Double Team
PART XIX: REORIENTATION
Chapter 232
“Travelers aren’t found. They’re called.”
—Chess Desalls, Insight Kindling
AURORA T. BOOKER LANE is five blocks long between Connecticut and Rock Creek Park. Almost exactly halfway along is our pod’s home. I wasn’t supposed to run because of the jarring of my shoulder, even with a sling, but I was permitted a long walk in the company of Nanette on Saturday morning. I didn’t even consider calling our security. I figured the bad guys had already done their worst and were out of the picture. It was hard not to notice the shadow following us a hundred yards back, though.
“Once you get the stitches out and the doctor says you’re ready to start rehab, we’ll do this walk focusing on swinging your arms,” Nanette said as we strolled along. She held my left hand. “It will be a lot like the rehab you did when you learned to run. Remember, it isn’t enough to just pick your feet up and move them. You have to have good healthy form. That’s what makes your muscles and bones work correctly.”
“Nanette, my love, I want you to help me get healthy. I’ll follow all your instructions. I’ll do whatever is necessary. Just remember, you are my wife, not my therapist. Like always, we’ll help and support each other, but our relationship is not professional.”
“Oh, Jacob. You’ve already proved that you’ll do whatever is necessary. And I am far more invested in your recovery than any mere physical therapist you will ever encounter. Seeing you hurt hurts me. And knowing you took this injury to prevent harm from coming to me, to Donna, or to Cindy makes your recovery my responsibility. And I will make sure you know and understand that I am your wife in every way possible for me to show it.”
“I love you, Nan.” We walked in silence for a while enjoying the early spring air. “Will we make it?” I asked so low I wasn’t sure Nan heard me.
“Why would you think otherwise?”
“I… Because I’m such a smart mouth, I put you all in danger. I almost lost the most precious people in the world to me. I didn’t want to hurt anyone, Nan.” Tears escaped my eyes and ran unchecked down my cheeks as we turned back toward the house.
“Listen to me, Jacob,” she said gently. “Every single person in our pod agreed with what we were doing. It’s not just you. Donna puts it on the line in every venue. Cindy plays her heart out to support the message. Emily is considering every safety and security measure she can make for her precious cargo. Rachel argues with Jo on a daily basis about your schedule and protecting your health. Beca and Joan are crafting messages through an entire network of websites that support our political environment. Desi, Brittany, and Sophie were ready to walk out on their upcoming shows at a moment’s notice to support any concert need. If you had been less caring and concerned for her and her life’s goals and put the slightest pressure on Remas, she would never have left for Seattle.”
“How could I do a thing like that?”
“Exactly. You put her life goals ahead of your desire to have her with us. Her good above yours. You’re not selfish, Jacob. You did not put our lives on the line. We did. Even Dana. She walks into danger every day to rescue people from absurd situations, knowing that she will be welcome here as soon as she has a break. Jacob, we have a mission. Not you. We. Our entire pod is committed to reforming the service and the government. We put you in danger by making you our spokesperson and front man. Not the other way around.”
I was being buried in the sand, caving in around me. My lungs wouldn’t expand. Each sand-filled breath I took was immediately expelled as the pressure increased. I felt like I had chains around my chest being pulled tighter and tighter. I was suffocating. I panicked, thrashing left and right, unable to toss off the bindings.
“J, it’s a dream. A dream, lover. Relax. You can breathe.” Em’s sweet voice called me back like her hand in mine had done so often. “Come back to me, love. It’s just a dream.”
“Em!” I panted. “Can’t breathe. Can’t…” I gulped in a huge lungful of air holding it as it ached in my lungs. I exhaled and gulped in another, thanking God for the gift of air. Em cooed and petted me. Desi, awake on the other side of me, kissed my head, careful not to put pressure on my arm and stitches. I could feel the throbbing start in my shoulder from my reckless thrashing. I needed a pill. “Pain pill,” I gasped. Em rolled to the side and got the pill and glass of water from beside the bed. I swallowed them.
“You haven’t had a nightmare in a long time, J. I thought we were through with them forever,” Em whispered.
“Why? Why now?” I rasped. “And worse than ever before. I panicked. Why, Em? Why now?”
“I don’t know, baby.”
“Probably brought on by all the other things you’ve been through,” Desi said. “Having your arm immobilized, for example.”
“Yeah. Probably it,” I sighed. “Oh, God, it was awful. I don’t want to go back to sleep.”
“Is there anything a willing girl could do to make it better?” Desi asked. “I know where there’s one or two.”
“You don’t have to…”
“Shh. Who said anything about having to? Just lie back and relax. Kiss Emily while Dr. Desi wraps your cock in her boobs and slides it up to her mouth.”
The combined boob-job and blowjob proved to be just what the doctor ordered to send me off to deep, dreamless sleep.
“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Dr. Mapplethorpe said as he took out the stitches on Friday. PTSD. “You were shot. The repercussions of what could have happened are beginning to settle in. It will trigger all kinds of memories or unrelated dreams. You need to see a therapist. Should have a week ago. Let me make a couple of calls.”
