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-What it All Means-
Walking along Robertson Drive Tuesday morning, Betty pulled her coat a bit tighter around her body. As the end of September neared, the chill in the air had increased, and she was glad she'd pulled on her black leather gloves along with the coat before she'd left the house.
She glanced at the door of her father's dental practice as she passed by. The familiar sight of "Dr. R. Daniels, DDS," engraved on the glass panel made her smile. She'd spent many days as a young girl, tooling around the office, or playing on the floor near his desk while he'd gone through his patient files. Yet, that wasn't her destination today.
Four doors down from her father's practice, she came to the place she sought. The chill of the metal door handle permeated her gloves as she grasped it and pulled the door open, stepping inside.
The interior of the office of Dr. Calvin Freeman felt warm and welcoming, so much so that Betty pulled off her gloves and tucked them into the pocket of her coat. The reception area, well heated and decorated in soothing shades of blue, green, and white, was quiet. The brown leather couches in the waiting area were empty, the magazines arranged on the short-legged mahogany coffee table appeared untouched.
The only person present in the room was the receptionist. Seated behind a small mahogany desk in the corner of the room, the woman appeared to be busy with some kind of paperwork.
Betty moved toward the desk. "Excuse me."
The woman, whose rich dark skin glowed beneath a crown of curly black hair, smiled as she looked up from her papers. "Good Morning. You must be Elizabeth."
She nodded. "I am. I know I'm a bit early, so I'll wait if—"
"No need. Dr. Freeman said to bring you to his office as soon as you arrived." She stood. "I'm Marla, by the way." She extended her hand.
Betty shook her hand. "Nice to meet you."
"This way." Marla gestured with her finger, then led Betty down a short hallway. At the end, they came to an open door, and Marla stuck her head inside. "Dr. Freeman, Elizabeth Daniels is here."
"Thank you," a deep voice replied from the office. "Have her come in, Marla."
After thanking Marla for her help, Betty entered the office. It was sizable, but the tall frame of Dr. Freeman, tucked behind a huge steel and glass desk, took up much of the real estate.
He smiled, gesturing to the chair facing his. "Have a seat, Ms. Daniels."
She did as he invited. "Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Freeman. And you can call me Betty. Most folks do."
"Not a problem. I had a light patient load today, so I'm happy to help." He leaned over his desk, resting his elbows on the surface of it. "So, Betty. How can I help you?"
She clasped her hands together, placed them in her lap. "I...wanted to ask you some questions. About a...friend of mine."
His brow hitched, but he nodded. "Yes. Your father told me you wanted to seek my advice on someone else's behalf. So, what can you tell me about your friend?"
Drawing a deep breath, she began. "I should start by saying he's a veteran, recently returned from France."
"Go on."
"Well, we were talking, and as he began to recount some of the things he encountered over there...well..."
"Did he become agitated or angry?"
She shook her head. "No, nothing like that. He was shaking, and he took on this vacant stare. It was as if he were looking right through me. He stopped speaking mid-sentence, and his eyes rolled back. Next thing I know, he fainted." She placed a hand on her chest, feeling the way her heart raced.
"That must have been very unsettling to see."
"It was. Even just telling you about it has set my heart to fluttering."
He scratched his chin. "And how did you react in the moment?"
"I tried to wake him up. He didn't come around right away, but I stayed with him until he woke up." She left out that she'd kissed him- Dr. Freeman didn't need to know everything.
"I see. It was very kind of you to do that." He sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. "Have you ever seen you friend exhibit these symptoms before?"
She shook her head. "No, but I think that's because we've avoided the topic of war." Looking down at her hands, she continued. "I actually feel guilty that I encouraged him to talk about his experiences. I didn't mean to upset him so much."
"Obviously, I can't make an official diagnosis without evaluating your friend for myself." He rubbed his hands together. "Still, I think I can provide some insight into what he may be dealing with."
She leaned forward in her chair. "I'd certainly appreciate any information you can give me."
