Page 74 of Echoes in the Storm
Selfish. Stubborn. Dead.
“Strong, I guess.”
“Good.” She sits patiently, watching me as though waiting for more.
“Honest, and lo—” I stop myself before I say the lie: loyal. “Um, resilient.”
“Good.” Her eyes narrow in on me, yet her expression manages to stay soft. “What else can you share with me, Duke?”
“I’m not sure what you’re expecting.” I shift around on the seat, the vinyl tacky under my hot legs. I’m an anxious mess.
“We might be new to each other,” she says carefully, “but I’ve been at this game for a while, and I can see when one of my clients has something on their mind.”
She doesn’t say it outright, but I can tell she’s not going to let us carry on until we’ve addressed this particular issue. I could bullshit, give her something inconsequential, but I’m guessing she’d see right through that, too.
“It’s in the journals,” I say, pointing to the pile. “Reading that will probably be better than trying to get me to voice it.”
“Okay,” she says, resting a hand on the stack. “How about we leave our session here today. We’ve managed to establish ourselves, get the introductions out of the way.” Her fingers tap the top journal. “I’ll have a read of these tonight, and we can pick up where we left off in a couple of days when I’m scheduled to see you again.”
“Sure.” I rise when she does, taking her offered hand and shaking it firmly in mine.
“As always, if you feel you need to talk to someone you can ring through to our offices any time; there’s an option to divert to the helpline after hours.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She lets my hand go, standing with her hands folded before her as I take my leave. The receptionist gives me a shy smile as I pass by—her flirting when I arrived didn’t escape my notice. Truth is, I’m just not interested. In anything. Especially life now that I’m back in the same old rut.
Coming home was a good thing in that I’ve spent time with Mum like I said I would. I treated that woman like utter and complete crap for the first year or so after I returned. Every ounce of resentment and injustice I felt I took out on her, and I never once thanked her for what she did for me.
For what she sacrificed.
My mother took a second job to ensure that I didn’t have to, making sure I was available to attend every physical therapy session I could to get me to the point I’m at today: where I can walk without a limp.
My leg is a scarred mess, and if Cam noticed it when she saw me naked, she chose not to say a thing.
Yet another tiny detail I realised I appreciated while journaling my thoughts about her. At first, the differences between us drove me nuts, but as I filled the pages with my scrawled words, I realised those quirks were part of what I loved about her. I love the woman for not only her qualities but also her faults. I love all of her.
All I can hope is that this space gives her time to heal, to remember who she was before her life got torn apart. I need Cam to remember how to swim.
How to survive.
How to love herself.
April Dench sat down in her oversized armchair with the man’s journals in her hand. She pulled the cashmere blanket over her legs and made a space for her cat, Sunny, to fit in beside her.
Lance Corporal Harwood was experiencing a definite case of denial if ever she’d seen one. All army men started out the same: stubborn and staunch. But there was something different about Duke. He knew his faults, and yet hestilltried to deny their existence.
She shuffled the pile, moving the black bound book to the top. His eye had tracked to it repeatedly, so logic indicated she should start there. She drew a deep breath and opened to the first page. Intricate designs were scrawled over the paper in no particular image or shape, more like somebody was doodling while they tried to work through a thought. She flicked to the next page—blank—and then the third.
With her heart in her throat, she tracked over the inked words, absorbing the information laid out before her in such vivid detail that she felt as though she were there with him, serving right alongside. This man, this soldier … she’d never encountered such a tortured soul.
But what made her set the book down in her lap and take a moment to breathe was the way he spoke ofher.Whoever this woman was, this “Cammie” or “Cam” as he sometimes referred to her, she was instrumental to the beginning of his healing; a blind man could see that.
Dukehadto reconnect with Cam.
April reached for her notepad laid out on the side table, Sunny mewling his protest at being jostled in her haste. She brought the jotter to her lap, laying it out on top of the journal and scratched the simple word at the top:Cam.
With her pen in between her lips, she stared at the jotter before setting it aside and continuing with the journal. The hours passed, Sunny shifted to the rug on the floor, and yet April kept going, absorbing, consuming, detailing until the last page had been turned.