The Promise of Rainbows (14 page)

A picture on the far wall caught his eye. A rainbow stretched across a storm-clad valley. “The promise of rainbows,” he said aloud.

The Reverend looked up. “I see one of my children has told you one of my favorite sayings. Was it J.P. or Susannah?” Then she laughed. “Of course it was Susannah. You like my daughter quite a bit, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered truthfully, gazing back at her steadily.

“It’s Louisa, and it’s a hang-onto-her-every-word kind of like, right?”

Goodness, this woman was either going to cure him or kill him. “That would be correct.”

“Correct? No need to stand on formalities here, Jake.” She brought over his water. “Not when you’re about to pour out your heart and soul.”

His hand clutched the glass to keep from dropping it. “Only my heart and soul? I should have brought my guitar.”

Her eyes scanned him again, and he felt like a lab rat headed off for tests. “Maybe you should bring your guitar next time. When we spoke at Sunday dinner, you said music is the way you’re able to communicate what’s inside. I’ve been listening to your music lately. There’s a lot you’re communicating.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, taking a hasty sip of the water and spilling some down his chin. “I mean Louisa.”

She handed him a tissue, and he wiped his mouth, shuffling his feet a little. He’d worn his best cowboy boots today, not just because he was going to church—well, sort of—but also to make a good impression. She was Susannah’s mama, after all. Then he realized making a favorable impression was pointless. The ugly truths of his past would crack any smooth terrain between them.

“Let’s sit down,” she said gently, gesturing to the tan couch.

For a moment, he wondered if Susannah had decorated her office, but he refrained from asking. Louisa would see through his small talk. She sat in the matching arm chair perpendicular to him. He hoped she wasn’t expecting him to lie down like he was in a shrink’s office.

“Where…ah…do you want me to start?” he asked, thinking back to the other therapy sessions he’d endured. “Do you want to hear about my military background?”

She shook her head. “There’s no need, really. I expect you’ve already done that with the specialists you’ve seen.”

If she didn’t want his military background, he felt compelled to share his treatment background. He didn’t want her to think he hadn’t been trying to overcome his PTSD.

“When I left the Army, I had a severe case of PTSD, although the symptoms started while I was serving.”

“Anxiety,” she said, crossing her hands in her lap. “Depression. Insomnia. Paranoia.”

He nodded. At the time, his inability to do normal things without fear had made him feel like a coward. “I wasn’t myself. Sometimes…it was like I was a different person. Going to a bar or talking with my buddies was beyond me at first. Simple conversations made me feel like I was walled off in glass and couldn’t get out. I…God…sorry. I won’t swear again.”

“Don’t worry about swearing around me,” she said with a soft smile. “I don’t mind it, and it’s important for you to voice how you really feel, curse words and all. Please finish what you were saying about feeling like you were in glass.”

A preacher lady who allowed curse words? Well, well. Maybe this would work after all. “I couldn’t function, and I knew something was wrong. I immersed myself in my music since I needed gigs to pay the rent when I first came to Nashville, and it made me feel a little better to play my music for people.”

“But the symptoms didn’t go away.”

“No,” he said. A memory swept over him—stumbling into an alley for a break during a set and falling apart. Dry heaves. Heart pounding so hard he feared he was having a heart attack. Pure primal fear. Looking side to side for an enemy even though he knew logically he was in Nashville.

“I had meds at first to get me over the hump, but I didn’t see them as a cure,” he explained, not knowing how she felt about the use of medication.

“Isn’t it interesting that in this day and age no one has discovered a medicine to treat PTSD?” she asked with a wry incline of her head.

“Yes,” he answered. “Ah…from there I tried Cognitive Processing Therapy, which was supposed to desensitize me to events, but only seemed to re-traumatize me. I completed all twelve weeks prescribed. I even did the homework they gave me.” He gave a hollow laugh. The doctors had asked him not only to describe the events that had traumatized him, but also to write about his issues with safety, trust, control, self-esteem, and intimacy. Seeing all his problems scrawled on paper had only depressed him. He’d never felt more broken.

“That’s a hefty amount of treatment,” Louisa said, picking up his water glass and handing it to him. “Why don’t you take a drink?”

His mouth was bone dry even though sweat was dotting his brow. The water felt cool in his mouth, and he drank the whole thing before realizing it. She simply took the glass from him and refilled it. When she handed it back to him, she also gave him a tissue.

“Think I’m going to cry?” he asked, his solar plexus tight. He’d cried before, but the thought of crying in front of her made him queasy.

“I thought you might want to wipe your brow,” she said, compassion filling her eyes. “But if you need to cry, go right ahead. Many have. What you’ve experienced deserves its day. Tears are God’s way of helping the body get rid of painful feelings.”

He still hated crying. “Yes, ma’am,” he answered immediately. “Sorry. Louisa.”

“You’ll get the hang of it,” she said gently. “And after Cognitive Processing Therapy?”

“I tried some Prolonged Exposure Therapy, and I have to admit, the homework was a life saver. The doctors asked me to go to busy concerts to face the loud crowd noise. My career was just starting to take off, but I hadn’t played for a big arena yet. By the time I did, I was mostly prepared. I don’t think I would have succeeded as a country music singer if I hadn’t undergone that therapy.”

“Then some of it was a blessing for you,” she said. “That’s good to hear.”

“Yes. I tried to focus on that, but when you’re in the grip...”

“It’s hard to do,” she answered. “I know.”

For a moment, a flash of sadness crossed her face, and he remembered that this woman had grappled with her own demons. What must it have been like for her to raise four children on her own after being abandoned by the man who’d pledged to love and care for her? He couldn’t imagine.

