Chapter 232

“Travelers aren’t found. They’re called.”
—Chess Desalls, Insight Kindling

AURORA T. BOOKER LANE is five blocks long between Connecticut and Rock Creek Park. Almost exactly halfway along is our pod’s home. I wasn’t supposed to run because of the jarring of my shoulder, even with a sling, but I was permitted a long walk in the company of Nanette on Saturday morning. I didn’t even consider calling our security. I figured the bad guys had already done their worst and were out of the picture. It was hard not to notice the shadow following us a hundred yards back, though.

“Once you get the stitches out and the doctor says you’re ready to start rehab, we’ll do this walk focusing on swinging your arms,” Nanette said as we strolled along. She held my left hand. “It will be a lot like the rehab you did when you learned to run. Remember, it isn’t enough to just pick your feet up and move them. You have to have good healthy form. That’s what makes your muscles and bones work correctly.”

“Nanette, my love, I want you to help me get healthy. I’ll follow all your instructions. I’ll do whatever is necessary. Just remember, you are my wife, not my therapist. Like always, we’ll help and support each other, but our relationship is not professional.”

“Oh, Jacob. You’ve already proved that you’ll do whatever is necessary. And I am far more invested in your recovery than any mere physical therapist you will ever encounter. Seeing you hurt hurts me. And knowing you took this injury to prevent harm from coming to me, to Donna, or to Cindy makes your recovery my responsibility. And I will make sure you know and understand that I am your wife in every way possible for me to show it.”

“I love you, Nan.” We walked in silence for a while enjoying the early spring air. “Will we make it?” I asked so low I wasn’t sure Nan heard me.

“Why would you think otherwise?”

“I ... Because I’m such a smart mouth, I put you all in danger. I almost lost the most precious people in the world to me. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, Nan.” Tears escaped my eyes and ran unchecked down my cheeks as we turned back toward the house.

“Listen to me, Jacob,” she said gently. “Every single person in our pod agreed with what we were doing. It’s not just you. Donna puts it on the line in every venue. Cindy plays her heart out to support the message. Emily is considering every safety and security measure she can make for her precious cargo. Rachel argues with Jo on a daily basis about your schedule and protecting your health. Beca and Joan are crafting messages through an entire network of websites that support our political environment. Desi, Brittany, and Sophie were ready to walk out on their upcoming shows at a moment’s notice to support any concert need. If you had been less caring and concerned for her and her life’s goals and put the slightest pressure on Remas, she would never have left for Seattle.”

“How could I do a thing like that?”

“Exactly. You put her life goals ahead of your desire to have her with us. Her good above yours. You’re not selfish, Jacob. You did not put our lives on the line. We did. Even Dana. She walks into danger every day to rescue people from absurd situations, knowing that she will be welcome here as soon as she has a break. Jacob, we have a mission. Not you. We. Our entire pod is committed to reforming the service and the government. We put you in danger by making you our spokesperson and front man. Not the other way around.”

I was being buried in the sand, caving in around me. My lungs wouldn’t expand. Each sand-filled breath I took was immediately expelled as the pressure increased. I felt like I had chains around my chest being pulled tighter and tighter. I was suffocating. I panicked, thrashing left and right, unable to toss off the bindings.

“J, it’s a dream. A dream, lover. Relax. You can breathe.” Em’s sweet voice called me back like her hand in mine had done so often. “Come back to me, love. It’s just a dream.”

“Em!” I panted. “Can’t breathe. Can’t...” I gulped in a huge lungful of air holding it as it ached in my lungs. I exhaled and gulped in another, thanking God for the gift of air. Em cooed and petted me. Desi, awake on the other side of me, kissed my head, careful not to put pressure on my arm and stitches. I could feel the throbbing start in my shoulder from my reckless thrashing. I needed a pill. “Pain pill,” I gasped. Em rolled to the side and got the pill and glass of water from beside the bed. I swallowed them.

