to analyze why, just wanted to do it.

She yanked from the closet a little pimento red sleeveless number she’d impulsively bought after melting away twenty-five pounds. She’d just begun her divorce proceedings and had craved a high from something other than chocolate, which had temporarily lost its appeal, as had most anything edible. The red dress had done the trick.

Tonight, she fluidly slid into it, glad she’d worn cutout sleeves and shorts for her daily outdoors run, allowing the sun to bronze her arms, legs, and face to match.
Nice
, Charlcy had to admit as she smoothed the form-hugging skirt over slender hips. Its hem didn’t quite touch her knee-tops, baring more than Charlcy would have dared reveal a year ago.

For every day, she was a jeans and sweatshirt gal through and through. But dressing up was something that she could get into.

Charlcy slowly turned and studied herself from every angle. Even though the mirror screamed “gorgeous” she remained unconvinced of her appeal. The old familiar anger stirred deeply inside, accusing Raymond of assassinating her confidence.

From a closet shelf, she snatched matching pimento red sling heels, ones she’d miraculously found in a little Greek boutique, then plopped down on the bed to tug them on her feet.

Confidence?
She huffed with dismay. When had she
ever
in her life entertained, to any degree, self-assurance?