Trauma

EPILOGUE

Only certain sections of the Arlington Cemetery allow private headstone markers to be placed. Adam’s marker was a simple design, dignified, and appropriate for a military setting. The inscription was factual: name, rank, date of birth, date of death, and a short phrase that required special approval. It read: Remember those with invisible wounds.

Spring days, like this seventy-degree delight in mid April, are seldom so spectacular, and the warm breeze made the freshly bloomed cherry blossoms smell even sweeter. The cemetery was mostly deserted at that midday hour, except for Howard and Irene Bryant, who were walking arm in arm back to their rental car parked nearby — and for David and Carrie, who lingered behind, holding hands, gazing at Adam’s gravestone with somber expressions.

Carrie clutched in her hand the qualification number from her recent running of the Boston Marathon. She put the number on the grass in front of Adam’s grave and used a rock she’d brought with her to hold it in place. When she stood, her eyes were filled with tears, and she clutched David’s hand for comfort.

“I didn’t do great, little brother,” Carrie said, her voice cracking with emotion. “But I finished. Can’t believe we lived in Hopkinton all those years and never bothered to run the big race. Well, I ran it for you. For Steve, for Eric, for all the vets. I raised about two thousand dollars for the Red Sox’s Home Base Program, too, which I guess is pretty good. It’ll help other vets suffering from PTSD, so I hope you’re pleased.”

Carrie’s throat closed. She tried to take a breath, but a sob came out instead. It took time before she could speak again. When she did, her voice was soft and it trembled.

“I miss you every day, and I love you so very much,” Carrie said through her gathering tears. “So here’s the big news Mom and Dad told you I was going to share. Sandra Goodwin was finally sentenced today. That’s really why we came down. I wanted to be here when it happened so I could tell you personally. It took a year for the trial,” Carrie said. “Can you believe it’s been a year? Well, she’s going to spend the rest of her life in prison for what she did. Cal Trent and Bob Richardson — well, their trials are still under way, but they’ll get the same, don’t you worry about it.”

Carrie fished a tissue from her purse and used it to wipe away the tears. She remembered something else to tell her brother.

“They found a burial site.”

Buried. Burned.

Carrie had heard all about the gruesome details of the killings, since she became close with the new secretary of Veterans Affairs. There had been eleven killings, they thought, but it could be more. Bodies turned to ash. The former secretary had resigned in disgrace, along with the medical director at the Boston VA, even though he claimed no involvement with Dr. Finley’s program, no knowledge that DARPA’s blood money funded a nightmare factory.

“Not much new to report on Eric’s condition, or the others,” Carrie said. “They’re still suffering significant neurological damage. But the irony is, Dr. Finley might have been onto something all along. We’ve gone through his case files and there’s something there. Using DBS to cure PTSD is not so far-fetched after all.”

Carrie’s composure cracked again, and she took a moment to recover. David gripped her hand tighter, but the heavy sadness felt like a boulder on her chest.

“I know it sounds horrible to say, but I’d rather you and the others didn’t die in vain. And I guess on that note, I have some more good news to share. I matched with a residency program at the Cleveland Clinic. I’ll be starting in September, and they want me to continue work on treating PTSD and other trauma using DBS. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and I’ve decided I’m not going to back away. There’s an answer to the problem, a way to do the treatment that’s safe and effective. It’ll take years, and lots of hard work to figure it out, but the effort will pay off one day, I know it. What these people did was horrible, beyond words, but I’m choosing to blame the doctors, not the medicine.”

Carrie leaned her head on David’s shoulder as a strong wind kicked up. She brushed the hair from her face and gave a strained smile.

“I feel the wind. Is that you talking, Adam? I sure hope so. I hope you approve. Anyway, I think about you every day. Mom and Dad do, too. We all love you so much.”

Carrie shut her eyes tight, but those tears leaked out anyway. After a few minutes, she and David turned and walked over to where Howard and Irene stood, and all four embraced.

“We’ll meet you for dinner later?” Irene asked, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Yeah,” Carrie said. “Just text me the place and the time and we’ll be there.”

Howard leaned over to kiss Carrie on the forehead, and pulled her into his arms. “I love you so much, kiddo,” he said in a shaky voice. “I’m so proud to call you my daughter.”

Carrie hugged her father hard as she ever had. Then they were apart, two pairs headed for separate cars. Howard and Irene got into their sedan, while Carrie climbed into the driver’s seat of Adam’s fire-red Camaro, with David taking the passenger seat beside her. The car had made the long journey from Hopkinton to D.C. without one mechanical problem. Evidently, Adam needed inspiration to get it working right, and watching out for his sister’s safety had provided more than enough.

Carrie fired up the engine and started to drive when David’s cell phone rang.

“David here,” he answered.

There was a long series of pauses as David said things like, “Uh-huh, oh good, yeah, sure, of course, that sounds fine, of course.”

He ended the call and said nothing.

Carrie looked over at him. “Well?”

“Well what?” David asked.

“Who called?”

“Anneke from the Lowell Observer.”

“What about?”

“The Pulitzer,” David said. “I won.”

Carrie laughed. “That’s how you celebrate?”

“Not a real celebratory occasion, and it’s a story I wish I didn’t have to write.”

“David, it’s fantastic news. I’m so proud of you. I really am.”

Carrie used one hand to drive, and the other to give David’s hand a squeeze.

“There’s more,” David said. “I’ve apparently been offered an assignment for The New York Times. They want me to go to Sierra Leone for a couple months.”

“Oh my. That sounds dangerous.”

“I’m a stringer, Carrie. I go where the story is.”

Carrie pulled her hand away and focused on the road.

“What?” David asked.

“I’m moving to Cleveland soon,” Carrie said. “We haven’t really talked about us, and now you’re going away.”

David smiled and touched Carrie’s face with much tenderness. “I’m a stringer,” he said. “I go where the story is. And you’re the story I want to follow for the rest of my life.”

Carrie took David’s hand and this time gave it a kiss. She pressed down on the gas, and the Camaro shot forward like a rocket ship. For a moment Carrie felt Adam’s presence in the seat behind her, his hand resting on her shoulder, a broad grin on his face, that twinkle in his eyes.

And on she drove.

She drove.