"I've spoken to many of our soldiers returning from the war, many who suffer similar symptoms to what you've described. I believe your friend is suffering from what we call CSR, or Combat Stress Reaction. It's an acute psychological reaction to the horrors of battle. Now, you don't need to repeat the story to me, but was he telling you something particularly awful just before fainted?"
She nodded, feeling the wetness gathering in her eyes as she recalled his tale. "It was horrendous."
"I assumed as much. Combat stress reaction is somewhat new. During the first world war, they called it shell shock. However, what we call it doesn't matter as much as how it affects these men. They've witnessed, and carried out, some of the worst things we can imagine. Torture. Maiming. Murder. All in the name of doing their jobs."
She shuddered. She didn't speak; she couldn't. What was there to say?
"Some of these young men described looking another human being in the eyes and seeing his fear, moments before they took a life. Enduring things like this does something to the mind."
She swallowed, wiped at the tears as they rolled down her cheeks. "Is there something that can be done? I hate to think of him suffering the rest of his life." Warner was a good, decent man. He didn't deserve to bear this burden to the grave. There had to be something, anything that could ease his mind.
Dr. Freeman nodded. "Fortunately, yes. There are many treatments thought to relieve the symptoms. Now, some of my more reckless colleagues advocate for radical treatments, such as insulin or electric shock therapy, or even lobotomy."
She covered her mouth, but not in time to contain the tiny shriek of horror.
"I don't advocate for those treatments, Betty. I've found that my patients benefit from a more holistic approach. What these men really need is good social support- that is, time with family and friends. They need stable jobs, and possibly higher education. They need to feel loved, accepted and included by their community, and they need to feel that people are grateful to them for their selfless service to this country."
She breathed a bit easier as she heard the list. "Well, he's a business owner, so the employment base is covered. I'm not sure about the community support, though. People don't really interact with him much. I do think they're grateful for his service, though they might not know how to approach him."
"A simple smile or handshake, and saying, 'Thank you for your service,' would go a long way." He paused. "There is one more treatment that has great benefits for these young men."
"What's that?"
"Psychotherapy. Talking with a professional about what they experienced helps to release the trauma. This kind of therapy also equips them with techniques to help them cope when the memories become troublesome."
"I understand."
"Have I answered all of your questions, Betty?"
"Yes." She stood. "I know you have other things to attend to, and I don't' want to take up your whole day. Thank you for meeting with me, Dr. Freeman."
He stood, reaching across the desk to shake her hand. "My pleasure. And, I recommend you seeing if your friend would be open to talking to me about his experiences. Based on what you've described, I think talk therapy would be helpful for him."
"I'll ask him." After thanking the doctor again, she said her goodbyes and was on her way.
Leaving the office, she reflected on everything Dr. Freeman had shared with her. Warner's condition seemed complex, and life-altering. What would that mean, if they did become serious about each other? She heard her father's warning echoing in her mind.
"It could mean spending the rest of your life as his nursemaid."
Pushing away the thought of that, she walked briskly toward home.
***
-Love, or Pity? -
WITH THE BAG CONTAINING his freshly laundered clothes in hand, Warner walked down Fourth Street toward home. He'd elected to fix himself lunch today at home, to avoid going into the Cashwell. It hadn't been anything fancy- just a sandwich with a few slices of the turkey he'd picked up from the deli, a ripe red apple, and a glass of lemonade.
Still, there was no way to get around going to pick up his laundry at Mrs. Albertson’s launderette. The small storefront was just a few doors down from the hotel, and as much as he wanted to avoid the area, he couldn't just abandon his clothes.
The mid-afternoon sunshine warmed the air, despite temperatures that had barely reached the fifties. Only a few thin, wispy clouds hung overhead. He walked at a brisk pace, hoping to get back to his shop and finish the work he'd begun on a ’42 Ford Super Deluxe Tudor sedan before he'd taken his lunch break. Since Darnell had the day off, he was on his own with the extensive repairs it required.
He sighed. If I ever start making enough money, I'm going to hire him on full time.
