Dell rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah.”
“Well,” she said, diplomatically. “I think that’s good. Must mean it doesn’t have as much of a hold on you anymore.”
“Except—” Dell hung his head. “My body clearly remembered something.”
“Yeah,” Georgia said, whispery soft again. “Yeah, hon. I know.”
Even after three years, it was hard for Dell to accept. That his body remembered that night better than his brain did. That it obviously kept remembering it, even when he thought he was doing better.
He knew, he understood, had learned in therapy that PTSD was more physiological than anything, that the brain held trauma in its deepest, instinctual recesses that preceded rational thought.
But it was still fucking hard to accept.
“Tell me what you had for breakfast today,” Georgia said after a minute. “Tell me what you’re working on in the shop.”
And so he told her about his toast and about Mae’s bookshelves, about a new creamer he’d been indulging in for his coffee, about the Minnesota cutting board and how he had to take Young for her next round of vaccines at the vet tomorrow. “Good,” Georgia said for each one. “Good.”
And when he knew his hands had stopped shaking, he was able to say goodbye.
“I love you, Dell. I’ll check in tomorrow, all right?”
Dell didn’t want her to have to check in. Dell didn’t want his mom to worry about him at all. He wanted her to paint watercolors in the backyard and make her own mugs on the pottery wheel in the garage. He wanted her to move to Oregon.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“And Dell, honey…have you told Mae? About your PTSD?”
Dell frowned.
“No. I hardly know them, really.”
A small pause.
“Well,” Georgia said carefully, “if this Mae is living on your property…and I know you wouldn’t let someone on your property you didn’t trust, Dell, so you must know them somewhat…you gotta tell them.”
Dell stared out the glass doors.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, Mom.”
“Okay, hon.”
“Love you.”
He left the phone on the couch, and went outside and cleaned up Lauren’s broken mug.
And then he paced for a while.
His brain was already hyper focusing on what he knew to be true: while the trigger was over, that night three years ago would visit him again, over the next week or so, in his dreams. More than usual. He’d remain shaky and half conscious for a while, unable to grasp the comfort of his routines.
And now that his mom was off the line, he just felt…alone.
He didn’t want to talk to anyone else. He could not imagine telling Mae about the incident, even though…if hehadthrown a mug at her, or done who knew what else…fuck, Georgia was right. He’d have to tell hersomething, but he couldn’t think about that right now.
He wanted…
He wanted to be held. For just a few minutes.
Which was funny, because in the first year after the incident, he could barely stand to be touched at all, even when he wasn’t being actively triggered. He wasn’t sure when or how it had graduated to this. Needing another body next to his.
