Fade to Black - Proof (11 page)

“Do you think
I’m crazy?” he asked. Tears now spilled down onto his cheeks.

Pam rose. Her
hand tightly gripped his arm and she slid into his lap at the table.

“Oh, God,
Jack, no!” she said and hugged him tightly. She held him and stroked his hair
as he clung desperately to her, crying out loud now. “No baby, not at all. I
love you so much.”

Jack pulled
her off his shoulder and looked into her face, feeling warm.

“I keep
thinking about that movie,” he said, actually thinking about it just now for
the first time. “You know the one, with the guy from
Gladiator
? The one
where the guy is a mathematician and thinks he works for the government? In the
end it turns out the people he sees aren’t real and he’s just crazy.
Schizophrenic, I think.”

“
A
Beautiful Mind
?” Pam asked.

“That’s it,”
Jack answered. “
A Beautiful Mind
. That guy saw things and he had
schizophrenia, remember? Maybe that’s what I have. Isn’t that having split
personalities?”

Pam hugged him
again, tightly. “Oh, Jack,” she said. “Baby, you’re not crazy. You have some
sort of stress disorder, but you do not have schizophrenia.” She pulled back
again and looked at him, wiping the tears from his face. Then she smiled.
“Baby, I love you no matter what. Forever. We will get through this, darling,”
and she kissed him lightly on the lips.

Jack let out a
heavy sigh. He had so underestimated this wonderful woman, and he vowed he
never would again. Far away, Jack heard the happy chatter of his little girl. That,
combined with the soft touch of his wife’s hand on his cheek, filled him with
happiness and hope.

It really was
going to be all right.

As long as he
had his girls.

Chapter

13

The familiarity of the little
waiting room, and his comfort with Lewellyn, did little or nothing to relieve
his anxiety as Jack sat and waited for his next visit with his doctor. He did
feel much better after his talk with Pam, as he should have known he would, and
the hour and a half spent playing all together on the family room floor had
helped even more. But now he felt incredibly anxious. He felt like he was
waiting to be dissected, his mind opened by the sharp blade of the psychologist’s
probing questions. He was terrified, just like the first day.

What the hell
will we find today?

Lewellyn had
relaxed him the day before with his blanket pronunciation that Jack was not
crazy, but what else could he say, really? It wasn’t like they would tell you
outright.
“Well, Jack, you are clearly and totally insane. Open and shut
case. Can you come back tomorrow at ten?”
Just what did you say to a crazy
person, anyway?

Jack flipped
the page on the three‐month‐old
National Geographic
and tried to force
the thoughts from his mind. He had been given hope, first by Lewellyn and then
by Pam. He couldn’t sit here and let his obsessive fears steal that away now.
They would figure this out together, the doctor had told him, and that was what
he would hold onto.

“God, it’s
nerve wracking, isn’t it?”

Jack’s breath
caught in his throat, and he smelled him before he turned his head to look,
feeling like he moved in slow motion. The smell of Iraqi dust assaulted him,
but he turned slowly anyway. He knew what he would see. It would be Simmons,
with his horrible, bloody death grin.

He was wrong.

Beside him,
his legs crossed casually at the knee and a
People
magazine open in his
lap, sat a Marine officer. He was older, his close‐cropped hair grey, his face
tan and lined with crow’s‐feet. His digital cammies looked clean, but the boots
beneath the bloused pant legs were worn and coated with dust. The rank insignia
on his collar indicated he was a lieutenant colonel. Jack stared at him, his
mouth open.  The man smiled back.

“I said its
nerve wracking isn’t it?” the man repeated, leaning in a bit, as if perhaps
Jack had not heard him.

This was
insane!

He had fallen
asleep again, that was all. He was asleep in the chair and having a dream, though
this one certainly had a new twist. Jack closed his eyes tightly, balled up his
fists, and willed himself to wake up. He opened his eyes again, but the man
still sat there, his face now amused.

“Not that
easy, Casey. Sorry.” He held out his hand. “I’m Commander Hoag,” he said, and
Jack reached out and shook his hand as if in a trance. He looked more closely
at the man’s uniform and saw that, sure enough, it said Navy instead of Marines.
The Navy provided medical, dental, and religious support to the Marine Corps, which
lacked its own such services and was, after all, a part of the Department of
the Navy. Jack wondered how he knew that. The man sat back, and closed the
magazine in his lap. “Sergeant, I’m the regimental chaplain for First MEF. How
are you hanging in there, Sar’n?”

“I’m Jack,”
Jack responded numbly.

