Wednesday
Rachel and I spent the next few days at Luke’s. Rachel was showing what I found out later were classic signs of PTSD. She slept only in spurts and woke up screaming with nightmares. When she was awake, she was moody. She would stare into space, distant and remote; a moment later, she grew consumed with terror.
That happened after she woke up. She hardly said a word during breakfast, but she did wolf down her eggs and toast. I was glad her appetite seemed to be okay.
When she was done, I said, “You feel like taking a shower?”
She gave me a vague nod and trudged back up the stairs. I was loading dishes into the dishwasher when I heard her scream.
“Mama, where are you? I need you!” She often calls me “Mama,” not “Mom” or “Mother,” when she feels helpless.
I raced upstairs and found her crouched on the bathroom floor, naked. She was trembling all over, as if she was outside in the cold. I covered her with a towel and led her back into the bedroom.
I stayed with her all day, holding and cuddling her and reminding her it was all over and she was safe. I figured we’d talk about the rest of it when she was ready. I also suspected she might need professional help. What twenty-five-year-old woman wouldn’t be freaked out after straddling the fragile line between life and death? Strapped into a suicide vest, knowing one false move by her or someone else could obliterate her and the people around her? I was her mother, but even I could only guess at the abject horror that claimed her.
The police and the FBI were in and out of Lake Geneva. Mostly LeJeune and Jimmy Saclarides, both of whom, thankfully, Rachel already knew. Others came with them, but no one pressed Rachel. Instead, they conducted a series of interviews with Luke and me. I wasn’t sure if the men who came with LeJeune were with the Bureau; they might have been from another federal agency, maybe Homeland Security, maybe CIA. I made a mental note to ask Nick afterward. Even LeJeune and Jimmy had been debriefed, they said, and were preparing detailed reports.
The media, of course, heard rumors about the explosion as well as of federal agents overrunning the Lodge. Jimmy took the lead and explained in a press conference that a gas tank near the airstrip had ruptured. No one was killed or hurt, and property damage was minimal. That held the media’s interest for about a nanosecond, and they went away. I was impressed.
By the third night Rachel seemed to have gained some equanimity. She wasn’t herself, but she did acquiesce when I suggested takeout from Saclarides for dinner. I was rewarded with a smile when I mentioned taramasalata, the pink fish roe appetizer she loved. I phoned it in and had a pleasant conversation with Jimmy’s aunt, who asked how she was doing. When I got off, I told Rachel lots of people cared about her.
She seemed pleased, then, for no apparent reason, suddenly burst into tears. I put my arms around her and led her to the kitchen, where I poured her a glass of wine. It might not have been the recommended tonic, but it did seem to quiet her. I poured one for myself, too, and as we were sitting down, I asked, “Do you want to see Q?”
Her eyes went wide, and the expression in them made me think she might panic again. Then she calmed down. “No. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I—I don’t know. I—I don’t want him to be associated with this—this thing.”
I thought I knew what she was saying. “Okay. He’s been calling. He just wants you to know he’s concerned. His exact words were”—I cleared my throat—“I miss her.”
She sipped her wine and gave me a sly smile.
That was when I knew she would be okay.