“So, tell me something,” I say, to distract her. “How’d you end up with Julius?”
She doesn’t answer. She has her eyes closed and is concentrating on walking and breathing. “I’ve never had a pet,” I go on. “I’m thinking of getting a Great Dane.”
She stops and looks at me, her brows raised. “Couldn’t think of a bigger dog?”
“I probably could,” I say.
Slowly she resumes moving forward cautiously, as if one wrong step means that the ground will crumble beneath her. Our hands are laced together, but I know this needs to be at her pace, so I don’t rush her. It’s beyond fucking difficult, since I have absolutely no patience when it comes to most anything. But lifting her over my shoulder and forcing her outside isn’t going to work in this particular situation, I’m sure.
“You’re never home. You eat crappy food. I don’t think you’d be a good dog owner,” she says. “No offense.”
“You know, I don’t like that term, ‘no offense.’ That’s a back-door way of offending someone. If you’re trying to tell me that in your opinion I can’t take care of a dog, I think that you’re offending me, sweetheart.” I’m just messing with her, trying to shift her emotions to something else, whether it’s anger, lust, confusion, the intricacies of being the owner of a giant dog—anything but her terror.
She shrugs. “Do you prefer I lie?”
“No,” I say. “How ’bout you? You only like cats?”
“No. Actually, I prefer dogs.” That has me stopping momentarily to look at her. “Cats are self-sufficient companions. Dogs require going outside to walk them,” she explains.
“Gotcha,” I say.
We are at the door to the stairwell. We made it, and I know this is a victory for her. I open the door, and the lights in the empty stairwell automatically turn on.
She takes a tentative step, then stops. “What if the door locks behind us and the one leading to the first floor is also locked and we get trapped inside, Nico? No one would know where we are.”
“You’re scared. I get that. Just breathe, baby.” I cup her face and look into those big doe eyes. “You’re confusing fear with danger. You’re making shit up in your head. Are you in danger? Think about it. What is happening to you physically right now? What can happen to you? Think about it with me. Let’s reason it out.”
She looks into the stairwell. “I told you. We could get stuck in there.”
I let her go and step inside the stairwell, closing the door to make a point. I can hear her worried gasp as the door shuts. A second later I open it again. “Nope. It’s unlocked. Being trapped isn’t an option. And you’ve done this before, so you already knew this.”
“But the building manager could’ve come at night and accidently locked—”
“No. Your mind’s making it up. The worst that can happen is that you get winded from all the steps you’re taking. The elevator would be easier.” I see her eyes widen in complete panic. “But we’re not there yet. Stairs first.”
“Fear is a feeling,” I add. “Like sadness, or happiness. You feel it and then you go ahead and do the thing you’re scared of anyway. But you panic because you’re fighting that feeling. Danger is real sometimes, but there’s no danger here.” I extend my hand to her, she takes it, and I pull her through the doorway into the stairwell. “Plus, you’re with me. I won’t let anything hurt you.”
We walk down the stairs. Her first step is slow and careful, but she’s so desperate to get out of there that there’s no fighting it, and she rushes down the five flights. Pushing the door open at the bottom, she inhales deeply, as if she’s been holding her breath the whole way down.
“You did it,” I say, but I don’t want to make too big a deal of it either. She needs to get over this shit. I’m not trying to be insensitive, but she has to. It’s not healthy, and she’s too young and vibrant to live the rest of her life in that apartment.
She’s distracted by her victory, so I take advantage of that and guide her through the double doors of the apartment building. It’s either that or go back upstairs or hang out in the lobby.
It’s early in the morning and the street is bustling with people. I look up, inhale the salty ocean air, and let the sun’s warmth envelop me. I’m a born and bred Miami boy. I love the heat, and even when it’s stifling, I prefer it to the cold. This particular weather makes me want to hit the beach or go for a ride on my boat. It’s been months since I’ve been on it, and that’s what I’m thinking as I begin to walk forward pulling her with me, but this time she isn’t budging. In fact, she is pushing away from me and moving backward, her hands up as if she doesn’t want to be touched. Her eyes are completely unfocused, and my heart fucking plummets. I’ve never seen a person look so utterly petrified.
I don’t know why she is the way she is or how exactly she feels, but I can see that this is a matter of life and death for her. Her skin is completely pale, there is a drop of sweat falling down her temple, and her breathing is so rapid and shallow that I fear she’s going to hyperventilate.
“Katherine?” I get closer to her, but she just steps back.
A man walking briskly down the sidewalk toward us says, “Excuse me.” She jumps back like a wounded animal.
“Corazón?”
She isn’t even running inside. She is still against the wall of her building. She was scared when she was hiding in her apartment, but real fear makes you unable to move. “Katherine, let’s go inside.”
There’s a group of kids walking this way with skateboards. They’re loud and obnoxious, and she’s staring at them as if they’re going to hurt her, but I doubt that they even notice she’s there.