As he passed by the Cashwell, he left the sidewalk, intent on taking the alleyway behind it as a shortcut home. He fished in his shirt pocket for a cigar, to fill the sudden craving. While he enjoyed the soothing act of having a cigar, he didn’t care for the lingering smell of smoke, so he often smoked outside. The narrow alleyway behind the hotel had become one his favorite smoking spots since he often craved a cigar after a good meal.
The alleyway was oddly shaped. It was straight for several yards as it passed between the hotel and the drugstore next door but widened and veered to the left behind the hotel.
He hadn't gone two full steps into the alleyway when he heard voices. Recognizing one of them as Betty, he stopped, being sure to keep out of her line of sight.
"I really do feel like I care for him." Hearing Betty's words made Warner's heart race. Is she talking about me? If not, who is she talking about?
"So, what are you going to do?" Another female voice asked. Warner assumed it was Claudette since she and Betty seemed to be good friends.
"I honestly don't know. My father said that if I keep carrying on with him, I'll end up spending my whole life as his nursemaid."
"Goodness." The other voice quieted for a moment. "You care about him, though. I know it."
There were a few beats of silence. Warner leaned back against the wall, snipped the end of his cigar with the small pocket knife he always carried. She seems conflicted. Although she hasn't used the word love, she has said she cares for me.
Claudette finally said, "Best of luck with this, Betty. I'm going back in, my break' s over."
He listened to the retreating footsteps and the sound of the back door to the hotel opening and closing, to give him an indication that they'd gone in. Then he advanced into the alley, fishing in his shirt pocket for his old metal lighter. The sunlight dimmed as the height of the buildings to either side of him began to block the full force of its glow.
Hearing a yelp, he looked up and stopped mid-step.
Apparently, Betty hadn't gone inside. She still stood in the alleyway, alone. Wearing a simple dress of dark green and a pair of matching pumps, she stared at him. Her wide eyes and open mouth communicated her surprise at seeing him.
"W... Warner," she stammered. "I didn't know you were...um...how long have you been standing there?"
He could feel his ire rising as he tucked the trimmed cigar away. "Not long, Betty." He paused, gave her a moment to for a glimmer of hope that he hadn't overheard her conversation to momentarily brighten her face. "But long enough."
She sighed. "Warner, I..."
He put up his hand. "No. You've said enough. I want you to listen to me."
She pursed her red-tinted lips tightly shut.
"I've always heard that women have this enormous capacity for love. I don't think I've ever seen this actually play out. My mother left my father when I was young because she wasn't content with the lifestyle his mechanic's earnings gave her. And my less than loyal former girlfriend left me while I was overseas, being subjected to horrors no man ought to see."
"I'm sorry those things happened to you. You didn't deserve..."
"You don't need to tell me what I deserve, I'm well aware. My mother returned to my father and they reconciled. But I would never take Felicity back, not in a thousand lifetimes." He shook his head, thinking of the colossal betrayal she'd dealt him. His father may have been willing to forgive, but Warner simply wouldn't risk his heart that way.
Tears began to gather in her eyes. "Warner, listen to me. I really... care for you. Truly. Why else would I go to a psychiatrist, seeking advice on how I could help you?"
He drew back, feeling the heat of embarrassment rising in his throat. "So you've gone behind my back, to some doctor? You think I'm crazy?"
"It's not like that! He had a lot of things to say, things that might help you."
His chest constricted, his fingers tightening their grasp around the handles of the laundry bag. All this time, he'd thought she was different. "You're just like everyone else, Betty. You think I'm damaged, no good for anything. You think I'm broken."
The tears were falling in earnest now as she shook her head. "No, no. That's not what I think."
"Yes, it is. Why else would you be sneaking around, looking for a way to fix me?" He ran his palm over his face and hair, then blew out an exasperated breath. "I can't do this with you, Betty. I can't."
She said nothing; a sob escaped her throat.
"I won't stay around for this. I won't get involved with you, knowing you may have confused love with pity. I won't risk you becoming my biggest regret."
She started to say something, but another small sob came.
Rather than wait for her to say whatever she intended, he turned and left the alleyway the same way he'd come.
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