Rare and Precious Things: The Blackstone Affair

Part 3

WINTER

As the winter winds litter London with lonely hearts

Oh the warmth in your eyes swept me into your arms

Was it love or fear of the cold that led us through the night?

For every kiss your beauty trumped my doubt

Mumford & Sons ~Winter Winds

13th December

London

I texted Ethan and wondered if he’d make it before my name was called by Dr. Burnsley’s receptionist. It wasn’t like him to miss a prenatal check-up. In truth, Ethan was probably more into all the details than me. He spent more time on the website and reading the book than I did, for sure. He was always telling me little snippets and factoids he learned from his research, about how our baby was doing and the developmental stages. I teased him relentlessly about being a super nerd who knew “everything about birthin’ babies”—to quote Prissy from Gone With the Wind—and as long as he was the expert he could just give me all the info, saving me the work of looking it up on my own.

Jokes aside, it really wasn’t like him to forget to message me, or call. I tried once more with a text. Is there a problem? Where r u?

I wondered if he would still meet me for lunch. We had a little routine after seeing Dr. Burnsley—lunch somewhere in the city, before he had to return to his office, which was keeping him busier than ever. He’d be leaving for the XT Winter Europe Games on an important assignment for the King of Something-burg right after New Year’s. Ethan didn’t seem thrilled about the job of babysitting a royal crown prince at an international sporting event, but when the king asked for him personally, I think he pretty much had no choice but to say yes. I couldn’t go with him to Switzerland anyway, because flying in the final trimester was a no-go. I’d be here on my own, but it was only for a week. I planned to use the time to get the final touches on the nursery finished up. Make that, nurseries—plural. I had two homes to get prepared by the end of February.

I decided I would go shopping once I was finished here, with or without Ethan. Originally, I’d thought that it would be a good day to get some Christmas shopping done. Only twelve days left to pull it all together, and the presents wouldn’t wrap themselves.

“Brynne Blackstone.” The nurse ticked something off on her chart, and held the door open for me. “Go ahead and leave a urine sample and then I’ll take your weight.” She smiled sweetly, probably to counter the stink eye she usually got from pregnant women who desperately needed to do the first task, as much as they dreaded having to do the second one.

Fun times.

REPLAYING the statistics Dr. Wilson has just rattled off to me didn’t really inspire a great deal of optimism for my future. One in five firefighters; one in three teenage survivors of car crashes; one in two female rape victims; two in three prisoners of war. Especially the last two items on that wretched list. What in the fuck did that say about Brynne and me? PTSD sufferers. Damaged souls who had somehow fallen into each other’s lives by a twist of fate. Brynne was owning up to her demons, and worked with Dr. Roswell to find a way to cope with what had happened to her. She amazed me with her strength—very British in her methodology—just like the WWII poster the doc had plastered above his desk: KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. Brave and beautiful was my girl. Straight-up truth.

Was there some hope for me, too? I wanted there to be. Now, I craved to find a way to be free of the fucking curse that had woven itself into the darkest caverns of my psyche. I needed relief so badly.

I needed it so I could be the husband and father I had to be for Brynne, and for our little one.

“So, I’m listening.” I gave the doc my focus and thought about why I was here with Combat Stress Psychiatrist, Gavin Wilson, at his nondescript office in Surrey, discussing the merits of a course of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.

“The goal is not to force you to dwell on events in your past, but to gain insight into your emotional state of mind at present. This is not a ‘lie on the couch and tell all’ type of therapy, Ethan.”

Thank fuck-all for that. I took in a slow breath and felt relief at what he’d just told me. Talking terrified me. If I spoke of it, I’d go numb, freezing back in time to that place, hearing those voices, smelling the piss, and puke, and shit, feeling the cold, seeing the knife and the …rivers of blood. I’d only told Brynne a fraction of the worst part, because I’d felt so strongly that she deserved to know what I carried around, but it pained me terribly to share all of the ugliness with her. The shit was too dark, too horrible, just too fucking much for her to have to be burdened with.

“That’s good then, I think. So, how does the programme work for somebody like me?” I asked.

“CBT tends to deal with the here and now—over the events during your service in the BA that led to why you’re sitting here talking to me.”

“My wife…she’s had a traumatic event in her past, too. I worry that if I give into this—fuck, I don’t even know what to call it—my worst flashback memory, then I won’t be strong enough for her when she needs my support. We’re expecting our first child at the end of February…” I trailed off, wishing I didn’t sound so pathetically weak, but figured I should be honest with the doc.