He left the examining room and Rachel helped me put my shirt on. It wasn’t quite as difficult to get a shirt on as it had been after my bus accident. After the shirt was buttoned, then the sling so I wouldn’t go crazy with the arm until I’d seen the physical therapist. That was next.
“Jenny will take you down to physical therapy,” Mapplethorpe said when he came back to the room. His nurse assistant helped gather my things. “And this afternoon at two, I’ve scheduled you with Rhonda Ramsey for an intake session for counseling.”
“Thank you, doctor. When do I see you next?”
“We’ll have a follow-up in three weeks to make sure the healing has progressed and therapy is going well. In two months, you’ll be good as new,” he said. I flexed my fingers. Really?
Physical therapy was as painful as I remembered it from the last time. At least I only had one arm in rehab. The therapist had me start working on how far I could elevate my arm—which was about two inches. After she saw what range of motion I had on my own, she had me lie down and moved my arm all over to see if there were any pain points. There were. She thoroughly massaged my muscles and iced my shoulder.
“If this time works for you, we’ll meet here every day next week. I’d rather you not try to do anything other than the daily exercises I give you until we know everything is stable. Keep the sling on as a reminder.”
“Okay. See you Monday.”
“You’ve faced death several times, Jacob.”
“Yes.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“I’m not fond of the experience,” I said. I know what therapy is for and I respect both the need for it and the professional providing it. It just seemed like I had such a long way to go to even get started. Rhonda Ramsey was calm and professional and asked immediately if I preferred to have a male therapist. I told her I have eleven wives and was far more used to talking to women. Her voice reminded me a little of the calm professional voice Amanda used. But was I ready to tell her about dying or about thinking I was going to die? It would take a while.
“That’s good. Some people are.”
“Really?”
“There are people who seem to thrive on the experience of dying or nearly dying. They try to repeat it, usually with fatal results. I’m glad you are not one of those.”
“Believe me, I want to live.”
“Then let’s work on giving you some tools to cope with what this latest experience has brought up. I want you to think back to that night. You’d finished your performance and went back to the dressing room. Where was your guitar?”
“I put it in the case on stage. Our driver had a cart he used to take the big things to the bus.”
“But not Cindy’s flute?”
“She always assembles her flute in the dressing room and it doesn’t leave her hands until she puts it back in its case.”
“She was with you when you entered the dressing room?”
“As were Donna and Nanette.”
“What happened next?”
As best as I could recall, I recited the events up until the moment Donna pulled me off Blue Suit. At that point, everything was a blur and didn’t involve me. I passed out soon after the door burst open and hit me in the head.
“Jacob, why did you rush your assailant? In my counseling experience, it seems the natural tendency is to either run or freeze.”
“I was dead,” I said. “He was going to kill me and then probably my wives. Since I was already dead, there was nothing to lose by rushing him. Maybe my wives could get away.”
“Did that make you a hero?”
“No. It made me mad. Desperate.”
“And how do you feel now?”
“Guilty.”
“Of what?” Rhonda asked. I paused before answering. That had been the one thing that overwhelmed my mind ever since the shooting. I couldn’t stop thinking it was all my fault.
“My smart mouth. All the way back when we did the first video of The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, I started setting us up. It was only a matter of time until it got us in real trouble. I mean, it started an entire national political party. Someone was bound to try to shut me up. And still, I persisted. I endangered my whole family.”
“This smart mouth of yours… Has it always been an issue?”
I thought back to my first interview with the powers who sent me into this body. They accused me of being a smartass, too. I said it was because no one could fire me or fail me. It was something the old man had brought into the teen. A remnant of that old bastard that had nearly gotten me killed.
“After my accident when I was fourteen,” I said shaking my head. “I discovered quickly that it wouldn’t play well at school when I tried to get out of Algebra I. But it’s become progressively worse. I told the national convention that I made them and I’d tear them down. There were probably people there who would have been happy if I’d died.”
“Do you have any PAMS among your wives?” WTF?
“No.”
“I’m going to introduce you to one.”
“I don’t need another wife.”
“And PAMS won’t be one. What I’m talking about is a way to gain control of your smart mouth without losing it entirely. Let’s face the fact that you have created some incredible positive changes with it. PAMS means Prepare, Assess, Modify, Speak. As you make it a conscious part of your speech pattern, it might slow you up at first. As you integrate it into your subconscious, you won’t notice a delay at all. But you will have an alternative to calling your political opponents a sick old yellow dog.”
“I didn’t call them…”
“I know. What do you think they heard?”
“Yeah. I suppose. What does this have to do with PTSD or whatever I’m supposed to have?”
“Safety. Part of dealing with your reaction is knowing you are safe. With your mind where it is now, you are tempted to shut up and not say anything again, right?”
“Yeah. I figure that would be safest for my family and me.”
“Safest. Taking a moment to weigh what you say will give you a safety margin. It’s something our former president never mastered.”
“So, go ahead and make big statements, but be politically correct about it.”
“Political correctness wasn’t invented by millennials. It’s just that somewhere along the line the people forgot what their mothers taught them as basic manners and courtesy. That’s all we’re talking about.”