“Yes, well,”
Commander Hoag took off his round glasses and cleaned them on the bottom corner
of his uniform blouse. “That’s what we need to get into, don’t you think?” He
replaced the glasses on his face and looked at Jack patiently.

“Get into?”

“Yes,” the commander
answered. “We don’t have time now, of course. But before you go in there to
talk to your friend, I wanted to ask you what you thought this was all about.”

Jack felt
tears well up in his eyes. He should be getting used to that sensation.

“I don’t
know,” he answered. “Me going crazy, I guess.”

The Navy
chaplain shook his head and watched him softly.

“No Casey,
you’re not crazy,” he said. “Not at all. It’s about Pam. It’s about your love
for Pam and Claire. That’s what keeps pulling you to this place.”

Jack felt that
the chaplain’s words held some terrifying meaning, but he couldn’t quite grab
at it. What about this was so horrible? What the hell was this ghost of a man
talking about?

“What do you mean,
pulling me? What the hell does that mean?” Jack felt his thin grip on control
slipping away. He was sliding down a slippery slope here, and what waited below
was something his mind knew of, somewhere deep and unavailable. He felt panic
grip him, and his throat tightened. He realized that he didn’t want to hear the
answer—that he didn’t want to hear another goddamn word.

The door
opened suddenly. Bright light from the hallway exploded into his softly lit
room and Jack jumped to his feet. He felt like a teenager caught touching
himself to his mother’s fashion magazine as the receptionist stuck her head in
the doorway.

“Dr. Lewellyn
is ready for you, Jack.”

Jack jerked
his head back and forth between the attractive receptionist and the Navy chaplain,
who sat quietly with his legs crossed, smiling and watching him. The girl
didn’t react at all. She just looked at Jack, puzzled, maybe even a little
concerned.

“Sir? Jack?”
she corrected herself. She was probably taught to call the nut jobs by their
first names. Soothing. “Jack, are you all right?”

Jack twisted
his head, his body so tense he felt a tearing pop in his neck, and looked at
the empty chair where the chaplain had just been.

She didn’t see
him. How in the fuck?

Jack dropped
heavily back into the oversized leather chair, rewarded by a ripping fart sound
that in other circumstances would have made him laugh. He shook his head,
trying to calm down.

“Do you want
me to get Dr. Lewellyn?” There was real and unmasked worry in the receptionist’s
voice now.

“N…n…no...just…just
hold on.” Jack struggled for control. Of course she hadn’t seen him, because
he
hadn’t seen him either.

Just another
goddamn, terrifying, fucking nightmare, right?

There had
never been anyone in the room but him. Jack clamped his jaw tight and when he
did he accidentally bit his tongue. A familiar, coppery taste filled his mouth.
Then he looked up at the receptionist, his face more controlled, despite the
sweat that now ran down to his neck from both his temples.

“No, I’m
fine,” he said and rose. He forced an awkward smile. “I was, uh…well I fell
asleep and had a helluva nightmare again, to be honest. I’m ok now, really.”

The
receptionist looked skeptical.

“I’m sorry I
scared you. Dr. Lewellyn is treating me for these damn nightmares.” The quiver
was gone from his voice now and he sounded more convincing.

“Okay,” the
girl answered. “Well, Dr. Lewellyn is ready to see you. Are you ready now?”

“Absolutely,”
Jack answered and followed her out of the room. He glanced over his shoulder as
he did, looking again at the empty chair. His eyes caught a glimpse of an open
People
magazine, out of place on the floor beside the empty chair, and he shuddered.
Then he followed the receptionist down the carpeted hall to the dark door with
Dr. Lewellyn’s name on it.

The psychologist
greeted him warmly and shook his hand, his grip firmer than the chaplain-ghost.
Jack mumbled a greeting in reply and walked heavily over to the couch where he
assumed his position. Lewellyn sat in the same chair as before and crossed his
legs.

“You ok,
Jack?” he asked, his gaze soft and patient.

Jack squirmed
a bit on the couch, unsure how to proceed. “Uh…yeah. I’m uh…” his voice trailed
off. He hung his head and took a deep breath. Then he leaned back and tilted
his head up. He looked at the ceiling, halfway expecting to see a purple sky
and tracer rounds overhead. “I’m not so good, Doc. Something…well I had another
nightmare. I mean, I think it was a nightmare.”

Jack proceeded
to tell Lewellyn about the Navy chaplain and their brief chat in the waiting
room. Lewellyn listened quietly and then folded his hands in his lap. For a
moment he said nothing.

“How is Pam
doing?” he asked finally.

Jack was
stunned for a moment. What the hell was wrong with this guy? Had he not heard
what he just said? Jack had just had a conversation with an imaginary Naval officer
in his waiting room, and all he had to say was, how is your wife? What the fuck
was going on here?

