“What concerns me is the underlying malady that exacerbates her inability to process traumatic or threatening incidents, whether she is a witness or a participant. Cassandra comes across fine when we speak to her, but certain traits betray her condition,” Dr. Burns described seriously. He folded his hands on his desk and pinned Paddy with a hard look. “Your line of work is not conducive to her coping abilities, Mr. Smith.”
“I am aware of that. But she knew what I did for a living and still chose to deal with the risks. What am I supposed to do? I have gone out of my way to keep her safe and maintain contact every day while out on assignment to put her mind at ease, doctor,” he explained.
“I can appreciate that. All I am saying is that she should stay just two more days, so that we can completely isolate the physiological from the emotional and medicate her accordingly after she has been discharged,” the medical professional in Dr. Burns came out a bit too strongly.
“Sounds like you want to experiment on my wife,” Paddy shook his head.
“Nonsense. It appears that your line of work is influencing your thinking patterns too,” the doctor smiled. “You have nothing to be worried about. Cassandra is almost completely healed as far as the dangers of her physical injuries are concerned. We expect her to be right as rain by Thursday.”
“All right then,” Paddy yielded. “I will get the house ready for her.”
“Don’t worry so much, Mr. Smith. The wounds, both physical and mental, are still fresh. It will take her a bit of time to get used to the house, especially the room where she was assaulted. You might want to change that around or close it up altogether until she is better, eh?” Dr. Burns suggested. “Before you know it Cassandra will be back to her old self.”
“I suppose so. But for now, I’m going to go and say hello before visiting hours are over,” Paddy sighed.
“Good,” the doctor replied with some cheer, “she will be happy to see you.”
Paddy’s mind was racing as he walked to Cassandra’s room. Guilt and worry flooded his thoughts and he weighed everything against everything else to ascertain if a change would have to be made in his career. He loved what he did, but he loved his wife too. The silvery item in his freezer called to him, forcing him to examine his loyalty to his friends, to his country. Constant migraines had begun to plague him again and he wondered if any of his work was really worth it anymore. But then, there was nothing else he was truly good at apart from being a brilliant detective, and it was all he ever wanted to do with his life.
Cassandra was ecstatic to see her husband. Through her split lips she gave him an askew smile. The eye that had been swollen shut was now slightly open for her to see through and her hands looked almost clear of lacerations.
“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” he smiled, desperately fighting the urge to scream and cry. He reached out to embrace her, but she flinched.
“That is going to hurt very much,” he agreed.
“No, no,” she kindly dismissed his notion, “come and hug me. I can take it.”
Paddy had to chuckle with her. It was like heaven to hold her, feeling her against him, even if he had to be extremely gentle with any touch.
“Have you been staying alone at the house?” she asked out of the blue, completely disarming Special Agent Smith. He had no idea what to tell her, or how to comfort her. This was how she started conversations that normally turned into panic attacks. Projecting her fear of being alone and vulnerable, she always inundated him with security questions. Paddy sat down next to Cassandra’s bed.
“Aye, got here two days ago,” he started awkwardly. “How is the hospital food? They say the menu here is better than—”
“Don’t change the subject, Patrick,” she said, suddenly cold and indifferent. “I see through you.” Paddy sat dumbstruck. It was unlike Cassandra to ever address him in such a way. Even when they had a tiff or two, she never took such a firm tone with him.
“What is it that you have that they want?” she asked. “Because,” she explained with fluttering eyes and a clearly annoyed disposition, “whatever it is that you saw as too important to disclose and deliver to your precious government is the reason this happened to me, Patrick.”
He felt his heart jolt inside him. This was not his wife, but a vindictive and confident creature that had it in for him. And much as he knew he deserved the blame, her personality shift greatly alarmed him.
“I know, sweetheart. And I am so sorry! I promise you there is going to be hell to pay,” he attempted, but she leered at him like a snake about to strike.
“Are you sorry? Really? How many years have I had to endure your exploits and sit at home, waiting for someone to call and tell me that you had been killed somewhere in some shithole in Timbuktu, Patrick?” she seethed so loudly that it drew the attention of other visitors.
“Please, love, a little less boisterous,” he implored, but Cassandra was letting loose on her husband. Her uncharacteristic behavior unsettled him, but no sooner did he look to a nurse for help when Dr. Burns entered from the nurse’s station where he had been listening to the rant.
“Hello, Cassandra!” he smiled, pretending to be oblivious to what was busy fermenting between the Smiths. “I’m sorry to interrupt visiting hours, but…” he bent over her and whispered, “I forgot to administer your dosage for tonight, and if I wait any longer you’ll not be able to fall asleep until early morning.” He stood upright and remarked, “I was held up in the maternity ward, Mr. Smith. Terribly sorry to butt in here during your visit.”
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” Paddy replied.
“What is this for?” Cassandra asked in a gentle tone, as if she had exchanged demeanors for the sake of the doctor. Paddy did not like this one bit. Clearly, as Dr. Burns had warned, the traumatic experience of the intrusion had shaken the already crumbling foundations of Cassie’s fragile sensibilities. Perhaps it was a good thing that she remained confined for another few days. Not only could he do with the rest to try to recover what was left of his own sanity, but it would give him more time to find Nina and give her back the damned object that started all the death and misery surrounding him now.
After he had left the hospital, a bit shaken, he picked up some bourbon and chips from the local supermarket complex. If he was running out of peaceful nights, Paddy figured he might as well spend them tanked and gluttonous. Cassie always prohibited junk food during the week, keeping her and her hubby in good health and great shape. Maybe he felt a bit rebellious, but he intended to break that rule utterly tonight!
He went into the living room with a big bag that contained chips, a slab of Cadbury’s Rum & Raisin chocolate bar, and a tub of ice cream. Finally, there was a bottle of Southern Comfort to ease the pain of his rapidly collapsing marriage and sanity, a beautiful amber liquid that he intended to assimilate into his biology with a bad thriller on the widescreen.
As the night wore on, Paddy’s capacity to try to keep things together diminished with the level in the bottle. He had stuffed himself with chips and chocolate, but by midnight Paddy got the munchies, courtesy of his reckless alcohol consumption.
“What a dreadful fucking mausoleum!” he shouted through the empty house as he staggered to the kitchen for more ice cream. “It’s no bloody wonder she has gone insane in this environment. You are empty… and boring… and useless as a protector!” Paddy shouted at his house, dragging his socked feet across the kitchen floor. “You don’t deserve light! People get hurt under your roof.” His voice cracked under the emotion he thought he had effectively drowned in the bourbon. There was darkness, except for the bathroom light and the light from the open fridge he aimed to raid.