Page 81 of To Save Him

 

 

 

Chapter Twenty-six

 

SINCE THE KIDS had returned to school, I didn’t have to worry about them stumbling upon me snooping.  I’d wanted to talk to Brandon about seeking psychiatric help, but he left for work at the same time the kids were heading to school.

I couldn’t concentrate.  The visualization of what Brandon had described earlier was disturbing me.  And I was inspired now.  I knew Brandon had brought a backpack with him when he’d first arrived.  I didn’t know what was in it, but there might be some clue about his past in there; if nothing else, there might be something inside that would put my mind at ease.  It was moments like earlier that morning—when he’d awakened, scaring me first and then reliving something in his mind—that made me believe he was telling the truth, at least a truth that he thought was real.

It was the dark lover he was becoming that filled me with doubt.

Even though I felt trusting at the moment, I knew it would be a matter of time before I was skeptical again.  Right now, I had an opportunity, and I had to seize it.  It was midmorning, and neither Brandon nor the kids would be home till midafternoon.  I couldn’t focus on my work anyway, so I thought I might as well try to solve part of the mystery.

I took a long deep breath and walked upstairs.  Each step made my foot feel heavier, but I trudged upward.  Ineededto do this.  For me.  For Brandon.  For Gabriel.

And even for my living children.

I needed to find out what I could about Brandon’s past.  Good or bad, I needed to know.

When I entered Gabriel’s room, I paused.  It looked so different now that we had cleaned it out, and a tiny part of me mourned again as I realized that it didn’t smell the way it used to.  Something had changed.

I figured Brandon had unpacked the backpack and put his things in the dresser drawers and the closet, but when I opened the door to the latter, I was surprised to find the fraying gray pack on the floor next to the combat boots I hadn’t seen him wear in a while.

I swallowed.  Part of me was afraid of what I’d find in there.  But I knew it had to be done.  I sucked down a gulp of air and then bent over, grabbing it with both hands.  As I lifted it, though, I realized it wasn’t as heavy as it probably had been when Brandon had been lugging it around before putting down stakes here.  I’d definitely expected more.

I moved over to the bed and set the pack down, staring at it for a bit before gritting my teeth.  I sat up straight and then put my finger and thumb on the zipper tab, resolved to opening it before I changed my mind.

I don’t know what exactly I thought I’d see, but what I found on top made me question myself and I almost zipped it right back up.  The first thing on top was a Bible, one meant to appeal to a younger crowd, with an inspiring sunrise picture on the front.  Underneath that were several pairs of clothes—clean—that I’d seen Brandon wearing when he’d first arrived.  I closed my eyes and took a breath of resolve.  Then I took these items out, setting them on the bed, struggling with my conscience and questioning if I should continue.  I finally asked myself what it could hurt.  If Brandon was who he said he was, he had nothing to hide…especially in that backpack.  If nothing else, it could put my mind at ease and make me stop doubting him—and that was what convinced me to continue.

I took out the last pair of jeans.  Underneath that and tucked to one side was an assortment of sheathed knives.  Odd, maybe, and definitely a little frightening but perhaps not entirely unexpected of a former soldier—especially one with PTSD.  There was also a tin holding wooden matches and a can opener, along with a couple of tins of sardines, a small jar of peanut butter, a few granola bars, and some brown vacuum-sealed bags of food, nothing like what I’d buy at the store, so I figured they were military foods—rations.  Underneath that were some papers.

I felt a little relief and started to pack it all back inside his bag again, but then I realized the papers were probably the most important items in there.  They might hold some clue about him that I’d never considered.  I took a deep breath and shoved my hand back in, grabbing the neatly folded sheets out and looking at them for a few seconds before deciding to unfold them.

The papers were thin, like the kind of papers that, when written on, copy onto the paper behind them.  They were white with black lettering, but the handwriting was in blue ink.  There wasn’t much printing, though, and my eyes were drawn to the top, the part that saidDischarge Instructions, and I quickly scanned down the page.  The instructions mainly cautioned the patient about signs of suicide and self-harm, but one specific guideline urged him to seek a permanent therapist—either for veterans or otherwise—once he’d settled down somewhere.

I wondered if Brandon had forgotten about that directive.

It also gave other instructions for him to follow, but I didn’t even read them when I felt a chill charge up my spine as I realized something wasn’t quite right.

The name of the patient wasMichaelAbbott, notBrandon.

I was confused.  WasBrandonhis real name orMichael?  Or had he stolen these papers from someone else but still went by his real first name?

My fingers grew numb and cold and I could barely feel the papers in my hand as a thought washed over me.

Could I trust anything he said?

I took a deep breath.  This might not be a big deal.  WhetherBrandonwas a nickname or a middle name or whatever, these papers might still be about him and, if so, I should probably read through them.  There were quite a few in the stack and so I started skimming through them, one at a time, trying to figure out if there was something I could learn about Brandon that would maybe allow me to discover a way to help him.

When I saw the paper focusing on post-traumatic stress disorder, I paused, because that, at least, confirmed that these instructions were for the man living in my house.

Or were they informinghimabout the way he should behave in order toseemlike someone suffering from the PTSD?

I scoured through the top page again, where it suggested that the patient find counseling to deal with ongoing symptoms associated with the disorder, get plenty of rest and exercise, avoid triggers, and look for a support group.  I was flipping the page when I heard something unusual.  No, not unusual.  Something unexpected.

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