Page 98 of To Save Him

The name and location of the hospital sounded right, but I knew it wasn’tGrant…unless my research had led me astray.  But how could I confirm my doubts were wrong without giving myself away to Brandon?  But, by being honest with him, what did I have to lose?  I couldn’t shoulder the suspicion anymore.  I couldn’t live this way.  “Brandon…I want to believe you…”

His eyes grew wide then.  “You mean you don’t?”  He looked crushed, heartbroken.

Lost.

And that was my fault.  I fought against the pool of saliva welling up in my mouth, swallowing hard before saying, “I’m not saying I don’t.  There’s just…”  This was harder than I’d expected.  Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut.  No, I needed to plow forward with full force.  It was the only way.  “I don’t remember Gabriel talking about you, Brandon, and I never saw any pictures of the two of you together.  And you act like you’re hiding something from me.”

“I’m not hidingshitfrom you, Kimberly.  Everything I’ve told you is true.”

“So what are you leaving out?”

His dark eyes clouded over as if his soul was being transported elsewhere.  “I already told you there are things I don’t remember.  And the things I can…I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.  Why would I want to share them with someone I love?”

My voice was gentler then.  I couldn’t bear tearing him apart for answers.  “Because maybe sharing would help you heal.”

And it was later that night, after many tears and words—both bitter and sweet—that we decided together to find the hospital that had tried to mend Brandon’s broken wings.

 

* * *

 

IF YOU’VE GROWN up surrounded by mountains or living in them, then spending hours upon hours driving on a relatively straight road flat as a board feels a little disconcerting.  Brandon was actually the one doing the driving, but I was in the passenger seat watching field after field after field—brown and dormant because it was autumn—pass by.  I felt almost like a hamster on a wheel.  There was little evidence that we were actually making progress, save the different names of the towns we drove through and the mile markers on the side of the road as we made our way east through Kansas.

Getting here hadn’t been easy.  Simply by having the conversation, it seemed, Brandon’s disturbing sleep episodes increased.  At least every night since, he’d wake up in a panic, but I was sure it was because we’d made plans.

His next appointment with Dr. Cartwright would be in five days, and he’d likely need it, depending upon what we found at the end of the road.  After deciding we needed to go to the hospital—to get his files for the psychiatrist as well as to allay my fears, although I didn’t stress that part of the equation with Brandon—we got online and did some digging.  Only we quickly found that there was no place called the Ulysses S. Grant Veterans’ Hospital anywhere on the east coast.

That revelation alone underlined my fears and doubts.

But, wanting to believe Brandon and also afraid to tell himallthe digging I’d done, I asked him again about the discharge papers I’d seen that had disappeared.  He didn’t know where they’d gone, but when we searched through his backpack again, they had reappeared.  This time, though, some of the pages were missing, and it again made me suspicious.

We had the page with the info, though, and it confirmed what I’d found long ago—that the hospital was a place called the Charles H. Basse Veterans Medical Center located in South Carolina.

Another problem?  The phone number.  It wasn’t to a hospital, even though it was printed clearly and I knew we were dialing it correctly.  We kept getting a supermarket when we called.  I wasn’t about to tell him I’d called the hospital’s number before and spoken with someone, and I started questioning my own memory at that point.   Between Brandon’s increasing anxiety and my lingering doubts pushing me, we decided to make a road trip.  We had an address.  Online maps said there was nothing there at that particular destination, but Brandon swore on his life he’d been in a hospital for months and months and, after we’d found the Basse Medical Center, he was certain it was the right place.

I wanted to believe him.

So we made plans to drive there.  The address itself was outside a small city in South Carolina, and if we drove straight there without stopping to gas up or sleep, it would take us more than a day to get there, so we decided to break up the trip.  We’d spend the night in St. Louis, Missouri, and then drive the rest of the way the next day, and I’d rent a car to keep from putting thousands of miles of wear and tear on mine.  Annabel and JR (who now also knew about my relationship with Brandon, whether I’d wanted him to or not) said they’d be okay for a couple of days on their own.  Annabel took time off from work so she could be at home with her brother and, against my better judgment, I even asked Mel if he could be available if the kids needed him.  “What could possibly be more important than our kids?” he asked, demanding to know “what the hell” I had to do that would take me away from them.

I’d bitten my tongue.  He had no idea what I’d be doing was making sure our children were safe.

But I watched the brown fields out the window, feeling like my stomach was full of boiling acid, wondering what we’d find the next day when we arrived at our destination.

And what would I do—how would I look at Brandon—if we found absolutely nothing?  Because all signs were pointing to supreme disappointment.

What if everything Brandon Abbott had ever told me was a lie?

 

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