The thing with Miami is there is always traffic on the streets, people on the sidewalks. Cars honking and people yelling aren’t uncommon. And, unfortunately, neither is the loud pop of a car backfiring. But that last sound is apparently the breaking point for her, because she turns, throws the door open, and runs inside, moving so fast I have to jog to keep up with her. She’s up the stairs and in front of her apartment faster than I can take the keys from my pocket to unlock her door.
As soon as the door swings open she does the oddest thing. She quickly, almost instinctively, turns on all the lights. Every single one. Even the insignificant light on the extractor hood above her stove. She takes a flashlight from her night table and sinks to the floor by the sliding door that leads to the balcony. With the flashlight in her hand almost like a weapon, she balls up, her chin on her knees, her eyes shut.
I have no fucking clue how to handle this situation.
And now I’m the one who’s scared.
This right here should be the line in the sand for me, I think. I can leave. Walk away. This is way more baggage than I need or want. I’ve already been in a high-drama relationship, and I don’t need this in my life. These thoughts run through my brain quickly, like one of those silent movie reels, and as quickly as they enter, they leave.
Because instead of running as far away from this woman as possible, I slide in behind her, pushing her forward slightly so that I can wedge myself between her and the wall. I wrap myself around her. “Pulling you close and holding you tightly,” I whisper.
Invested, that’s what I am. Maybe it was the silly texts or the scared look on her face that first night, or the determination she has to get better. Maybe it’s all those things combined. Yes, she’s reclusive, but that doesn’t define her. She’s Katherine, a beautiful, intelligent, self-assured woman who happens to have this terrible affliction. But I like Katherine. A lot. And it’s too late to walk away.
For so long I’ve been in a daze; even with Naomi I was just going through the motions. I didn’t realize how deep into drugs she’d gotten, that my father was associating with a drug cartel underneath my nose, or that my club had been infiltrated by narcs because I was mostly concerned with myself. I never wanted for anything and I never had to concern myself with anything but doing well in school. My father gave me everyth
ing I wanted or needed.
So when shit went down last year, it was not only scary, it was a huge wake-up call. My friends were shit, my girlfriend was a bitch, and my father was a liar. The only one I could count on was my brother, and once I jumped headfirst into reviving the club, I stopped letting myself feel anything and I stopped letting anyone in.
Then this waif of a woman falls into my life, and even though it’s been a matter of just a few weeks, I can’t untangle myself from her. It’s like she’s brought light and purpose back into my life even though she has a dark cloud hanging over her. I think it’s because she herself is so alive and lively.
She’s created this imaginary perfect world inside the eight-hundred-square-foot apartment where she is happy and feels safe to a certain extent. She’s sweet and soft and the darkness ebbs and flows around her, but that darkness is not her. It hasn’t consumed her. Or so I thought. Right now she’s completely enveloped in darkness, and I don’t know what the hell to do to pull her out. I want her light back even if I have to accept that she will never leave the apartment.
I don’t know how long I sit there holding her, but it’s a long time. Long enough that my ass is numb and she has sagged into me. I move her hair out of her face and see that she’s fallen asleep. I pry the flashlight from her hand, lift her up, and place her on her bed gently, making sure she’s comfortable. Then I do what I should’ve done when I first met her.
I call my sister.
“Hey, Nicky,” Julia says breathlessly.
“You okay, Jules?”
“Yeah, one sec.” I hear her talking to my niece and nephew, and then she’s back on the phone. “Sorry about that. I had to put them down for a nap,” she says, and exhales. “Okay, I’m all yours. What’s up, little brother?”
“How’ve you been? The kids?”
“They’re good. They’re still playing with the toys you brought them and are asking when you’re coming back.”
“I miss them. Maybe I’ll drive up in a couple of weeks on my way to visit Dad. Take ’em fishing.”
“They’d love that. Bring Matty with you. I miss him,” she says. “How are things in the high-powered club life?”
“Nothing new on that front. But I did want to talk to you about something.” I look over my shoulder and see that Katherine is still fast asleep. I go out to the balcony, sit down, and perch my feet on the railing. “Tell me how to cure PTSD,” I say. My sister is a psychiatrist; I figure she’ll know what to do.
She chuckles into the phone but doesn’t speak.
“Julia?”
“Oh, wait. You’re serious?”
“What the hell? Of course I’m serious.”
“You got an MBA from Dartmouth, so I know for a fact you’re not stupid, which makes me wonder how you could possibly ask the absolutely stupidest question ever. Like in the history of questions.”
“How is that a stupid question?”
“Back up for a minute and start from the beginning, please.”
“No. You’re going to try and psychoanalyze the problem, and that’s not what I need.”
“Do you think you have PTSD?” she asks.
“No. Can you just answer the question, please?”
“No, actually I cannot. There’s no cure. Not the way you’re thinking. There’s no magic pill or formula. It can be as simple as some medication, as complicated as intensive therapy, or somewhere in between with a combination of both,” she says. “But you’re making me nervous. Why are you asking this? Is it Matty? Was it the arrest last year?”
