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JESSICA
April, Present Day
Maple Ridge
Late Wednesday afternoon,I walk into the waiting area for the mental health clinic in Maple Ridge Veterans Center. A visitor’s pass hangs from the hem of my long-sleeved top.
My body is still overly wound-up from my shift at Picnic & Treats. I feel like I’m going to snap in two after spending hours worried I’d have a flashback.
The only thing that kept me from snapping like a frayed elastic was thinking about the picture Troy showed me last night. The picture of the window seat in Amelia’s room, with the built-in bookshelf inside the reading nook.
The rest of Troy’s suggestions for the house were also great. But it’s the window seat that has me the most excited.
I can almost imagine my…I can almost imagine Amelia sitting there, reading a book.
The receptionist looks like she’s getting ready to leave for the day, standing at her desk, and searching through her purse.
“Hi. I’m Jessica Smithson. I have an appointment with Robyn Lawson.”
The receptionist glances up from her purse, and a smile crosses her face. “I’ll let her know you’re here.” She picks up her phone and, a moment later, ushers me into Robyn’s office.
Robyn’s desk is pushed against the wall near the door of the small room, and a couch and love seat take up space along the other two walls. A decorative metal-and-glass bookshelf in the corner next to the love seat, as well as house plants and a ficus, make the room feel less clinical.
The woman stands up from her desk chair, wearing a green military uniform and a friendly professional smile. “Hi, Jessica. I’m Robyn. Take a seat. Whichever one you’d like.”
I sit on the light-blue couch. She sits back in her desk chair and swivels it to face me, her desk now behind her. “I thought we could talk a little first and see how I can help you. And remember, whatever you and I discuss will remain between just the two of us, unless I feel that you are a danger to yourself or others. If that’s the case, I’m required to report my concerns to the authorities and no one else. Do you have any questions?”
I shift on the couch, unease and caution sitting next to me. “How much will I be required to tell you about my past?”
“The more you tell me about what happened, the better I’ll be able to help you, Jessica. I know it’s not easy. It never is when dealing with PTSD. If we decide to go forward with your treatment, we’ll need to address things you would rather not discuss or remember. But if we both do the work here, by remembering them and putting them in the proper context, you’ll eventually be able to move on and not be overwhelmed by your past trauma. And you can once again enjoy the good memories you’ve been repressing because of it. Is that something you are interested in?”
“Yes.” I’m tired of not remembering all the good times I had with Amelia. My memories of her are like ghosts. There, but not quite.
“Good. Can you tell me what happened that might have resulted in the symptoms of PTSD?”
My palms turn clammy, but I bottle down the urge to rub them on my jeans. “You won’t tell anyone?”
“What you tell me is held in strict confidence, unless if fits the criteria I mentioned.” Her tone is gentle, nonjudgmental.
I suck in a shaky breath and rub my palms on my jeans.
I can change my mind, tell her this isn’t going to work, and go home. I can tell her the partial truth and withhold details I’m not comfortable sharing. Or I can tell her everything, all the twisted, painful secrets.
I draw in another shaky breath. “I’m a widow.” I can’t even look at her as I tell her the rest. I stare at the cream-colored textured rug in front of me. “My husband, a cop, abused me. He seemed like a wonderful man in the beginning.” I swallow down the demons of my past, trying to get the rest of my words out. “My husband’s abuse didn’t start until after we married. He then made sure I couldn’t escape him.” I skip the part about having a daughter, the real weapon he used to ensure my compliance.
“I was raped. I was demeaned. I was destroyed. I don’t know if he had enemies or what happened, but over five years ago, he was murdered in our home. I was there, unconscious at the time. The police found drugs in my system and called it murder-slash-attempted suicide. I woke up shortly before the cops arrived.” And went to find Amelia, who was crying in her crib. “At the time, the DA had enough evidence to convict me. I was found guilty, even though I was positive I hadn’t killed my husband. Was positive I hadn’t purposely ingested drugs.” I pick at imaginary lint on my knees, deliberating if that’s enough detail for Robyn to get the picture.
Silent seconds tick past while she waits for me to continue. “But you’re not in prison now,” she says when it’s clear I’m not going to elaborate. “Can you tell me what happened?”
A shudder travels through me just thinking about the rest of the story. As if the first part wasn’t bad enough. “About a month ago, new evidence surfaced that proved I wasn’t guilty of my husband’s death. Someone else pulled the trigger and made sure I was covered in gunpowder residue and blood splatter. So I was released. The cops still don’t know who killed him. Whoever it was is still out there.”
Out there, and hopefully not giving me a second thought.
“The scars on your face? Did your late husband cause them?”
My fingers instinctively move to the scar by my mouth. “I was attacked while in prison. The guards had a tendency of looking the other way. No one was ever caught.”
“I can imagine it’s hard to trust after something like that and after your husband abused you.”
