Page 102 of Keepsake
I shrugged. “I’m fine.”
“Drink this,” she said, passing me the coffee. “It’s hitting me like battery acid.”
“Now there’s a recommendation.” She smiled, and I held her eyes. For that split second, everything was easier. I took a sip of the coffee.
“Your friend is free to get something to eat while you speak to the doctor,” her mother said just as Dr. Richards entered the room.
“Zach is staying,” Lark argued.
“The doctor wants to see you alone,” her father said.
She just shook her head. “I’m only telling this story once. And since Zach has basically been holding me together with prayer and duct tape for the past two months, he gets to hear it, too.”
There was an uncomfortable silence while Lark’s family stared at one another in turn, and then everyone’s gaze landed on the doctor.
“She’s in charge,” the doctor said easily.
Lark’s mother gave me another glare, and then she turned and left the room.
With an apologetic smile, her father did the same.
The doctor shut the door, and parked his hip against the window sill. He pointed at the plastic visitor’s chair. To me, he said, “Please have a seat. You’re welcome to stay as long as Lark wishes it. And so long as you can listen quietly.”
I sat down and nodded, hoping to prove my competence at staying silent.
The doctor folded his hands. “If we’re going to get this right, Lark, we need to go over a few things. I spent the early hours of this morning with your file.”
She nodded. “Sorry about that.”
The doctor shook his head. “That’s what they pay me for. But I’m going to tell you what I think I saw there, so we can figure out what to do, okay?”
“Okay.” To my surprise, she slid off the bed and sat right down in my lap. She leaned back against me, and the nearness of her felt so good that I had to close my eyes. Later, when they whisked Lark off to some fancy hospital in Boston, I was going to have to find a way to let go.
“The notes in your file seem to indicate that you’re experiencing post traumatic stress disorder, brought on by your recent troubles in Guatemala. Does that sound right?”
She nodded, and I kissed the back of her head.
“And things are the worst during the night?”
“Nightmares,” she confirmed. “Three or four nights a week. I didn’t remember some of the details when I first came home. But a week or so ago I dreamt very clearly about the night it all ended.”
He gave her a slow nod. “Lark, people have every sort of reaction to trauma. There’s no right way to react, and no wrong way. Your file describes a kidnapping, a very frightening time as a hostage, and witnessing the shooting death of one of your captors. Is that accurate?”
Again, she nodded, but her hands began to squeeze mine.
The doctor closed the folder. “Whichever psychiatrist you see is going to ask you if there was anything else that happened. Not that your fear needs a better explanation. But they’ll want to be sure they’re dealing with the source of the trouble.”
Lark’s body went completely still.
“Was there something else, Lark?” the doctor asked carefully.
“Yes and no,” she whispered.
The doctor dropped his voice, too. “Can you please elaborate?”
“The boy who died… I killed him,” she said.
To his credit, the doctor didn’t even blink. “Did you pull the trigger?”
