“Pain must be pretty bad,” said Don, behind him.
“It’s not the pain,” said Peter. Breathe in, breathe out. “I don’t like enclosed spaces.”
“Ah. Claustrophobic.” The elevator door opened. “That sucks.” He pushed Peter out of the elevator and into a big waiting area, where a young woman stood beside an opening marked RADIOLOGY. She was efficient and strong, and the X-ray of his lower leg only took a few minutes. The CT scan was more complicated, but she got Peter plugged into the giant white doughnut with a minimum of fuss. “This will take forty-five minutes or so. You need to keep still for the machine to take accurate pictures. I’ll be in the control room, but we’ll be able to talk if needed.” If she noticed Peter’s barely contained panic, she didn’t mention it. She stepped to the doorway of the control room. To the orderly who wasn’t an orderly, she said, “Please come back into the shielded area.”
“You bet,” said Don. But he stopped next to Peter. “Seems like you’re working on your breathing,” he said. “Take it up a notch, if you want. When you close your eyes, picture yourself in a favorite place, someplace safe and comfortable. A beach, your backyard, a favorite hike. Anyplace that feels good.”
“Thanks,” said Peter, but the click of the door latch told him Don had already slipped out of the room with the wheelchair and Peter’s clothes. And the wad of cash. But somehow Peter knew Don wasn’t interested in the cash.
While the machine whirred and clicked, he closed his eyes and called up a memory of Copper Ridge in the North Cascades. A long open spine of rock with mountain views on all sides. Peter had spent three perfect summer days exploring the area and sleeping under the stars, tucked into a stone hollow. The female ranger stationed at the little fire lookout became a friend, then something more. She was happy to sleep under the stars with him. The nights were pretty perfect, too.
He felt his chest begin to open, just slightly. Breathe in, breathe out. Think of Shannon’s smile. She was a park ranger, but also an artist. She’d spent her free time drawing trees, in pen and ink. He sat with her for hours, watching the light change across the mountains as she made the trees come alive on her pad. Silence and the natural world. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
The technician’s voice over the intercom broke into his reverie. “You’re all done, sir. Nice job keeping still, I got some great pictures.”
It hadn’t seemed like forty-five minutes.
Don came in and helped Peter into the wheelchair again, put the bag of clothes on his lap.
“Gonna take a while for the radiologist to call in,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Back into the elevator, eyes still closed, Peter remembered June moving through the tops of the giant redwoods, strong and capable. The tree-covered mountains behind her, the sun warm and bright above the clouds. The look on her face as she clipped into the zip line.
Shannon was sweet and fun, but June was something else entirely.
He felt the wheelchair roll down another hall, around a series of corners, the unnatural fluorescent light bright behind Peter’s eyelids. Then he heard the sound of automatic doors and felt the cool night air of southern Oregon in late March. The smell of rain on asphalt.
He opened his eyes. Don had taken him through a side entrance with a small covered portico. The damp spring wind blew through his sweat-drenched clothes, making him shiver. It felt wonderful.
“Thanks,” said Peter.
“Happy to help,” said Don, still behind him. “I’m a veteran myself. Combat, not a fobbit. First Cav, tail end of Vietnam.”
First Cavalry was the real deal. “You’re not just helping out,” said Peter. It wasn’t a question.
“Did it work?” asked Don. “Picturing yourself in a favorite place?”
“It did,” Peter admitted. “More than I thought it would. I’m guessing you’re a shrink?”
“Clinical psychologist,” said Don. “At least in my day job. I’m only your wheelchair driver because your doctor was worried about your panic attack.”
“I’m working on it,” said Peter.
“And it’s going so well.” Don’s voice was even, but his meaning was clear.
“Maybe not,” admitted Peter. “Is sarcasm part of your therapy?”
“Just getting your attention,” said Don. “What are you doing to mitigate your symptoms now? Alcohol? Drugs?”
“Mostly I just, you know, stay outside.”
“What does that look like?” Don’s voice was gentle, curiosity without judgment. “You have an outside job, like a landscaper or something? Where do you sleep? Out on the porch?”
“I’ve been up in the mountains, an extended backpacking trip. I have some money put aside, so I don’t need to work right now. Give myself some time to recover. Let things sort of, you know, reset.”
“That’s one approach,” said Don. “Sounds like fun, for a while. Might limit your life a bit. How long have you been doing this?”
“Almost two years.”