“Congratulations to you both.” He wrote something down on a legal pad. “Is your wife in therapy?”

I nodded. “For over four years. She tells me she can’t imagine not having her doctor visits.”

“And you support your wife in seeking treatment and help through psychiatric therapy?” Dr. Wilson asked. I had an idea of where he was going with his line of questioning.

“Of course I support her. It helps her and that’s most important.”

His mouth turned up on one side. “I am sure your wife wants you to have the same level of support that she has, Ethan. But the decision will have to be yours, of course.”

I know she does. “So what will we do when I come here?”

“CBT recognizes that events in your past have shaped the way you currently think and behave. In particular, for you, from what you have told me, is, delayed-onset PTSD. We’ll explore what is bringing your flashbacks to the forefront more intensively now versus immediately after the event.” I know why. “And even so, CBT does not dwell on the past, we’ll aim toward finding solutions of how to change your current thoughts and behaviours so that you can function better now, and in the future. It’s the emotional processing of your past, rather than simply reliving it, which is key.”

I nodded and absorbed his explanation. I felt ambivalent, not particularly optimistic this would work on me, but in no way critical either. I liked the doc. I especially liked his non-bullshit way of explaining things. He didn’t promise a miracle. Because there won’t be one coming to you. My miracle had been used up over seven years ago…on the twenty-second day. I knew that. I accepted the gift as I’d received it. Dr. Gavin Wilson had served in the same army as me. He was a comrade in arms of sorts. If anyone could help me, it was probably going to be someone like him.

We got down to the nuts and bolts of things and by the end of our time, I was feeling somewhat lighter about my decision. I was given a bit of homework to do as well.

CHECKING my watch as I hurried out of the building, I knew I had at least an hour of travel time ahead of me in order to make it all the way across town to meet Brynne at Dr. B’s. Highly doubtful I could manage it. I patted my pocket for my mobile, and remembered I didn’t have it on me. I’d been so distracted about my first visit to the Combat Stress Centre, I’d left it somewhere. Bloody shitting hell. This was precisely the sort of crap I did not need right now—my number-one worry. Distraction. The motherfucking worst thing in my line of work. I absolutely could not allow for distractions, or I wouldn’t be able to function at my job. Impossible. All of this dredging up of phantom memories was fucking with my day-to-day routine. I should have my mobile on me right now so I could contact Brynne. I needed let her know I’d be late, or she would worry.

As I stepped into the hallway I saw her again—leaving another office, a different therapist than Dr. Wilson, but obviously someone who did similar work with their patients. It made sense actually. There’s your homework. Seek forgiveness from those I believe I have harmed. My first step toward accountability in dealing with my problems would lead me to the same place as her. “Sarah, wait,” I called out.

LEAVING Dr. Burnsley’s office, I headed for the elevators. Still nothing from Ethan, and I could only imagine how bummed he would be that he’d missed my check-up. I would have to tease him—reminding him of all the geeky bonding time with Dr. B and the lame sex jokes he’d squandered.

I didn’t pay attention to the person who got in the elevator with me because I was busy checking my unanswered texts and messaging Len to let him know I was finished with the doctor. Not until he said my name. “Brynne.”

I knew who it was, though. I looked up slowly, starting from the floor. I saw his legs, both the prosthetic, and the real one, his muscled thighs, the cut body and wide shoulders, the very dark eyes, the handsome face that now looked so very different to me.

“Lance. W-what are you doing here?” My voice cracked.

“Don’t be upset, please, but I saw you go in to your appointment, so I waited for you to come out.”

“Are you—are you following me around London?”

“No.” His eyes flickered for an instant but then he shook his head. “I was with my own doctor—getting measured for a permanent prosthetic.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say to him. Lance had lost his leg, and despite our painful history, I still felt sympathy about what had happened. It was as if my brain just couldn’t turn the “empathetic” part off completely. It was still plugged in, grinding away, churning up emotions and memories from long ago. Lance Oakley just followed me into my elevator and told me how he’s been waiting for me to come out. My appointment had lasted an hour and a half with all the waiting in the lobby, and then more waiting in the examination room. Why would he hang around for an hour and a half? I gave a mental fuck it and asked, “So why did you wait for me, Lance?”

“I told you before, at the hospital, but you didn’t come back.” He looked down at the floor and then back up at me. “I know it’s way too much for me to ask, but, Brynne, I really need to talk to you. The question is, will you talk to me?”

