And as he presses my face against his shoulder, rocking me back and forth, I close my eyes and try my hardest to believe him.
64
Peter
My guts are in a knot as I watch Goldberg examine Sara. The short, balding man is a trauma surgeon by training, but he seems to know what he’s doing—and any doctor is better than none.
Of course, Sara is a doctor herself, but she can’t exactly perform her own gynecological exam.
“Well, from what I can see, you and the baby are perfectly fine,” he announces when he’s done, and I blow out a relieved breath.
Next step: get Sara to a therapist to deal with those terrifying flashbacks.
Spikes of ice still grip my chest when I think about how her face had turned white and blank, as if all life had left her body. And when the hyperventilating and the screaming started… Fuck, I’d give anything to never see her in that state again. I know what PTSD is—I’ve seen it in many soldiers—and to have my ptichka suffering like that had been more than I could bear.
I need to make her better.
I need to undo the damage I have wrought.
“Now, I’m sure you know this better than I do, but you need to avoid stress as much as possible,” Goldberg says to Sara, and she nods, looking every inch the calm, capable doctor herself. And if I hadn’t seen her melt down at our kitchen table—twice—less than an hour ago, it would be easy to believe that she’s just fine.
That the events of the past week have been just a blip on her emotional radar.
But they’re not. They couldn’t be. As strong as my ptichka is, she’s been through too much for it not to impact her. She’d held it together while we were in survival mode, but now that we’re relatively safe, her mind and body are catching up, trying to deal with the extreme trauma.
As far as I know, she hasn’t even cried about her parents—or talked about the man she killed.
I’m no shrink, but that can’t be healthy. Maybe that’s why the flashbacks are hitting her so hard: because she’s fighting off her feelings, refusing to think about her grief.
I’ve seen this in the military, too. Young soldiers, wanting to seem strong, would try to control their feelings to the point that they lose control over them entirely. Bottling up that kind of trauma never works; the men would always end up breaking down, or turning to drugs and alcohol to cope. My nightmares after Daryevo aside, I’ve never had those kinds of issues—but then again, I’m lucky in a way.
I’ve been in survival mode most of my life.
“Thank you, Dr. Goldberg,” Sara says, hopping off the table, and when she goes behind a curtain to put on her clothes, I pull the doctor aside.
“Is she really fine?” I ask in a low voice. “Because she’s just lost her parents, and in general, the last few days have been… difficult.”
The doctor sighs, peeling off his gloves. “I don’t know what to tell you. Physically, she’s healthy. Emotionally… well, that’s not really my department. You might want to talk to Julian, see if he can bring someone to the estate for her to talk to. I know that a couple of years ago, Nora was going through a rough time, and he had a therapist brought here for her. Maybe he could do the same for your wife?”
I was thinking of getting Sara to see a shrink remotely, but in person would be even better.
“Thanks, I’ll talk to him,” I tell Goldberg as Sara returns, and he nods, smiling.
“Good luck. And remember: keep it low stress, okay?”
“Thank you. We’ll do our best,” Sara says, smiling back at him. It’s her sweet, warm smile, and for a second, I feel an ugly spike of jealousy. It’s illogical—the doctor is a hundred-percent gay—but I can’t help it.
I haven’t seen that smile from her in days.
Not since she’s lost everything because of me.
65
Sara
Peter is quiet on the way back to our house, his expression closed off. I know he’s worried about me, but I wish he’d talk to me, distract me from my thoughts. Instead, he silently holds my hand, and as comforting as his touch is, it’s not enough to keep my mind from wandering… from going places I can’t have it go.
“So, is Esguerra going to help you get Henderson?” I ask brightly—partially because I’m curious, partially to have something to talk about. “You’re going after him, right?”
Peter glances down at me. “Yes—and he will.”
“Oh, good. Do you already know how you’re going to find him?”
“We have some ideas,” he says vaguely, then falls silent again.
Great. He probably doesn’t want to talk about it, lest I have another freak-out. Is this how it’s going to be with us from now on, with Peter thinking I’m so fragile I might shatter at the least provocation?