Tapped (Totaled Book 2) (17 page)

            With the click of my mouse, I was staring at an endless list of website after website. Hundreds, even thousands of different resources, articles, blogs, even support groups all for and about PTSD. I dove in.

            After the first few seconds of reading, I felt more connected and had so much more of an understanding of what Drew was going through. PTSD—Post-traumatic Stress Disorder—was a diagnosed mental illness, an anxiety disorder occurring after a person is exposed to a traumatic event. It could be anything from warfare to sexual assault, but in Drew’s case, it undoubtedly was the trauma of seeing his mother beaten and killing his father in an attempt to save her life. PTSD sufferers often had recurring flashbacks and nightmares and frequently experienced survivor’s guilt in the cases of violent crimes. They could’ve posted Drew’s picture next to the definition.

            I couldn’t help the tears. Reading everything about his mental illness was overwhelming and I couldn’t calm the feeling of helplessness. It was as if my body was showing up to a gun fight armed with only a butter knife. I prayed that Mick’s therapist was good. I hoped he was able to help and I hoped even more that Drew was open to receiving that help. Luckily there was a box of tissues right on my desk. The sound I emitted when I blew my sobbing, snotty nose masked the sound of someone knocking on my door behind me. When my dad walked in, it was too late to shut my laptop. It was too late to attempt to compose myself and hide my swollen crying face. It was too late to try to create any sort of lie as to why I would be researching this subject matter. I was busted.

            His face was solemn and intense. He didn’t say anything. He just walked over, knelt down, and hugged me. He hugged me like he meant it and I let it all go. No words were needed. He wasn’t mad at me for snooping. He was sad that I was feeling the weight of the situation.

            “I’m so sorry,” I said, pulling away to wipe my face.

            “No, baby girl.
I’m
sorry.” He smoothed a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m sorry that this is all happening.”

            “It’s awful, Dad. This whole thing. It’s serious!” My throat burned as each sobbing word escaped it.

            “Yes, it is serious. But he’s where he needs to be. He’s getting the help he needs.” He pulled away and rose from the floor, sitting on the edge of my bed instead. “We need to be patient and supportive of him from here. Mick insists that he’s doing okay.”

            “Well, it certainly isn’t helping matters that Liam can’t handle his shit and tried to pull his arm of out of joint at training!” Even though I had already squashed the issue with Liam, it still pissed me off.

            “So, you heard about that, huh?” he questioned with a smirk. “It’s been handled. And Drew is fine...physically at least.”

            A contemplative pause filled my bedroom. “I miss him,” I murmured, filling the silence before I could catch myself.

            “I know you do, Bree. But you can’t see him.” 

            I squinted my eyes closed in a tight blink, as if it would close my ears to what I didn’t want to hear.

            “It will interfere with his progress and mess with his mind. I forbid it,” he crowed sternly.

            “Yeah, I know. I’m quite clear on what you’ve forbidden. It just makes no sense to me. We’re his family. We should be showing him a little compassion and support. Not ostracizing him to the middle of Booneyville to tough it out all on his own.” My voice was cracking, my hands shaking, my head throbbing with stress. But I needed to be heard.

            “Bree, it’s not that simple.”

            “It
is
that simple. He should be home. Mick and Joan are lovely people and are wonderful to have taken him in, but you really think it’s therapeutic for him to be sleeping on a too-small bed in someone else’s guest room? To be training in a gym that’s not his at the ass crack of dawn to avoid being seen? To be threatened and banished from the only place where he’s ever felt peace?”

            “Now that’s enough, Bree. You need to watch your tone with me. I’m still your father, and I won’t sit here and be disrespected.” He stood, puffing his chest out and asserting his authority like he was a wild animal.