“It’s…I’m seeing this woman, and—”
“A woman.” She sighs, and I can hear her cynicism over the phone. “First Naomi with the drugs, and then—”
“It’s different. Completely. Naomi was a lying, stealing, manipulative bitch. Katherine…” I stop and look over my shoulder. She looks so peaceful, her hands tucked under her chin and her chest rising and falling with each breath. “Katherine is honest and good. Too honest, maybe. She’s never lied to me. She told me from day one what I was getting into. Well, she tried, at least.”
“And what exactly are you getting into, Nicky?”
“She doesn’t leave her house. Like ever. She says she has PTSD, according to her doctor, who she sees over some sort of video chat thing. She’s claustrophobic, afraid of the dark, agoraphobic, has panic attacks.”
“Jesus, Nick.”
“You’re not supposed to judge, Jules. That’s why I called you. You’re a doctor, you see these things every day. You’re supposed to be objective.”
“Sure, but I’m your sister and I don’t want to see you hurt. I don’t know her. She’s not my patient. But if what you’re saying is true, it seems pretty severe.”
“Yeah, it’s not good. I had her go outside and she freaked the fuck out. Now she’s passed out asleep.”
“Severe panic attacks are exhausting. Is she on medication? Does she also have night terrors?”
“Yeah, she’s on medication, has been for about a month or so, and she says she’s better. But after today, I don’t know. As far as night terrors, I don’t know.”
“She might be better, Nick. She’s the only one who would know. There’s different schools of thought on how to treat these kinds of things. I lean toward aggressive therapy. She needs to get her butt to the doctor. I’m happy to know she’s at least doing it remotely, but she needs one-on-one, real-time psychotherapy. What was the trigger?”
“What do you mean?”
“The traumatic event that caused it.”
“I never asked. Shit. I mean, I knew there was something, but…”
“Nick, honey. You’re not on your game with this girl. Focus. If you want to help her, you need to start by finding out what happened. Push her to see her doctor.”
“When you say you would be aggressive, what do you mean?”
“It all depends on the situation. I wouldn’t treat a vet who’s lost half his platoon the same way I’d treat a rape victim, for example.”
Rape? Shit. Was that what it was?
“If you really care about her, maybe you can even ask to go with her to a therapy session and see what the doctor suggests.”
“Okay, got it.”
“You really like this girl, Nicky?”
“I really do. It’s still very new, but she’s different than all the other women I’ve been with. She’s real, she’s compassionate, she’s smart as hell.”
“She’s also a fixer-upper. That’s your thing, after all. Fixing everyone. Taking control.”
“Don’t start, Jules. I called you about her, not me.”
“Be careful, Nick. All I’m saying is to make sure you’re with her for the right reasons. She’s fragile and so are you. Don’t be with her out of a sense of guilt or pity.”
“I’m not. I really like her. She’s not always like this. When we’re together watching television, she’s funny and vibrant.”
“But she can’t leave her house.”
“She will.”
“It’s not that simple, Nicky.”
“I know that. But she already started getting better, and now she’s at least on the right path, right?”
“Maybe. I don’t know her. I don’t know the specifics of her condition. But support is always good. Your being there is good.”
I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe I needed some sort of validation that I hadn’t completely broken her. “Love you, sis.”
“Love you too. I’m holding you to that visit. And once your girl—”
“Katherine.”
“Once Katherine is better—if she gets better—bring her up. I’d like to meet her.”
“If? I don’t like when you talk that way.” My sister has always been the most matter-of-fact person I know. She holds nothing back.
“You mean real. You don’t like when I get real.”
“I’m going to hang up before you get too real, Jules.”
She chuckles into the phone and says a f
inal goodbye.
Ten
Hyperventilation
Katherine
The baby is still crying. My heart goes out to the child as well as the mom. The pressure behind my ears is mounting from the stress. I’ve been standing here so long that my fingers hurt from clenching the steel pole. I don’t want to sit on the floor, but my legs are cramping. I sit down on the floor of the dirty train, cross-legged.
Nothing’s happened in the hours since the train came to a halt. I don’t know what the hell is going on. I heard someone saying that there was a bomb, others speculating that the train had broken down, still others saying there was a fire. All these hypotheses began within the first hour, when everyone still had battery power remaining on their phones. The truth was, no one knows what’s happened, except that whatever it is, it’s bad. Bad enough that no one’s come for us.
I want to scream, I need to get out of here, but I don’t. I keep it inside because there’s a silent collective consensus that if one of us panics, all forty or so of us in the train car will be set off. No one’s spoken these words, but we all know it. So my silence doesn’t mean that I don’t want to get out with a desperation that’s choking me.
And the heat.
It’s hard to breathe. I tuck my shirt under my breasts, leaving my midsection bare, and pull the bottom of my jeans up to my knees, but there’s no reprieve. We’re all crowded in here together in the hot car, which is just getting hotter from our body heat. And I know, I just know, I’ll die inside this train if I don’t escape soon.
Pull Me Close: The Panic Series Page 14