“Everyone seems to have at least one hardship in life, don’t they?” he said.

This time her smile was but a trace on her face. “I keep waiting to meet someone who’s never experienced one. I’m going to dance on that day to celebrate their providence.”

“I’d like to hear about that too,” he told her, giving her an answering smile before clearing his throat to continue. “From there, I did some EMDR, but again, reliving my trauma didn’t work for me. I know the therapy is supposed to replace traumatic memories with positive ones, but mine seemed to stick like black tar.”

“That’s a good way to describe it,” she told him. “You certainly have a way with words.”

“Thank you,” he said, crossing his ankles, trying to get more comfortable even though he knew that wasn’t going to happen. He always got shifty when he talked about the past.

“Would you like to change seats with me? Some people are more comfortable in the chair.”

“It’s…ah…not the furniture,” he said, ducking his head. “There’s another therapy I should mention.”

Her eyes never left him, and she didn’t take notes like other therapists and doctors he’d seen.

“When I started touring, it was harder for me to meet with my psychiatrist, so he recommended a service dog for me.”

“Those aren’t easy to come by,” she said. “I wish more of the men I see could receive one.”

“I was lucky,” he added, remembering how thrilled he’d been. Not just to have an animal trained for emotional support and companionship, but a real dog. He’d always wanted one. To this day, he still supported the organizations that provided them: America’s VetDogs, Canine Companions for Independence, K9s for warriors, and New Horizons Service Dogs, Inc.

“What happened to your dog, Jake?” she asked quietly.

He pressed his fingers to his brows. “I…ah…had a concert in Jackson, Mississippi. There was a lot of activity in the parking lot. TV crews. Fans. It’s still not clear what happened. My manager was supposed to be watching him. One of the TV crew’s buses ran him over.”

Losing that dog had darn near broke him, and he’d almost cried in front of everyone.

“What was your dog’s name?”

“Hercules,” he said in a hoarse voice. “No dog was better named. He was a…hero.”

“I’m sorry you lost him,” she said in that same gentle voice, causing tears to burn his eyes.

“Me too,” he said with a catch in his throat.

That black Labrador had even learned to bark and whine in accompaniment to his songs, which had made Jake laugh. Until then, there hadn’t been much laughter in his life. “I wrote some of my best songs with Hercules by my side.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think about finding another dog?”

“No,” he simply answered, remembering how Annabelle had suggested it. He didn’t think his heart could take the pain of losing another, but a part of him longed to try. A dog would be happy at Redemption Ridge.

“I see. Is there anything else you want to share with me about what you’ve done?”

Frustration grew inside him as he thought about his regimen. “I’ve tried art therapy, mindfulness meditation, and relaxation techniques. All of them have helped to a point, but honestly, writing or playing songs has been the single best therapy for me.”

“After hearing your music, I believe that,” she added. “It’s from your heart. There’s no denying that. Or your honesty.”

“If you’re not honest in your music, people know it,” he said, shifting to cross his ankle over his knee. “Oh…and I’ve exercised…a lot. To release the endorphins. That probably helped me get over my depression too.”

Her mouth tipped up. “Yes, it’s pretty obvious that you work out. I believe my youngest daughters have referred to you as Mr. Sex-On-A-Stick.”

He rolled his eyes. “I don’t keep in shape for my image.” Despite what his agent said about it driving the female fans wild.

“Of course not. So after all of these different treatments, what continues to plague you?”

Were they finally getting to that? He realized he’d been giving more detail about his treatment in an attempt to delay the real reason he’d come here today. “I still have flashbacks, and sometimes I can taste the sand and dust in my mouth, but I can manage those. It’s the nightmares that torture me. One in particular has never gone completely away. Nothing seems to fix it. Nothing seems to fix
me.”

“As I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again, you’re not broken.” She sat up even straighter in her chair. “Jake, there is nothing in you that needs fixing. Yes, you suffer from PTSD, but there’s no reason you shouldn’t have a happy life. You’re already doing amazing if you ask me. You left the military, which I expect wasn’t the easiest decision for you, and now you’re a famous country singer doing what you love. That’s pretty incredible, don’t you think?”

He wanted to curse, but refrained. “It is…and I know it. I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I just want…”

She leaned forward in her chair. “What do you want?”

“I want the nightmares to stop,” he said in a voice harsher than he intended. “I want to share my life with a woman without fearing I’ll drag her down into the dark with me like my father did to my mother.”

“I did some reading before you came to visit me. I know your father was in the military. And that your brother is as well.”

“He’d already done four tours in Afghanistan when we stopped speaking,” Jake said. “He’s already turned into my father.”

“And what is your father like?” she asked in a neutral voice, one that helped him rein in the messy emotions that were rising up in him.

“Cold. Dominant.” He thought of all the times his father had beaten him with his belt for “defiance”—anything from looking at him wrong to asking a question for the second time. “I know he has PTSD. He and my brother both do. But they aren’t interested in getting help.”

She folded her hands prayer style in her lap. “Then your decision to seek it out is all the more admirable.”

His chest was so tight now, he rubbed the base of his diaphragm. “I want them to
want
to get better.”

“I imagine you do. It might have made your childhood easier. But that’s in the past, son. Forgiving them and moving on is your only way forward.”

He’d heard this line before, and his anger surged to the surface. “How are you supposed to forgive someone who’s not even sorry?”

“I can only tell you what I did. When my husband left me, I simply prayed over and over again for God’s grace in letting go of all my anger and hurt. It took years, and sometimes when I sense my children’s hurt, I get angry all over again. I pray more. Some acts like forgiveness are a life-long process. Eventually it gets easier.”

“I’ve been out of the military for five years,” he said, depression lacing his voice.