“Doc, don’t
you think it’s a little fucking weird that I just saw another ghost in your
waiting room?” The irritation was sharp in his voice.

The psychologist
uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on his elbows.

“Jack,” he
began softly, “I know that these dream images are very disturbing to you. But
the cure is not in obsession. It’s in understanding the root cause of the
images and what they represent to you. Central in everything you have shared
with me is your love for Pam and a desire for your family to remain intact.
Now,” Lewellyn leaned back again and recrossed his legs. “How is Pam?”

Jack’s mind
still reeled. Was he supposed to believe this was all about Pam? He was having
horrific nightmares and hallucinations about dead Marines that he believed he
knew because he was in love with his wife? He sat back, resigned. He was just
along for the ride again.

“Pam is fine,”
he answered flatly.

There was a
long and uncomfortable pause during which he felt like Lewellyn was again sizing
him up, deciding where to head next.

“Jack, what do
you think you should do next?” the psychologist asked after a long while.

“I think I
should see a psychologist,” Jack snapped, more sharply than he intended.

Lewellyn
watched him impassively, not reacting to the harsh dig. He waited patiently for
Jack to continue.

“I’m sorry,”
Jack said, looking at his hands. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just
frustrated.” Jack looked up at the doctor. “I do trust you, Dr. Lewellyn.”

“It’s okay,
Jack,” Lewellyn said sincerely. “I know you’re frustrated.” Then he shifted in
his chair. Jack noticed his little notebook was again open, his pen at the
ready. “I know we have a lot to cover, Jack. There’s a lot more background we
need to delve into, but I want to start a little differently than I had
planned.”

“Okay,” Jack
answered, trying to relax and allow himself to shift into a more open frame of
mind.

“Jack, what do
you think these images represent?”

“Images?” Jack
asked, confused.

“Yes,”
Lewellyn answered. “The images of the Marines from Fallujah. The Navy chaplain
you saw when you fell asleep in the waiting room. What do you think they
represent?”

Jack thought
hard for a moment, but he still didn’t really fully understand the question. To
him his Marines and now this Navy chaplain were like demons, pulling him into a
nightmare world of death—his death, as Casey Stillman. They were calling to
him, trying to lure him away from his safe world of Pam and Claire, trying to
pull him into insanity.

“They’re like
ghosts,” he answered.

“Ghosts?”

“Yeah, or
demons maybe. It’s like they‘re begging me to go with them into these
nightmares. Like they’re trying to convince me that I belong there with them
and that my whole life is just a fantasy.” Jack looked down at his shaking
hands again. “Maybe I
am
crazy. Or schizophrenic or something.” There.
He had said it. His cards were on the table. No more bluffing.

“Jack,”
Lewellyn said. Jack could hear him setting his notebook on the little table.  “You
are not crazy. We need you to stop worrying about being crazy.” The
psychologist leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, as he had the other
day. “These images are, to me and my way of thinking, voices from your own
subconscious trying to tell you something important about whatever the
underlying stressor is in your life. Maybe you should try and find a way to
listen to them and hear what they have to say.”

Jack shivered
as a chill washed over him. Had he heard right?  He looked up at his psychologist,
unable to conceal his shock and amazement. He realized he was looking at his
therapist as if he had a horn growing out of the middle of his forehead. He
felt his confidence in Lewellyn slip along with his hope that he would be okay.

“What do you
think, Jack?”

 Lewellyn waited
patiently, either unaware or unconcerned by the way Jack stared at him.

“Are you
suggesting I sit and chat with a hallucination? That maybe me and an invisible
dead Marine, with half a face, stroll through the park and work out our
differences?”

Lewellyn
ignored the sarcasm and anger and leaned back again.

“Jack, your
unconscious is trying to tell you something. And unless we find a way to listen
to it, I don’t know how you will ever be able to identify the problem so that
you can find a healthier way to cope with it.” For a moment the doctor seemed
lost in thought. Then he continued, “Jack, we’re going to work hard today, and
every day you can get here, to find a conventional way to root out your problem
and deal with it. In the meantime, I’m not suggesting you sit in a restaurant
and talk to yourself. I am just suggesting that if you accept that these images
are your own subconscious trying to find a way up to the front of your mind—to
tell you something you need to deal with—that maybe you can fight off the fear
and dread they cause enough to listen to what they’re trying to tell you.
Accept that they are
not
real, but that they represent your own voice
trying to help you find the solution on your own.” The doctor stared at him for
a moment, as if he expected a response. “Is that a more comfortable way to
think about it?”