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Maple Ridge
Tuesday morning,I enter Robyn Lawson’s office in the mental health clinic that’s part of the Veterans Center. She’s sitting at her computer in her Army-green uniform, looking at the screen, her fingers not typing. Her office isn’t set up in the typical way. Her desk is against the wall. It’s not being used as a barricade between herself and her clients when they sit on the couch or love seat.
Robyn’s gaze shifts to me, and she smiles. “So, what’s this mysterious thing you want to talk to me about, Troy?” She tucks her chin-length auburn hair behind her ear.
I shut the door and take a seat on the couch. She swivels in her chair to face me.
“I have a friend who I’m positive is dealing with PTSD.” I explain my reasons for that conclusion, the symptoms I’ve witnessed that set off sirens. “I have no idea what happened to her. She doesn’t want to tell me, but she needs to talk to someone.”
“And you’re hoping she’ll talk to me?”
I nod. That’s exactly what I’m hoping. “I don’t think she has health insurance, so that might be a barrier for her to get help. She’s not military, but I have no idea who else to ask. I can pay for her therapy, but I’d rather she doesn’t know I’m doing that.” I know Jess will never accept my help, but she can’t keep living this way.
I don’t want her to keep living this way.
“Is she interested in being helped?”
Good question. “I’m working on that.”
Robyn picks up a pen from her desk behind her. “Has she acknowledged the fact she might have PTSD?”
“She was in denial when I first mentioned it. But after what happened yesterday morning, she might be more willing to accept the diagnosis. I brought her here afterward to talk to some of the vets about their struggles with PTSD.”
Hopefully that helped enough for the next part of my plan.
“I can check with the clinic’s director to see if it’s okay for me to talk to her after my regular work hours since she isn’t military,” Robyn says. “But your friend has to be willing to talk to me and to be open. It can’t just be your idea, Troy.”
I nod in understanding.
“You do realize it won’t be a quick fix? You could be committing to months or years of paying for her therapy.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“If you don’t want her to know you’re paying for the sessions, what are you planning to tell her when she asks about the cost?”
“I’ll say the state’s providing it.” I shrug. It was all I could come up with.
A small smile quirks Robyn’s mouth. “You really think she’ll believe that?” The question receives another shrug from me. Robyn’s smile flatlines, and her green eyes turn more serious. “I’m sorry, Troy, but I’m not comfortable with lying to her.”
I’m not either. But I don’t have any other choice. “I know. But I’m worried if she finds out I’m paying for it, she’ll refuse therapy. And if she’s forced to pay for it out of her own pocket, I’m not sure she’ll get the help she needs. If she has another episode in Picnic and Treats like she did yesterday, she’ll lose her job. I don’t know how much longer she can handle the stress. It’s clearly tearing her apart.”
Robyn taps her fingers against her thigh, lips pressed into a line, and is silent for a beat. “Alright. But you do realize anything your friend and I talk about will be between her and me? I can’t under any circumstance share the information with you.”
“I understand.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to the clinic’s director this morning and let you know what he says.” Robyn’s smile returns, a little more hopeful this time.
“Thanks. I appreciate it.”
She leans back in her chair, and her smile widens. “Rumor has it you’re organizing a festival to raise money for PTSD awareness.”
Christ, I knew rumors in this town spread faster than a wildfire in a stiff wind, but I only mentioned the idea to my friends two weeks ago. I wasn’t expecting it to be gossip material quite yet. “I’m thinking about it. I need to organize several committees first to help get the ball rolling.” Which I need to get going on if I plan to turn the festival into a reality.
“Let me know what kind of committees you need help with. I’m sure we’ll be able to find volunteers at this center. And I’ll sign up to help out too.”
* * *
Several hours later,I receive a call from Robyn while hammering the new handrail on the porch at a job site on the outskirts of town. I answer the call.
