“GOOD.” FATHER HORTENSE smiled and sipped his tea. The man reminded Ryan of Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof, a thick man who always dressed in black with a heavy beard that he enjoyed stroking as he contemplated life.
“Very good, Ryan. I think we could call that a breakthrough.”
“Yes, sir.”
The last sixty days had perhaps been the most difficult months in his life—a long, dark tunnel without a light to guide him other than his weekly visits with Father Hortense who, in addition to being a priest, was also a board-certified psychiatrist. Under the rather unique circumstances the navy had agreed to give Hortense full supervisory authority over Ryan’s case, including all recommendations as to how his career may or may not continue with the navy.
To Ryan, Hortense was God. The puppet master. Which would make him the puppet.
“And the lapses in time?”
They were seated in a Starbucks on University Parks Drive in Waco, three blocks from the apartment that Ryan had rented after moving out of the Super 8 in Austin. The coffee shop was the priest’s idea, a way to get Ryan out of his dark world and into general circulation, as he put it.
“Better,” Ryan said. He picked up his black coffee and motioned with it. “I still have the nightmares and time gets away from me, but I’m doing better this week. Much better.”
“Good. Time is a magnificent healer and you are the recipient of her best intentions.”
“Time, yes. Thank God for Father Time.”
“Not just time, of course. I think you’re coming to terms with the divorce through careful thought and grace. Those are the backbone of any strong character. No one can accuse you of having a weak character.”
“So you’ve said.”
“You disagree?”
Ryan leaned back and crossed his legs. They sat outside in a corner, beyond the hearing of the next group. A black BMW on its way to the drive-through slid past, driven by a gray-haired man in a green polo shirt.
And who was this man? What kinds of challenges had he faced in life? To all who saw him from a distance he appeared like one more successful man quietly enjoying the fruits of life, not unlike Ryan. But like Ryan, was he really a man torn by life’s most cruel circumstances? Divorce? A failed business? A wayward child? Insomnia?
“Ryan?”
“Hmm? Yes, I’m sorry, do I disagree? What was the question again? I’m sorry, I was drifting.”
“That’s fine. I was asking if you thought you had a weak character.”
“I suppose that depends on when you ask me. I’ve had some pretty weak days these last couple months.”
“And a weaker character may have never recovered from them. Few men have endured the kind of ordeal you faced in the desert, not to mention the divorce.”
The air grew silent around Ryan, despite the roar of cars nearby.
“All told, I’m surprised you’ve done so well.”
“Tell that to the man who stole my wife.”
Father Hortense chuckled and Ryan smiled with him. “The man you assaulted.”
“I hardly assaulted him. During the darkest times I wish I had.”
“Ah, yes, the time of deep, dark despairing.”
He’d made one final plea to Celine following his interview with FBI agent Valentine, during which he’d learned that he would be legally restrained from seeing Bethany. But then his now ex-wife (it was hard to believe she was no longer his wife, that the laws of Texas allowed for such a hasty divorce) had handed the phone to Bethany, who’d hung up on him.
He’d fled Austin. An hour and a half north was as far and as near as he dared. He’d taken the furnished apartment, dutifully stocked up on food, mostly the non-perishable kind, and shut himself in.
Hortense, who’d been assigned to him without his knowledge, had tracked him down and found him in his dungeon. He’d been so concerned for him those first two weeks that he’d come by every other day to open the curtains and haul him from bed. Thinking back now, Ryan was hard-pressed not to think of the change in him since as anything short of a genuine breakthrough.
“Was Kahlid insane?”
Father Hortense frowned. “Either insane or blinded by rage.”
“Or simply destroyed by sorrow,” Ryan said. “As strange as it sounds, I think I understand Kahlid.”
He’d never made the admission, and he did so now at the risk of sounding like he might be regressing. On the other hand, this kind of honesty was anything but a sign of regression. Hortense, like all psychiatrists, thrived on complete honesty.
“Tell me how you understand him.”
“Those first few weeks”—a college student talking into an iPhone walked by and Ryan waited for him to pass—“those first few weeks the horror of war haunted me; I couldn’t shake the feeling.”
“So you’ve said. And I can understand how it’s led you this new conviction of yours to turn away from war. God knows the shedding of innocent blood is a terrible business no matter where or how it’s done. But that’s exactly what Kahlid did. Shed innocent blood to make a point. That was his own kind of war. You’re saying you understand that?”
“He was driven to do exactly what he accused us of doing, taking innocent lives for a cause that”—Ryan stopped, shaking his head at the memory—“God, I could never do that. Not now.”
“So you understand what Kahlid did but you could never do it yourself. I would say that’s healthy.”
Ryan nodded absently. “Funny how it all begins to fade over time. I don’t think I will ever be able to go back into the field again, but those first few weeks… it was so raw then. I came back hating war. I looked at every teenager walking down the road differently. What Kahlid did shook me to my core, Father. I’m not sure I could hurt a fly now.”
“But it doesn’t feel as raw and you feel like it still should feel raw. You’re saying you’re suffering from guilt for not feeling as bothered as you were in the weeks after—”
“Not guilty. Just curious. When you step away from it all, you lose perspective. Like the rest of the country.”
