“Oh?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Why did you call me in here, then? I can’t untie the bindings because I’m not your doctor.”
She approached the bed, inspecting him. A deep cut across his swollen lip seemed to be healing on its own, but it threatened to open again when he spoke. His brown hair was swept loosely over the right side of his brow in an attempt to conceal his eye patch, and he wore what she guessed was a scruffy four-day-old beard.
“What are you staring at?”
“I’m looking at the damage on your face. I’m a doctor. It’s what I do. What happened to you?”
The scar darkened along with the rest of his face. “Untie me.”
“No. What happened?”
He turned away, so she lowered her gaze to his chart and flipped through more pages. The notes on his chart said he was aggressive. Delusional. Violent. Volatile. She turned back further into his history, seeking more details. When she found the answer, she tried not to change her expression, but her interest was piqued. He’d been fighting in Vietnam.
The subject of wartime trauma had intrigued her for years because of her father. Twenty years after the end of the last war, he still suffered from “battle fatigue,” which some textbooks referred to as “combat stress reaction.” She didn’t know if either of her grandfathers had been affected, but she had her suspicions. They had both served in the Great War. Her maternal grandfather had died over there. Her father’s father was more of a mystery. The story was that he got sick and died, but after grilling her parents for more answers, Marion speculated that his life had ended in suicide, as it did with so many veterans. After the Great War, medical professionals labelled similar symptoms as “shell shock” or “war neurosis,” and the exponentially growing number of affected men returning from battle demanded more research be done. Over the past thirty years, doctors had studied survivors from World War II and the Korean War, including veterans who had been taken as prisoners of the Japanese, and some who had survived Nazi persecution.
And yet, despite Marion’s searches, she had found little solid literature explaining either the phenomenon or any definitive treatment.
Based on the knowledge that Daniel Neumann had fought in Vietnamand suffered a terrible, life-changing injury, followed by his recent violence and his refusal to discuss the reasons, Marion strongly suspected he suffered from the disorder. She wasn’t surprised. She’d seen photographs and watched footage of what was happening over there. She couldn’t imagine what he had survived.
“Water?” His voice was gruff. His face was still turned away.
“I will send in a nurse.”
“No nurse. No more needles. Untie me.”
“It’s for your own good. For your pain, for your mental stability, and for other people’s safety.”
“No more.” He took a shuddering breath. “I can’t think.”
“I’m afraid the treatment isn’t up to you. Your doctors will discuss your case on Wednesday morning.”
“When’s that?”
“Tomorrow.”
“How can they talk about me when I’m stoned like this? They don’t know me.”
It was a valid question. “They have your hospital records and police statements.”
Nurse Thelma, on her rounds through the ward, entered behind her. “Beg your pardon, Doctor. I’m a little behind. How are we today, Mr. Neumann? Calmer than last night, I hope?”
Marion stepped out of the woman’s way. He was secured so tightly to the bed he could hardly move, but as the nurse approached with a syringe, Marion saw him try to evade her. His sleeves pulled taut against his biceps as he struggled against the restraints, then his face tightened as the needle penetrated his vein.
“There we are, Mr. Neumann. Right as rain again. Dr. McKenny is your doctor. He will come see you in a few hours, and he’ll decide what to do with you. In the meantime, you have a nice sleep.” She smiled tightly at Marion, who was clearly overstepping, and held out her hand for the clipboard. On her way out, she hung it on the door where it belonged and wished Marion a good evening.
Daniel was silent. He closed his eye, and Marion wondered if the drugs had put him to sleep already.
“Mr. Neumann?” she said softly. “Major?”
“Go away.” His voice dropped to a heavy whisper. “Just leave me alone.”
fourSASSY
Swathed in an itchy wool tweed suit, her blazer tight around her upper arms and buttoned snugly around her waist, Sassy checked the clock on the wall. This was quite possibly the longest day of her life. To ease her frustration, she practiced her own private form of meditation. Davey called his cooking “art,” so she tried to think of her typing as music. She was a good typist, so her work had a rhythm. She just had to make up the melody.
