Page 80 of Fourteen of a Kind

“It was good. She’s a great doctor.”

“She’s the best. Can I get you a beer or a glass of scotch?”

“Scotch is good. Thanks.”

CHAPTER 25

Ella

I poured Graham a glass of scotch and handed it to him.

“Thanks, Ella. The first thing you need to know about me is that I do have PTSD.”

“Let’s go sit on the couch.” I took hold of his hand.

“I’m sorry for my behavior. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt you. You must believe that.”

“I don’t know what to believe, Graham. One minute, you’re great, and the next, you’re a totally different person.”

“That’s the PTSD. You, of all people, know that.”

“What happened in your past?” I asked.

“My father didn’t die of a heart attack. He committed suicide by shooting himself in the head in front of me.”

“Oh, my God, Graham,” I gasped.

“It was a Friday night. He came home from the hospital, and we had dinner. I kept thinking something was off because he told me that he loved me so much. He never said that. Ever since my mom died in the accident and he was hurt, he became a different person. He was hooked on painkillers for the injuries he sustained in the accident. His injuries healed, but he still took the pills. He told me that night to go to my room and play video games while he did some work in his office. I did as he asked and after a while, I heard him come up the stairs and go into his bedroom. I didn’t think anything of it except that he never came upstairs that early in the evening. He usually worked in his office until midnight. My friends had texted and asked me to play basketball with them the next day, so I went to ask my dad if I could go. When I opened the door to his bedroom, he had the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. He fell to the ground. Blood was everywhere. I screamed and then froze. I was shaking so badly that I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t think straight. I was only thirteen years old. I called my Aunt Dorinda, who was in California at the time for a law conference, and told her what he’d done. She screamed and cried and told me that she was on her way and to call 911.”

“My God. I can’t even imagine,” I gripped his hand. “I am so sorry.”

“I went and sat on the porch, shaking, waiting for the police to arrive. My aunt is a powerful woman. She paid off the officers who were on the scene to say he died of a heart attack in their report. She paid off the paramedics and the coroner. She paid a lot of money to keep our family secret.”

“But why?” I asked.

“Because my father was a highly respected surgeon, and she wasn’t about to have his name or our family name tarnished. That night, she gripped my shoulders as tight as she could and told me that he died of a heart attack and to forget what I saw. She reiterated it over and over again for the first year.”

“She brainwashed you,” I said.

“Yeah. I guess you could call it that. I wasn’t right for a couple of years after the incident. I became a recluse and didn’t have any friends. My uncle tried to convince my aunt to get me help, but she said I didn’t need it and I’d be fine. She was too afraid I’d tell what really happened. My father left his entire estate to me, which I received when I turned eighteen. I buried myself in my studies and got a full ride to Columbia. Even though it was close to where we lived, I chose to stay on campus because I needed to get out of my aunt’s house. I never went back. I had the money and didn’t need her help anymore. I resented her for what she’d done to me. How keeping my father’s reputation intact was more important than my mental health and the tragedy I suffered.”

“You must have told the doctor you saw back in New York since he gave you the Prosazin,” I said.

“By the time I was eighteen, the nightmares were getting worse, and so was the PTSD. It got to the point where I was afraid to go to sleep. I had a friend whose dad was a therapist. I made an appointment and told him about the car accident and my mother’s death, but I never discussed my father. He diagnosed me with PTSD and gave me the pills. I saw him once a week, then once a month for a year. After that, he just kept giving me refills of Prazosin. Eventually, the nightmares stopped until I came back here.”

“And you told Charlotte all this?”

“I told her everything. She’s agreed to help me. I’ll start seeing her in her home three nights a week. I’m hoping you can understand why I lied to you, Ella. You are so special to me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. And I’ve never let anyone get as close to me as I did you. I think I’m falling in love with you. Everything that went wrong in my life disappears when I'm with you. All the bad falls away, and I forget about how screwed up I really am.”

“You’re not screwed up, Graham.” I wrapped my arms around his neck. “You were never allowed to deal with your trauma and were forced to keep a secret since you were thirteen. You’re just a little misguided.”

“It’s okay. Admit it. I’m fucked up.”

“Maybe just a little.” I smiled as I placed my forehead on his. “But you’re a brilliant doctor and surgeon.”

“I want to be with you, Ella, but I’m scared.”

“Scared of what?”

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