“You haven’t had a nightmare in a long time, J. I thought we were through with them forever,” Em whispered.

“Why? Why now?” I rasped. “And worse than ever before. I panicked. Why, Em? Why now?”

“I don’t know, baby.”

“Probably brought on by all the other things you’ve been through,” Desi said. “Having your arm immobilized, for example.”

“Yeah. Probably it,” I sighed. “Oh, God, it was awful. I don’t want to go back to sleep.”

“Is there anything a willing girl could do to make it better?” Desi asked. “I know where there’s one or two.”

“You don’t have to...”

“Shh. Who said anything about having to? Just lie back and relax. Kiss Emily while Dr. Desi wraps your cock in her boobs and slides it up to her mouth.”

The combined boob-job and blowjob proved to be just what the doctor ordered to send me off to deep, dreamless sleep.

“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Dr. Mapplethorpe said as he took out the stitches on Friday. PTSD. “You were shot. The repercussions of what could have happened are beginning to settle in. It will trigger all kinds of memories or unrelated dreams. You need to see a therapist. Should have a week ago. Let me make a couple of calls.”

He left the examining room and Rachel helped me put my shirt on. It wasn’t quite as difficult to get a shirt on as it had been after my bus accident. After the shirt was buttoned, then the sling so I wouldn’t go crazy with the arm until I’d seen the physical therapist. That was next.

“Jenny will take you down to physical therapy,” Mapplethorpe said when he came back to the room. His nurse assistant helped gather my things. “And this afternoon at two, I’ve scheduled you with Rhonda Ramsey for an intake session for counseling.”

“Thank you, doctor. When do I see you next?”

“We’ll have a follow-up in three weeks to make sure the healing has progressed and therapy is going well. In two months, you’ll be good as new,” he said. I flexed my fingers. Really?

Physical therapy was as painful as I remembered it from the last time. At least I only had one arm in rehab. The therapist had me start working on how far I could elevate my arm—which was about two inches. After she saw what range of motion I had on my own, she had me lie down and moved my arm all over to see if there were any pain points. There were. She thoroughly massaged my muscles and iced my shoulder.

“If this time works for you, we’ll meet here every day next week. I’d rather you not try to do anything other than the daily exercises I give you until we know everything is stable. Keep the sling on as a reminder.”

“Okay. See you Monday.”

“You’ve faced death several times, Jacob.”

“Yes.”

“How does that make you feel?”

“I’m not fond of the experience,” I said. I know what therapy is for and I respect both the need for it and the professional providing it. It just seemed like I had such a long way to go to even get started. Rhonda Ramsey was calm and professional and asked immediately if I preferred to have a male therapist. I told her I have eleven wives and was far more used to talking to women. Her voice reminded me a little of the calm professional voice Amanda used. But was I ready to tell her about dying or about thinking I was going to die? It would take a while.

“That’s good. Some people are.”

“Really?”

“There are people who seem to thrive on the experience of dying or nearly dying. They try to repeat it, usually with fatal results. I’m glad you are not one of those.”

“Believe me, I want to live.”

“Then let’s work on giving you some tools to cope with what this latest experience has brought up. I want you to think back to that night. You’d finished your performance and went back to the dressing room. Where was your guitar?”

“I put it in the case on stage. Our driver had a cart he used to take the big things to the bus.”

“But not Cindy’s flute?”

“She always assembles her flute in the dressing room and it doesn’t leave her hands until she puts it back in its case.”

“She was with you when you entered the dressing room?”

“As were Donna and Nanette.”

“What happened next?”

As best as I could recall, I recited the events up until the moment Donna pulled me off Blue Suit. At that point, everything was a blur and didn’t involve me. I passed out soon after the door burst open and hit me in the head.

“Jacob, why did you rush your assailant? In my counseling experience, it seems the natural tendency is to either run or freeze.”

“I was dead,” I said. “He was going to kill me and then probably my wives. Since I was already dead, there was nothing to lose by rushing him. Maybe my wives could get away.”