There’s not much to be said for a month of daily physical therapy and weekly sessions with a psychologist. I caught up with some reading, worked on my arranging coursework, helped Cindy with her schoolwork, and went for a walk each evening. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom. We took several walks along prime areas for sightseeing.
We celebrated our first wedding anniversary with a quiet dinner for twelve and then all went to bed in the big bed upstairs. I managed to touch each of my wives that night, though making love with all of them was out of the question. You’d be amazed how limited your body is when one arm doesn’t quite work well.
On April sixth, I spent an hour in Rhonda’s office crying over my baby sister. And after I’d cried for her, I cried for my parents and my older sister and what I’d put them through by nearly being killed. Then I wept for my wives. Rhonda mostly just listened and offered me water when I got the hiccups.
I knew Em had to be feeling it as much as I was. When she got home from work, I caught her with my left hand and led her to a big chair in the living room where we cuddled together. I’d gained a limited range of motion in my right arm and petted her arm as we sat cuddled together. She caught my hand and kissed my fingers.
“How is it?” she asked. “Hurt?”
“Not much.”
“Wait here.” She hopped off my lap and returned a minute later with my Velazquez guitar.
“What? I don’t think…”
“You promised you’d always play for her, J. Please try.”
It took some effort and I finally had to sit in a straight chair in order to get my arm positioned correctly to touch the strings. Just a year ago, Cindy and I had played at the White House. Now, my fingers felt wooden when I touched the strings.
Once my arm was in position, though, there was very little movement of the arm. It was mostly wrist and fingers. I strummed a few chords and then picked a few notes. I made a tuning adjustment and started again. Somehow Händel’s Sarabande started coming out of the strings. It was Pey’s favorite.
It was painful and awkward. By the end of four minutes, I was both sweating and crying. Emily held my head against her chest. Donna gently removed the guitar from my hands. Cindy held my right hand in hers and kissed my fingers.
“You need a manicure,” she whispered. “We must take care of these precious fingers.”
“What’s this about?” I asked Rachel Sunday morning. I was thumbing through my email and looking at a few comments on YouTube and Patreon, mostly wishing me a speedy recovery. This one was a meeting request.
“I tried to tell them you aren’t ready,” she said. “Will says it is just a check-in to see how you are doing. I know they want you to do something, though.”
“I can hardly play guitar yet,” I groused. “What else do they need me for?”
“It’s all been very hush-hush and I’ve been out of the loop,” Rachel said. “But don’t worry. I’ll be there with you and I won’t let them railroad you into something.”
“The music has always been a small piece of the deputation work, Jacob. It was important with you and Cindy because you already had a name and following we could camp on. And you have to admit the deputation work didn’t harm your private cash flow at all,” Jo said. In fact, our Patreon base had grown, even after the shooting and Joan giving members an option to donate by release or by the month. That would enable people to stop giving until we had something new for them.
“It’s been a good relationship,” I said.
“We don’t want to lose momentum, even if you can’t play yet. This is going to affect Cindy, too. We have requests for her to travel as a soloist for different regional orchestras this summer. We’re covering that in a separate meeting,” Jo said. I grimaced. If they thought they were sending Cindy alone to God-knows-where, they had another think coming.
“What we’d like to do,” Will picked up before I could respond, “is have you record a few PSAs. Or we should call them National Service Announcements, instead of Public Service. We noted from your early reports to the commission that there was a lot of disinformation floating around. We thought if we could get you to do a one-minute spot on different aspects of the service and how to get the most out of it, that would go a long way to spread accurate information.”
“Basically, do advertisements for the service?” I said.
“Well, I wasn’t going to put it that way, but yes.”
I was in the service and if they told me to read lines from a script in front of a camera, that’s the job I’d have. Cindy and I had built credibility as being fairly independent in what we said in our concerts and streams. A scripted and recorded advertisement would put an end to that impression. But I didn’t really care at the moment. Maybe being seen as a stooge for the service, it would take emphasis off of whatever I had accomplished.
“What’s the schedule? I’m still in physical and occupational therapy every day.”
“We’ll preserve those times. We aren’t trying to run you into the ground, Jacob,” Jo said. “Return to work half-days at the most. We aren’t going to take you off sick leave. You’d start meeting in the mornings with your production crew and planning the project. We’d want to be taping by the first of May.”
“Donna,” I said. “I have no idea how to work with a production crew or engage in the process. I want her as my producer.” Jo looked at Will and he nodded.
“The project is still in infancy. We can adjust the team as necessary. I’ll call Donna,” Jo said.
“What’s my role in this?” Rachel asked.
“Technically, nothing,” Will said. “You have two other deputation teams in the field and are slated to start auditioning others in the same May timeframe. We promised to keep you in the loop on all things involving Jacob and Cindy. We still expect them to return to the circuit eventually.”
Rachel looked at me and I nodded. I figured I could do this and it would prevent any pressure to get me back playing music. I wanted a lot more mobility in my arm and coordination in my fingers before I tried to keep up with Cindy’s flute.
It looked like I had a new job.
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