Read Online Trauma by Daniel Palmer - Free Book Online Page A

“girlfriend”—the real reason Emma’s ex had left them.
    â€œHe Skypes with her, just so you know,” Emma said. Emma could not resist the compulsion to defend the father of her only child.
    David squeezed Emma’s hand. “I’m sure he loves her,” David said.
    Emma and The Ex owned a yellow clapboard two-family home within walking distance of some of the best shopping in Cambridge. They lived on the ground floor, and David rented the apartment above. The Ex had moved out three months after David moved in, and Emma turned to her new upstairs tenant as a lifeline.
    With long strawberry blond hair, high cheekbones, and a full, sensuous mouth, Emma O’Donnell was by anybody’s measure a stunning woman. But David was not all about looks, and they knew after a month of romance that the chemistry was not there.
    â€œCould you watch her for an hour while I run to the market?”
    â€œNothing in life would bring me more joy,” David said.
    Emma looked at him with suspicion. “Really, is it inconvenient?”
    David’s grin only broadened. “Your needs are my needs, darling. Just pick me up something for dinner. Preferably a food item that won’t make me gassy.”
    At thirty-two, David was still tall and lean, close to his high school weight, and could eat just about anything, to the dismay of his many envious friends.
    â€œToo bad,” Emma said. “We’re having burritos.”
    David turned Emma around and gave her a playful nudge out. “Gabby and I are going to work on our Middle Eastern geography while you’re gone. Prepare to retrieve a genius upon return.”
    Gabby overheard her name and came running.
    â€œCan we look at the pictures, Uncle David?”
    â€œLook, she’s already a genius,” Emma said with more than a dash of pride. “She heard you say geography and thought of your pictures.”
    David had read somewhere that kids, especially the young ones, love repetition. In a world where so much was new and varied, seeing the same things over again must feel comforting. His walls were adorned with framed photos he had taken, and showing them to Gabby gave him pleasure as well. The pleasure of revisiting memories. The themes, however, were decidedly adult, and it took great concentration to explain them to the child without inducing nightmares.
    â€œWhat’s this one?” Gabby asked.
    The photograph, taken a month before former president Morsi was forced out of office, showed a sea of people waving Egyptian flags and holding pictures of the Muslim Brotherhood candidate. The Guardian had paid David two thousand dollars for the story, but they went with an AP photo instead of his.
    â€œThat’s in Egypt,” David said. “The city of Cairo.” David carried Gabby over to the world map tacked to his wall and pointed to the country.
    â€œWhy were they waving flags?” Gabby asked.
    â€œThey wanted a new leader.”
    â€œDid they get one?”
    â€œOh yes,” David said. “They got one, all right.”
    Gabby wrapped her arms around David’s neck with python force and pointed to the picture on the wall behind him. She always went in the same order, though David varied his explanations.
    â€œWhat’s that one?”
    It was one of his favorites—a black-and-white image of a riot in Tripoli right after Gaddafi loyalists managed to kill the rebel leader, Abdel Fattah Younes. The New York Times had paid five hundred for the photo and three thousand for his story. It had been a good afternoon.
    â€œThat’s a bunch of people acting very excited,” David said.
    â€œWhy are they excited? Did they get new toys?”
    David loved the way she said “toys”—her enthusiasm was contagious.
    â€œNo, not new toys. They just needed to jump around and yell a lot. Sometimes grown-ups do those things.”
    â€œWhat about that one?”
    First, David