An hour felt like an eternity, but I was ready to give the woman my focus as Tex and the other two went about preparations for going ashore, which I noted to myself, did not include wearing wet suits again. They had plenty of gear, including guns, but this trip would be done in a boat not via a swim.
The captain gave his attention to the other three. After they all left the room, I cautiously stepped to a spot in front of Sadie, making sure to keep my distance so as not to threaten her.
She was rocking back and forth, shivering, but she wasn't making any noise. I reached for the cup of coffee that had been set next to her. She didn't seem to notice. She appeared to be checked out.
"I bet you're cold," I said gently. "Here. This could help."
It probably took fifteen seconds of me standing there holding out the coffee for her to finally notice. When her eyes landed on me and focused, they opened wider in surprise, as if she hadn't really seen me before then.
She didn't appear to need any sort of surgery, which messed with my memories, erasing some, delaying others. When I had woken up in a hospital post-brain surgery caused by propelling myself out of Walker's van, I was full of fear and confusion. My mother had been there, in a chair next to the bed, her hand on my hand, her fingers twitching, probably because she'd wanted a cigarette.
"Your hair's all white, dollie," she'd said first. "But you're here, and you're going to be okay."
But this moment in time wasn't about me. It was about this woman in front of me, whose eyes had finally locked onto mine. I saw an ever-so-slight wave of calm pass through hers, and I tried to give her a small but reassuring smile. Maybe just having a female for her to talk to was helpful.
"My name is Beth," I said as I moved the coffee closer to her.
She didn't speak, but she did take the cup. She didn't sip from it, though. Only held on to it, let it warm her hands.
"Are you hurt?" I asked. "I mean, should we clean any wounds or anything?"
A long hesitation later, she shook her head. "I don't think I'm hurt. I got away." She sat up a little straighter. "I got away."
"Good," I said. "I'm glad. You're shivering. Is there any chance we could get you out of those clothes and into dry things?"
"No, no. You can't touch me. No one can touch me. She dropped the cup on the floor, spilling the coffee, steam from the hot liquid rising from the cold Plexiglas floor. She looked at her hands as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. "I'm sorry."
"It's okay. No big deal. I'm Sorry."
It was just the woman and me in here, but I still didn't think she'd registered her surroundings.
"You're on a boat. I can get you some dry clothes and you can change on your own. I'd hate for you to catch a chill," I said, sounding just like my grandfather, gone for over a decade now. I suddenly missed him deeply.
He'd know what to do here, how to talk to her. Okay, Gramps, what should I do?
I remembered something he's said. "Want to talk about it?" I'd heard him ask that simple question often. So many people had been surprised by the power of those words, by how many people really did want to talk about what they'd done or what had happened to them. If given the chance, and someone truly willing to listen, they did want to tell their story in their own words, not by answering a rote set of questions that had somehow been prescribed. They wanted to talk.
She shook her head once more. No, she absolutely didn't want to talk about it.
"My name is Beth," I said again. "You're going to be okay now. Everyone will make sure you get home. You are safe."
Those words got her attention. She took a deep breath and seemed to relax even more. She was still wound tight, but the springs were loosening. However, I knew they could tighten back up at any second. A loud sound, something that jolted her back toward those things that she'd gone through, could send her back to that place where she wouldn't want to speak again. PTSD would be her sidecar for now, forever to some degree, though maybe with therapy she would feel at least somewhat better.
I tried again. "Sure you don't want to talk about it? I'm a friend. I've...I've been through the same sort of thing." I understood of course why this was something that might bring us together, but it did feel weird to lean on this commonality.
Her eyes snapped up to mine this time. Suspicious and angry.
"No, really I have. I was taken from my home, held by my captor in his van. I escaped, too."
