Epilogue

Tuesday

Therapy

Dr. Kaplan motioned him to take a seat before returning to her inner office as she spoke to another client on her device. Brock didn’t sit right away, instead he took the time to look again at the photos she had on the vintage oak side table behind a wingback office chair.

He took a bottle of water from a small refrigerator and cracked the top then loosened his tie. The picture he looked at first was of a young woman in olive green army fatigues a new black beret sitting on top of her head. She was smiling at the photographer as she stood in front of a big desert-brown armored vehicle that he knew to be an Israeli Merkava Mark 4 main battle tank.

The soldier looked to be no more than eighteen or nineteen at most. She was tall and fit, her cheeks sunburned, and under the tight-fitting beret, her short blonde ponytail touched the edges of her collar. The round impressions against her uniform’s shirt suggested a sizable chest underneath. Standing next to her with an arm around her waist, sunglasses perched on her head was his therapist, Rachel, with a ‘proud parents’ smile on her face as she posed for the camera.

Brock glanced at the other family photo, one of Dr. Kaplan’s family at a university graduation, the four well-dressed people in the photo had dark hair and darker complexions. Rachel was with an older gentleman, her husband, and her two adult kids. He didn’t see the blonde among the group.

“Hi, Brock.” Dr. Kaplan said shutting the door behind her as she entered the room “Sorry I couldn’t get off the call. Another Veteran was a crisis, but it’s managed for now,” she said as she motioned for him to sit on a worn leather couch across from her chair.

“No problem.” He said meaning it. The Veteran’s Administration had recommended he receive counseling after he returned from Poland. Based on the amount and severity of the combat he saw, the VA said he was at elevated risk for post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). He could choose his therapist, they would pay.

They got comfortable in their respective seats. Rachel crossed her legs and placed a tablet on her lap. She was attractive, with a kind face, her dark chestnut hair had a few strands of gray that only made her look sexier, and big brown intelligent eyes.

“So how are you?” Rachel asked. “Good weekend?” She leaned back and he admired her braless chest. Firm, hard nipples pressing against the sheer white fabric.

“Good. And yes, it was a good weekend, but you know that.” He said, getting comfortable and taking a sip of water.

She nodded. “Yes, thank you for getting me access to the feeds of the party. It was educational.”

They talked for a few minutes about his feelings during and after Brothel Night along with the quality of his sleep before he changed the subject.

“How’s Leah doing?” he said, asking about Rachel’s youngest daughter. The one serving in the Israeli Army.

Rachel glanced at the photo on the table, “Leah is doing good, it has been almost eight months now since we took that photo at her armor school graduation. Now she has been selected to attend the tank commander’s course.” Her face said she was proud but worried.

Commanding a tank was a lot of responsibility for anyone her age and meant the Army thought highly of Leah.

He thought about what Rachel had told him about Leah’s additional duties. Besides serving as a crewman on a Merkava tank.

“Will she continue in the ‘counseling support’ program?” Brock said referring to a unique program in the IDF Rachel had made him aware of helping to combat PTSD.

“Yes, she still has a couple of special ‘boyfriends’ and will participate in ‘social camps’ again after the course is over,” Rachel said, referring to the centers set up for combat soldiers who were showing signs of post-traumatic stress. There the combat soldiers would be able to access the ‘companionship’ of young volunteer IDF soldiers like Leah for an extended period of rest and counseling.”

“From what you have told me Leah has the same empathy and intelligence as her mom when it comes to people,” he said, pouring on the compliments.

Dr. Kaplan was a unique therapist. Besides having a Doctorate of Education in Counseling (Ed. D) specializing in trauma care. She had done graduate work in Sexology and practiced the hands-on Somatic Method of sex therapy. Rachel herself had personally experienced trauma. Near the end of her service in the Israeli Air Force she was injured in a bus stop bombing that also killed her paratrooper boyfriend.

Rachal smiled and sat back. She knew where his focus was. She undid a button for him, a little bit of cleavage for his eyes, a reward. Brock assumed his therapist was a firm C cup, maybe a D, a big handful regardless.