            “You only feel disrespected because what I’m saying is ringing true. And you know it!” I stood up to face him. “You just don’t want me to be with him. That’s what this is all ab—”

            “You’re Goddamned right I don’t want you to be with him!” he shouted. He shouted so loud that I actually heard his words echo in the closed space of my bedroom. I was shocked and took a slight step back. He took a few breaths to try to calm himself and spoke again, looking down at the floor. “You’ll never know what it’s like until you have children of your own. Everyone says that they just want their children to be happy, but that’s the biggest line of bullshit ever told. You want your kids to be smart. And healthy. And happy. But more than any of those things, you want them to be safe.” He brought his eyes up from the floor to look into my own. “When I saw your face—what he did to you… I wanted to kill him. I wanted to choke the life out of him for
ever
laying a hand on you.”

            I was crying again and I wanted to hug him and take away that pain, but I didn’t. I just calmly replied, “But Dad, he didn’t mean…”

            “I know. I realize that now. And I know that you care for the guy. I just wish you would care enough about yourself to not put yourself in harm’s way. I wish you would find a normal guy without PSTD or whatever the hell he has. I wish you didn’t have to wait around for someone to be ‘fixed’ before you can be together.”

            “I wish that too. I wish that more than you know. But I love him. I choose him. And I’m going to wait for him.”

            He nodded, his relaxed posture signaling that our verbal battle was over, and left my room, leaving the door open in his wake. I stared into the hallway and tried to catch my breath, feeling proud of myself but so incredibly sad that I’d just spoken to my father that way. My internal pity party was interrupted when I heard the oven timer beeping. Our dinner was done baking. I reached over and shut my laptop, even though the last thing I wanted to do was sit across from him and break bread.

Chapter Twenty-Two

DREW

           
Go home and relax,
he said.
Go on about your day like normal,
he said. But nothing about this day was normal. The more I tried to follow the doctor’s orders and be “normal,” the more I did anything and everything abnormally. Finally giving up on watching television, I took myself on a nice run through the back trails of Mick’s property beyond the pastures; only then could I feel my tension relax slightly. Forgoing any music was a good call and I let my mind run wild as my legs did the same. I didn’t count the miles and didn’t pay attention to the time. I just ran until I felt tired of running, channeling my inner Forrest Gump. When I made my way back to the house, I swore I could smell dinner cooking from a hundred yards away. When I got closer, I saw Mick and Joan both outside placing meat onto the grill.

            We ate an early dinner of barbeque and some of the best “fixins,” as they both called them that I’d ever had. I left in plenty of time to make it to the building that Doc had given me the address for by five o’clock, my overnight bag in hand.

            It looked slightly homier than a hospital with no one sitting at the check-in desk, but once I got closer, I saw her. A young woman was ducked behind the elevated ledge, hunched way over the desktop with her arms stretched out and clutching an e-reader, her chin resting on the table completely, engrossed in whatever she was reading. She looked teary-eyed.

            I cleared my throat and I swear she caught air with how high she jumped off the chair.

            “Fuck!” she slipped, immediately realizing and covering her mouth with her hand in shock. “I mean, shit!” she said next. “Sorry,” she offered, red-faced and embarrassed. I couldn’t help but laugh. “How can I help you?” she was finally able to ask after seeing that I wasn’t offended by her profanity.

            “I need to check in for my sleep study,” I replied, handing a few papers across the ledge of the desk.

            “Yes, sir,” she affirmed as she read over the order. It was weird that she called me “sir” when she looked to be about my same age. “Let’s get you registered. I’ll need your driver’s license and insurance card, please.”

            I handed her what she needed and watched her type some information into the computer. I tried to mind my own business, but I couldn’t help myself.

            “What were you reading?” I boldly asked.

            “Huh?” she replied, shocked and further embarrassed as the blush returned to her cheeks.

            “On your e-reader? When I walked in. You didn’t even notice me. Must be a good book.”

            “Oh, yeah. Sorry about that. It’s just the latest from my favorite author. You wouldn’t know her,” she dismissed.

            “How do you know who I know? Maybe I do.”

            She was kind of cute, in a nerdy, mousy way. Just thinking of her as cute made me picture Bree. Bree wasn’t cute. Bree was beautiful. Stunning, in fact. And had no idea just how beautiful she was, which made her even more attractive.

