“Yes.”
“Ah. Right. I see.”
“What do you see, Dr. Fielding? I’m confused.”
“Ronan mentioned his brother many times in his own personal therapy sessions.” He looked uncomfortable, brow furrowed, as if he were hunting for what to say next and coming up short. In the hallway, the clock on the wall started chiming midday. The fifth hour had been struck by the time he continued. “Of course, patient confidentiality is still a legally binding contract, even after a patient’s death, Miss Lang, so I’m not obliged to go into any sort of detail about what passed between Ronan and me in our sessions, however I will say this. From what I was lead to believe, Sully is a courageous, very brave man who has suffered through a number of traumatic experiences in his lifetime. And when people experience all the things Sully has experienced, Ophelia, they leave a mark. An indelible one that doesn’t rub off too easily. Not without the desire to want to heal, anyway. Ronan told me often about the dangerous stunts his brother would pull. Really reckless, hair-raising stuff. His appetite for throwing himself into the mouth of hell so frequently, while commendable, could also mean that he’s putting those around him in danger at the same time. And if he’s spending time around you? Around the children?” He fell silent.
“He saved three men. No one got hurt because he reacted in a tough situation. And you speak as though Ronan wasn’t the same, Dr. Fielding. He was the one awarded the Purple Heart, remember? I’m sure he didn’t get that handing out ice cream at Kabul airport.”
“Yes, well. The situation’s complicated, whichever way you look at it. I just thought it might be prudent to give you a heads up, if you will. A friendly warning from me to you.” Here was a man who’d never had cause to use the phrase “heads up” before. He was way too proper, too refined for such things.
“Well, thank you, Doctor, for looking out for me, and for the children, but you really have nothing to worry about, I promise you.”
******
Rose came straight by after work. I’d already given the kids their dinners and both of them were bathed, so all she needed to do was sit with them for a couple of hours, watching Marvel Action Hour reruns (which Amie loved).
I was late arriving to Sully’s place. When I let myself into the lighthouse, juggling Tupperware containers of homemade Bolognese sauce and chicken casserole I’d made that afternoon, I stumbled into Sully’s living room to find him braced against a wall with a towel wrapped around his waist, water running down his torso, and a look of agony on his face.
“Jesus, Sully, what the hell are you doing?”
“Initially, I was trying to shower,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now I’m just trying not to pass out.”
“What happened? Damn it, why is there blood all over the floor?” A huge patch of carpet was soaked bright red next to the stairwell, and smaller patches were dotted between there and the point where Sully was now leaning up against the wall.
“I opened up some stitches,” he said, wincing. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
“Where? And why did you even need stitches in the first place?” I put down the tubs of food I was carrying, wriggled out of my jacket, then hurried to check him over. At first I didn’t see the long, jagged slice down his right side, because he was cradling his arms around his body, however the source of the bleeding became all too apparent as I got closer.
“The ship,” Sully said. “The rocks out in the bay gutted her. Tore up the underside of the hull. All twisted metal and sharp edges. I saw one of the guys sink below the water, so I dived in to get him. The waves were so big out there. Linneman did his best to keep the Zodiac steady but a big one hit. Nearly took him out. It smashed the Zodiac into the Sea King. I was in between the two at the time. I got pinned. Crushed my ribs. The warped steel from the hull got me pretty good.”
“I can see that. God, Sully. Let me take a look.” He was shielding his side, body bowed over a little, making it hard for me to survey how bad the damage was.
“It’s okay. Lang, seriously. Just sit down and let me catch my breath for a second, damn it.”
“Sully, I’m not joking. Move!”
He straightened, sighing in frustration, his arms dropping loose to his sides. The cut was deep and raw, eight inches long, and it looked angry. I lifted Sully’s arm out of the way entirely, trying to get a better look, to see if it was infected, which is when I saw the beginnings of the scar. Red, mottled, violent-looking: it started at his hip and run upwards over his side, and then onto his back. I turned him, mouth hanging open, eyes growing wider by the second.
“Turn around,” I told him.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”