“I heard what you whispered to me in your hospital bed, but I don’t know if I can.” And I truly didn’t know. Part of me was curious as to why he wanted to tell me he was sorry for what he’d done. Honestly, I was completely thrown for a loop by the whole thing. Lance coming to apologize was never on the menu of possibilities in my mind. Never ever. So when he appeared before me, as he was in the elevator, looking very sincere, I was really struggling with seeing him again. I instinctively put my hand over my belly.

The elevator door dinged and opened. I stepped out and he followed me into the lobby, his limped gait very pronounced from his injury, making me feel awkward and completely confused about what to do.

“I understand.” He nodded sadly. “I—I know you’re pregnant…and I don’t want to upset you or anything, but—” He stopped talking and lifted a hand in defeat.

“But what, Lance?” I wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily. He approached me, so I figured he should explain.

“You don’t owe me anything, Brynne. I don’t want to hurt you or disrupt your life, but it really bothers me that you don’t know the truth about me—about what happened that night.”

“Umm…well, I know what happened to me, Lance. I saw it on video.” I looked away, unable to face him when I said the last word.

“I know,” he said softly. “I am so sorry for hurting you, and I’d like the chance to explain myself.” He blew out a deep breath. “I do know a little about what you’ve been through. Your mother told me some of it when I tried to contact you, but your dad wouldn’t let me see you at all, and then you went away to New Mexico. I accepted that you probably couldn’t see me, so I stayed away from you on purpose. I was in Iraq, anyway,” he said bitterly. After a moment of silence he continued, “I—I heard about your dad’s passing. I remember how close you were to him. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

My goddamn tears will be the death of me. I swiped at my eyes and tried to pull it together so I could make it out of this building and not look like I’d been crying if Ethan showed up. Or Len.

In fact, Len was walking right toward me now, with the look on his face that meant my meeting with Lance was at an end.

Lance saw him too.

“I—I’m sorry, I have to go now. Lance, good luck,” I said lamely. I had nothing else to give him. I felt empty and confused. I wanted Ethan.

“All right.” He looked at me stoically, and nodded one time. Then he pressed a card into my hand. “Please think about it,” he whispered, before turning and walking away, his uneven step a tangible sign of just how much Lance Oakley had changed in the last seven years.

I told Len to drop me in Knightsbridge so I could do my shopping. There was no way I could go home at that point. I needed to clear my head and process my feelings. One thing was certain—I didn’t want to share with Ethan about my meeting with Lance. It would only upset him and make him territorial, and that wouldn’t do him, or me, any good. I should call Dr. Roswell though and get an earlier appointment. I needed impartial advice, and Ethan would be anything but impartial. I still didn’t know where he was or why he’d missed my check-up today, I thought glumly, feeling sorry for myself.

I went through the motions of selecting gifts for people, determinedly focusing on one simple task so I complete it. A silk robe for my mother in traitorous yellow seemed appropriate. It was really quite beautiful and she would probably love it. If I had them ship directly from the store, it might even make its way to her in time for Christmas. I didn’t know how I felt about my mom right now, especially after Lance’s confession that he’d spoken to her about me years ago. I wondered how that conversation had gone. Did she know something I didn’t know? The niggling of doubt scratched at me like a persistent itch. His card was in my purse. His number was there. I could call him and ask, and he would probably tell me.

We’d only spoken one time since our blowout conversation. I wondered how disappointed she was that my former boyfriend’s father was now the Vice President, and could realistically be the President one day. Must be a bitter pill for her. If I’d sucked up what Lance did to me all those years ago, I guess she’d hoped we might reconcile in time. I believed it was the reason she resented Ethan so much. She knew her plans were blown and there wouldn’t be any fancy White House parties for her to attend. I’d been snatched away by a Brit who didn’t give a maiden queen’s first fuck—direct from his mouth—if Lance Oakley’s father was emperor of the motherfucking world, let alone a US political figure. Ethan had impregnated me, and married me; even my mother could see that her fantasy was nothing but dust in the wind. Those two were like gasoline and matches ready to combust when they were forced together anyway. So sad for me. She would be my child’s grandmother and couldn’t stand the sight of my husband.