            “Okay fine, her name is Colleen Hoover,” she declared, challenging me to dare recognize the name. The funny thing was that I did recognize the name. Bree had every single novel that the woman wrote on her shelf and re-read them often. When the most recent new “CoHo” book was released, I was forced to leave her alone for two days.

            “You’re right. I don’t know her,” I lied, feeling sad and suddenly wanting to read everything by her just to feel a little closer to Bree.

            “Well, here ya go,” the girl blurted, breaking up my thoughts and handing back my cards.

            She led me down a corridor and into a smaller waiting room; apparently someone else would be out to take me back shortly. The chair was stiff, too small, and too upright. Maybe I was just finding every excuse to be uncomfortable because I
was
uncomfortable. I needed to stop fighting this and just let it all be. I was never going to get any better if I didn’t allow the professionals to figure out what they were dealing with. I leaned back, my head resting on the wall. High on the opposite wall was a quote—a decal of lettering that said:

           
Dreams are as simple or as complicated as the dreamer. –Brian Herbert.

            Well, Christ. If that wasn’t a depressing note to start the evening on, I don’t know what was.

            “Mr. Dougherty?” a deep male voice called from the hallway.

            I stood in acknowledgment and followed. He was a very tall man, even taller than me, but looked like he would snap in half at the slightest breeze. I trailed behind him as he attempted to make small talk, tapping his fingers on my file every few words. I curtly responded with one word answers which should’ve been hint enough, but he kept on. We entered a room at the end of the hall labeled Suite 5 and I was relieved that it looked more like a hotel room than a hospital room. The bed was maybe a queen and there was a sizeable television mounted to the wall across from it.

            “Make yourself at home,” the lanky gentleman ordered. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

            I set my bag down and sat on the edge of the bed, relieved that it felt comfortable, and kicked off my shoes. There was a door, cracked open a little, and I reached over to glance into a private bathroom. I was impressed that I couldn’t see anything remotely medical.

            A knock on the door came and two people entered, the guy that led me to the room and a much older woman with a white lab coat. Just the sight of the white coat made my heart rate spike a good twenty beats.

            “Mr. Dougherty, I’m Dr. Lagoski,” she introduced while holding her right hand out for me to shake. “You’ve already met Larry,” she added, gesturing over to him. Lanky Larry, I thought to myself, stifling a chuckle. “I’ve known Dr. Greiner for many years. He’s a great guy. When he called me personally asking if we could get you in as soon as possible, I knew it must be serious.” Her expression was kind and concerned. “Can you tell me a little bit about what’s going on—what brought you to need a polysomnograph?”

            I stared at her for a moment, hesitating in my response. What was I supposed to say here? Did she want to know the whole story? I wasn’t prepared for this. Why wasn’t I prepared for this? Reading my discomfort, she broke the silence.

            “Mr. Dougherty, I know this may be a little intimidating, but we’re here to help you.”

            “Well, isn’t it in my file?” I questioned, sounding ruder than I intended. “I mean, didn’t Dr. Greiner send over my information?”

            “Yes. He sure did. I understand that you’re having some issues with nightmares. I just want to be a little clearer on the nature of your sleeping habits so we can know what to expect.”

            I cut my eyes towards Lanky Larry and wondered why exactly he was here. He was making me more anxious and paranoia was creeping in. Why was he looking at me like that? Did he follow UFC? Did he recognize me? As if she could read my mind, she chimed in.

            “Is Larry’s presence making you uncomfortable?”

            I quickly turned to face her, embarrassed that I couldn’t simply relax and answer her damn questions. “He’s fine. I’m just a little nervous.” Lord Almighty, this was ridiculous.

            “It’s understandable. Please just take a minute to relax. We’re just talking. I specialize in sleep disorders and I have over twenty years of experience. I assure you, we’ve seen it all before and I believe that we can help you.” She spoke sincerely and I knew that Doc wouldn’t send me to just any Joe Schmoe. He trusted this woman and I trusted him.