I feared I might never belong in Caleb’s world with him.
After we said good-bye to Asher, we walked back up the path hand in hand, enjoying the stunning sight of an autumn sun over dark-blue water with the lighthouse standing watch along the rocks. I loved the beautiful views from the island.
“What were you up to so early this morning?” I was definitely curious now.
“I was eager to explore the south end of the island and orient myself to the land that is available.” No wasted words from my Caleb. He said what he meant to do, and then he did it.
“I wondered . . . I hoped,” I said as I turned toward him.
He stopped and pulled me against his chest and held me as we both watched the sea and the sky blending into continuous shades of blue. I breathed in his spicy male scent and tried to understand and accept all of the goodness I felt with Caleb. He was pure and simple goodness in every way . . . for me.
“So, when I build a house here, you won’t be mad at me?”
I lost it. Fell apart again, for what felt like the hundredth time with him, and sobbed into his strong chest. “Nev-v-ver m-mad at y-you, Caaa-leb.”
He held me and smoothed his hand over my head. Caleb understood I was happy crying and not sad crying, so at least there was that. And he wasn’t running away from me at a fast clip, either. I’d given him many opportunities, and still he kept coming back for more emotional torture. It had to be utter torture for him. Men didn’t like drama and emotional breakdowns. How could he bear it? I could barely stand myself when I did it. But Caleb just held me and showed his care and understanding in the most perfect way.
“I want to talk to you about a few things. Can we sit?” he asked me softly. “We can use my coat for a blanket on the grass. This is such a great view and we should enjoy it while the weather is good.”
“Yes, I’d like that very much,” I answered him with my cheek still pressed to his chest as I looked out at the sea, reluctant to separate my body from his.
He spread out his coat for us and sat down, situating me between his legs in front of him so I could lean back onto him. Surrounded by his touch and warmth, the panic of a few moments ago left me. It passed as if it had never happened.
“I got up early this morning and did some research.”
“You were researching land for sale so you can build a house here?” I asked.
“Well, yes and no. The property search came later. This morning I wanted to know about the sudden onset of strong emotional responses, crying in particular.”
“Oh?” My heart sped up. “Did you see my picture pop up when you typed it in the search bar on Google?”
He laughed. “Sorry, but that was very funny.”
“I’m glad you think so. It’s lovely to be able to laugh about this with you.” I paused dramatically. “Otherwise I should start crying.”
“Well, no, your beautiful image did not pop up, but something quite interesting did.”
“Tell me.” I dared not hope there might be some form of treatment.
“The site I found said it is one of the most hidden of all neurological disorders—a condition called pseudobulbar affect, PBA.”
“It has a name?!” I was shocked.
“Here, let me read it to you from the site itself.” He tapped into his phone and started reading. “People with PBA are subject to uncontrollable episodes of crying or laughing without an evident reason. While the exact causes of the disorder are not fully understood, it appears to be associated with injuries to neurological pathways in the brain that control emotional response. It is often seen in patients with diseases like ALS, MS, Alzheimer’s, Parkinson’s, and in those who’ve experienced brain trauma,” he said with emphasis.
“Brain trauma . . .” I breathed.
“Let me finish the last bit,” he scolded gently. “In some cases, a patient with PBA has an underlying brain injury he or she wasn’t even aware of. One of the main things that distinguish PBA from depression is that the emotional episodes are unpredictable and very short, ranging from seconds to minutes, and they occur multiple times a day. They require a great deal of energy to hold back.” He squeezed my shoulder. “You were right, Brooke, about not feeling depressed, because I don’t see that in you, either. But you did have a serious injury,” he said, while tracing the scar along my hairline with his finger.
“I was in a coma for three weeks . . . because that is what your brain does after a traumatic injury. The accident—I knew it did something to me. I felt that I was different, but I didn’t delve further because I figured there was nothing to be done about it. Plus, I was so grateful to be alive, when I could’ve died so very easily, I just didn’t dwell on the fact the episodes were happening more frequently.”
“There is more.”