My phone chirped. Finally, I thought as I dug it out of my purse. Unknown number? Baby I’m so sorry missed ur appt. Long story. w/o my mobile atm. This is Sarah Hasting’s mobile I’m using. Where r u now? xoE

Sarah Hasting’s? I knew exactly who she was. And thought it very strange that Ethan was with her when he should have been with me. I remembered how upsetting her presence had been for him at the wedding, thus my concern about her trying to dig her claws into him to soothe her grief. I respected the military loyalty, but it wasn’t fair for Ethan to suffer more because of her loss. If she was guilting him into talking about her husband I would have to set the woman straight. I felt myself bristle as I replied to his text, but remembered that it wasn’t Ethan’s phone that would receive my message, so I kept it neutral. But I made sure to add Sarah’s number into my contacts, before I answered him. It’s fine. I’m at Harrod’s xmas shopping. Len is here w/ me. –B

He answered me right away. On my way to find you now. Meet at Sea Grill? E

Well, if you say so, Mr. Blackstone, I thought, as I replied with an abrupt: ok. I tried to temper my irritation but something just felt off to me, and once again, my insecurities rushed to the surface to fill me with doubt.

I paid for my purchases and handed the loot over to Len who would get it all home for me. Then I arranged for gift wrap and delivery of my mother and Frank’s gifts with the concierge, and headed down to the Sea Grill to wait for Ethan.

I sipped my cranberry tea in the restaurant and ruminated about my weird day. Remembering the card Lance had pressed upon me; I pulled it out and studied it. Cell phone and email on the front, along with his name and US Army contact info. I turned it over and saw a handwritten message I hadn’t noticed before. Please let me make it right, Brynne.

I looked up and saw Ethan had arrived and was making his way over to my table, a large bouquet of lavender flowers in his hand. Shoving Lance’s card away quickly, I wondered just how guilty my husband was feeling, deciding he needed to bring flowers as a peace offering.

I should appreciate his gesture, I scolded myself.

Except I didn’t.

“SO what happened to you?” she asked, her eyes giving nothing away as to the nature of her true feelings. The flowers were accepted and sniffed appreciatively, but we were in public and Brynne was reserved. Maybe she really felt like bashing the whole lot over my head. You fucked up. All I could do was hope she’d forgive me for my massive cock-up.

“I left the flat this morning sans my mobile. Sorry ’bout that.”

“That is not like you, Ethan.” She didn’t look up from her menu when she spoke. Yeah…you’re in the shithouse.

“No, it isn’t. I’m afraid I was distracted when I left.”

“And why was that?” She turned her menu over, studying it as if it were a rare book in the British Library Collection.

I desperately wished I’d had a chance for a smoke before racing over here. “Well, I didn’t tell you because I wasn’t sure I would be accepted”—she set down her menu and finally looked up at me—“but I had my first consultation with a Dr. Wilson at the Combat Stress Centre this morning.” Brown eyes stared at me from across the table. “Right, well…the centre is all the way out in Surrey, and I was leaving the offices to come meet you for Dr. B’s appointment, and ran into Sarah. She uses the CSC as well. I was hideously late by that point, and had no way to reach you, so I borrowed Sarah’s mobile—”

“—You found someone?” she interrupted, her face now full of the spark and fire I loved to see. I felt instantly better.

I nodded. “I did, baby. I’m giving Dr. Wilson a crack at me.”

She reached her hand across the table. “I’m so glad. So glad to hear you telling me this, Ethan. It’s the best news I’ve heard all day,” she said, pulling my hand up to her cheek.

I sensed something more than my tardiness was worrying my girl. “Why? Did everything go all right at Dr. B’s? Anything I need to know, Brynne?”

She pursed her lips and slowly rocked her head from side to side. “Nothing to report from Dr. B. Twenty-nine-week-old, acorn-squash baby, growing steady. All systems still a go.” She gave me a slow wink.

That’s my sexy girl. “So, you’re saying Dr. B is still my best mate?” She laughed at me silently, loving to tease me about cutting me off. It was funny—and it wasn’t. We’d just have to be more creative when the time came to drop the sex. I could stand it if I had her close by me, to touch, and to smell. Intimacy was so much more than just gettin’ off. I’d learned this lesson well in the short time since I’d found my Brynne.

“Yes, he’s still your friend. But, I want to know about your visit to the Combat Stress Centre.” She smiled at me, completely back to her bright happy self. “Tell me about Dr. Wilson. I want to know everything.”

How can I tell you everything, my beautiful darling? How? How can I ever do that to you?

I wished I could tell her everything, but I doubted I would ever be able to.