“Then that begs another question,” Father Hortense said. “You think the war is wrong?”
“The war, I can’t say. Killing innocent life, yes. And abandoning children is as bad as killing them.”
The priest grunted. “Now there’s the real issue for you, isn’t it? It’s not just that you’ve found a heart for the innocent, it’s that you’re suffering guilt for failing as a father to your own daughter.”
Yes. Ryan didn’t say it, but they both knew it was true.
“Shall we head back?”
They stood and walked down the sidewalk toward his apartment complex.
“You didn’t fail, of course,” Hortense said.
“No, Father, I didn’t fail.” They’d been over this a dozen times. “But I did.”
“No more than half the fathers in this country.”
“Yes, as you’ve been so willing to point out. And I’m not saying it doesn’t help. Millions, hundreds of millions of children grow up without a father nearby. In whole cultures, fathers are less accessible to their children than in ours. During the times of the patriarchs, times of war, the birth of our nation, I get it. But to be rejected by your own daughter…”
They walked in silence for a few moments.
“It was a painful experience.”
“One that you’ll live with for the balance of your life,” the father said. “But you’re finding yourself again. And that’s the important thing.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“The fact that you can talk so freely about all of this is sign enough.”
Ryan nodded. A smile crept across his mouth with the memory of young Bethany, age seven, pronouncing that he was smarter than the president because the president couldn’t read people’s minds while he could—speaking of her mind, of course.
“Have you considered our last discussion?” the father asked.
“I have.”
Hortense had suggested the possibility of his returning to work on a limited schedule, stateside. Temporary duty, or TDY, as the military called it. Getting his mind into familiar territory could well speed his full recovery.
“And?”
“I think you might be right. As long as I can insulate myself from certain duties. I don’t think I can stare at pictures of casualties.”
“That can be arranged on my orders.”
The thought of reclaiming the life he knew so well in the navy was comforting. “I’m assuming it’ll take a couple weeks to line things up.”
“A few weeks, yes. Think of it as an extension of your ongoing therapy.”
Ryan took a deep breath through his nose, smelling the fresh scent of grass, churned up by the mower giving the park to their right one last mow before winter.
“As long as it’s not in Austin…”
“San Antonio. You’d need to move back, of course.”
“Another few weeks, why not? I’ve never been crazy about Waco, anyway.”
“You’d be back under the command structure with the CO. Another psychiatrist would be assigned, but it might be for the best.”
Ryan found the thought unnerving. “Maybe.”
They dropped the subject and talked about college football, a favorite of Father Hortense. He’d suggested taking Ryan to two different UT games but the thought of traveling to Austin was far too much to consider during those dark days. He’d never been a big football fan anyway. And those crowds… they were enough to make him shudder.
Today, however, he might take the father up on a similar offer.
And if he just happened to run across Burton Welsh or Celine? Or, God forbid, Bethany?
The thought made his belly churn.
Father Hortense accompanied him up the stairs to his apartment on the second floor. “Let me make the calls and get the paperwork going.”
He’d waited until this moment to pull the envelope out of his pocket. “Father, I was wondering if you could do me a favor. I know this is a lot to ask, but—”
“Bethany?”
He held the unmarked envelope out and nodded. “Yes.”
“You know I can’t.”
“The court order, I know. But if you could just, I don’t know, drop it off at her school, get the janitor to slip it into her locker… anything. This would mean a lot.”
Father Hortense took the hand that held the envelope into both of his own. “Look, I know how badly you want to reach out to her and explain yourself, and I believe you’ll get that opportunity. But it’s too soon. It would also defy the court’s order. If Bethany or your ex-wife reports this kind of direct communication from you—”
“It won’t be from me!”
“The letter’s from—”
“Picture, not letter.”
Hortense frowned and glanced at the envelope, considering.
Ryan explained while he still had the chance. “It’s just a picture, not a single written word. A picture of Bethany and myself at her ninth birthday party. There’d be no proof that it came from me.”
“What can you hope in return from her?”
He pressed the envelope into the priest’s hand and lowered his arms. “Just knowing that I’m not out of her mind. It’s my way of putting this all behind me. If I know that she has something to remember me by, something that she will know came from me, something that tells her I’m thinking of her… it’s all I can ask.”
“And you’ll put this behind you?”
“I think I can, yes. Seriously, I just need something symbolic like this to… you know, take the next step.”
“Somehow I doubt you’ll be stepping beyond your own daughter.”
“But it makes sense, you have to agree. I need a marker like this, a signpost, anything that tells me I’ve done what I can.”
Father Hortense eyed the white envelope. “I guess I can see that.”
“And I don’t think a picture counts as the court’s understanding of written communication.”
“Okay. I’m actually going to Austin for a meeting this afternoon. I suppose I could swing by Saint Michael’s Academy.”
“Thank you, Father.” He took the man’s hand and shook it aggressively. “Thank you so much. Really, you have no idea what this means to me.”
Hortense took the envelope and slipped it into his coat pocket. “Okay. See you next week.”
Ryan nodded, feeling positively relieved. “Next week.”