Page 18 of Actions and Reactions (All It Takes #5)

It takes some time, so it comes as a surprise when, as he finishes, Dr. Denise steps forward and looks at me worriedly.

“Silas, based on the evaluation I did this morning, I can say with certainty that you’re suffering from delayed-onset PTSD.”

“No I’m not,” I protest instantly, reeling back as much as I can while still in bed. I’m not even sure what the first bit means, but I know damn well I don’t have PTSD. “I haven’t gone through any trauma.” It seems absurd that I have to explain that to her .

“We’ll wait outside,” Dr. Collins says softly, and she and Dr. Kekoa leave the room.

Dr. Denise takes a stool from the far wall and brings it over next to Mom.

“Silas,” she starts, and since she sounds like she’s talking to a toddler, I’m instantly defensive.

“I’m not traumatized,” I snap. She doesn’t react in any way, and that’s just more infuriating. And to think I liked her earlier.

“You’re presenting all the symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder.” Her tone is measured, and she looks and sounds so calm.

“I was the one who punched the wall!” I argue with a shout.

“That is actually one of the symptoms. We call it a form of hyperarousal... anger outbursts. You also told me about having intrusive memories and flashbacks of the accident no matter how hard you try not to think about it. You experience emotional numbness, and I saw you withdraw with my own eyes yesterday evening. You have nightmares, you have sleeping difficulties, and you’re very clearly avoiding any conscious trauma-related thoughts. ”

I’m speechless and frozen.

I shut down as she continues.

“I believe that taking the job to work for the Pirates brought this all back to the surface, that you’ve been repressing it for a long time, and now you can’t escape it.”

I think I’d usually appreciate her delicate tone, but today is not a usual day. I’m trapped in this hospital bed, with my parents hovering like they’re on suicide watch, and I can’t fucking think .

“How can I be traumatized by the accident?” I counter. “I didn’t lose my leg. I wasn’t attacked or assaulted. I didn’t suffer a loss or?—”

“But you did,” she interrupts. “Silas, I managed to talk with Ivan for a few minutes yesterday, and with your parents.”

“So all of this is because of shit they told you?” I’m about ready to get up out of here and never talk to anyone ever again.

“No.” Her sharp tone stops me. “All they told me is who you were before the accident.”

Again she lets the silence spread, and surprisingly it’s Dad who breaks it with a choked voice.

“You were so alive back then, son.” It doesn’t hurt my brain to hear the tears in his voice, but it’s still not exactly pleasant.

“You did suffer a loss, Silas,” Dr. Denise says. “You lost your whole identity, and you were still a child, which makes it more impactful.”

I don’t know exactly why, but those are the words that break something open inside me.

“I did it to myself .” I practically spit out the words. “How can I be traumatized over something that was my own damn fault?”

“Honey.” Mom rises and half sits next to me. Her arms are as warm and welcoming as always, and I don’t hesitate for even a second to bury my face in her neck. “The accident isn’t what caused all this. It’s the consequences of the accident that were your loss.”

“I didn’t ask you about your life before the accident last night because I didn’t want to worsen the situation.

” I snap my head to the doctor and she holds up her palms. It reminds me of what Vinny did yesterday, but I push that away.

“And you can tell me if I’m wrong, but from what they told me, you believed your whole life you’d be a professional hockey player, so you didn’t think you could be anything else when you lost it. ”

“But I have another career, a successful one.”

Part of me doesn’t understand why I’m still arguing with them, they obviously won’t change their minds, but the other part of me... yeah, that’s beyond uncomfortable.

“You’re a resilient man, Silas, and you have a supportive family who loves you.” Does she think that means I can be traumatized by the smallest thing? Because that’s not right, not at all. “My recommendation right now is that you admit yourself to a mental health facility?— ”

“You want me to go to a nut house because I can’t play hockey?” I demand, and honestly maybe she’s the one who needs therapy.

A fierce kind of hardness transforms her eyes into gray stone then.

“It is not a nut house, and I think you need such an intense course of action because you’ve proven you’re a danger to yourself, and if you don’t get the help you need, you could become a danger to others, especially considering you’re in such close proximity to people who have the very thing you lost and can never have. ”

That’s one way to shut me up.

Mom defuses the tension by asking Dr. Denise for recommendations of the kind of facility she’s talking about.

I stare at the wall until she’s gone.

“There’s one that’s close to where Lottie lives in Chicago,” Mom says suddenly, and I see she has a bunch of pamphlets.

“I’m not going.” I push the damn buttons of the bed as hard as I can until I’m sitting straight and look each of them in the eyes. “I’m fine, and I have to get back to work.” And I have to forget every single word Dr. Denise just said.

“You’re not fine,” Dad explodes. He stalks over to me and leans in close.

“You punched a fucking wall and broke seven bones because Vinny was late for practice .” The thundering shout does bring home the point, and I can actively feel myself start to shake.

“For fucking practice, Silas. He was calling his cousin because he was worried about him, and was only late by three fucking minutes. You are the fucking opposite of fine, and you’re going to this facility. ”

I swear I have something to say to that, but nothing comes out when I open my mouth.

How can I refute anything he just said?

Those . . . are the cold hard facts.