Ridge sat back in his chair. “Guilty as charged.”
“Do you think your restlessness was due to the head injury? Or have there been similar episodes in the past?”
Deciding he liked Peters and, since he was here, he might as well be frank, Ridge answered truthfully. “Yes. To both.”
“What similar episodes?”
Ridge looked down at the floor. He let out a sigh. “Fact is, there’ve been problems, now and again. For a while. Headaches, insomnia, even flashbacks. To combat.”
“Combat?”
Ridge looked up. “Southeast Asia. CIA. Secret War. Laos and Cambodia.”
Peters again tilted her head, but then bit her lip. “Since I’m somewhat younger than you, I have to ask, how extensive was this secret war?”
“Per capita, Laos became the most bombed country in the history of the world. Still is.”
Peters nodded. “How long have the flashbacks been going on?”
“Oh, about four years or so,” said Ridge. “Started around 2001.”
“9/11?”
Ridge stared at her. “Well, I was in New York City and headed to a late morning deposition in Midtown Manhattan. But I didn’t get there. And I never related any of that to my flashbacks.”
“With post-traumatic stress or PTS, unrelated events can trigger flashbacks to earlier times. Even years or decades earlier. Especially if those experiences were combat related. Have they been getting better or worse over the last couple of years?”
“It isn’t getting better,” said Ridge, “especially over the last couple of years. But look Doc, I need to be frank. I’ve never been to a psychiatrist, except in hospitals during short consultations. I don’t really think therapy can help me. It’s something I need to work out myself.”
“How’s that been going? I mean, it’s been years.”
He shrugged. “Like I said, not getting better.”
“What if we start slow? I’ve reviewed your medical records. But I still need to get a better sense of you and any specific issues involved before I complete my evaluation. Remember, everything here is confidential. Let’s start with your background. What’s your ancestry?”
Ridge took a sip of coffee. “Half French. Half Spanish. All-American.”
“What about your immediate family? Are your parents alive?”
“No. My mother was a World War II war bride, from Paris. A nurse, then a homemaker.”
“How did you feel about her?”
Ridge smiled. “As a child, light of my life.”
Peters made a note. “Your father?”
“A graduate of World War II, D-Day, then an artist. Designed embroidery for dresses, blouses, shirt logos, military patches, like that.”
She looked up. “How did you feel about him?”
“He, ah, got angry a lot. From the time I was two until about twelve.”
“Any siblings?”
Two younger sisters. All of us brought up in New Jersey. We were what they called middle class, living paycheck to paycheck.”
“Did your father get angry with your sisters?”
Ridge looked down at the floor. “Not much. Not like me.”
“What was it like with you?”
Ridge raised his eyes and looked at Peters. “Used his leather belts. Strapped me. Below the neck.”
Peters’ eyes grew wider then narrowed. “What did you do.”
“Ran. Hid. But if he caught me, I never cried. For ten years. And then he stopped.”
Casting her eyes down, Peters said, “Did you ever figure out why he beat you?”
“Emotional triggers—I won’t get into now. But basically, he wanted to control me. I wouldn’t let him. Simple. But let’s switch subjects.”
Doctor Peters lowered her pen. “OK. When did you meet your wife?”
Ridge smiled and pictured Jayne at home now, sitting on the porch, listening to the thrum of the hummingbirds. “High school sweethearts. Our daughter is a deputy district attorney in L.A. We had a son, Sean, but he died. Two years ago. Iraq.”
“Your forms indicate you had heart issues last year.”
