by Ava Harrison
“What do you remember?” Sydney cuts in, her voice rising in surprise.
A rush of images from the accident starts to play out in my mind. I recall every pain as the memories resurface.
I needed distance.
I needed to escape this reality hovering all around me.
My muscles constrict, alerting me to run. My heart would explode if I stayed.
“Where are you going?” Sydney whispered as she reached out to stop me. I didn’t allow her to halt my progress.
I needed out of here.
With shaky arms, I pushed open the door and a sharp gust of wind battered my frail body. Small pellets of water hit me as I stepped out into the cold winter air. The distance to the car stretched out in front of me. Chilled droplets of water clung to every inch of my sweat soaked skin. Rain and tears melded together.
I tilted my head back and looked to the sky. If only the rain could wash away this moment. Transport me back to a time when everything was still right.
But it wouldn’t.
It couldn’t.
Nothing could wash this pain away. Today was a day of sadness.
Unsteady steps carried me to the zip car I rented to go to the cemetery. I flung the door open and slid into the driver’s seat. My body was chilled to the bone from the rain that coated my skin during my walk, but I did nothing to lessen the bite. I welcomed the pain. It reminded me of what I lost.
Pulling out of the parking lot, I made my way back to the city. The farther away I got, the more air entered my lungs. My body was barely able to function in that room. Seeing the body . . .
It was crippling.
My vision blurred as new tears threatened to spill. In the distance, the glare from the opposing traffic shone and stung my eyes. Lights swirled in the distance as rain hit the windshield.
I should have said good-bye.
I owed it to him.
No . . .
I had to go.
I couldn’t stay there.
I couldn’t see that.
A flash of light descended.
The hiss of tires echoed in my ears.
Then all sound faded away.
“I remember my arm going numb. I remember the flash of lights. I remember thinking I was having a heart attack. Oh, my God, do you think I had a heart attack?”
The machine next to me beeps faster as panic kicks in and my heart rate accelerates considerably. The faces around me start to sway . . .
“What’s happening? What’s wrong with me?”
“Ms. Hamilton, I need you to take a deep breath. Please, take a deep breath.”
My brain feels as if it’s stuck in a vice being squeezed tight. My chest constricts. It’s too much. Black spots dance in my vision.
Crushing . . .
Suffocating . . .
Thud, thud
Thud, thud
I gasp for air as the world shrinks around me. White noise drifts in. I’m being blanketed by it. Immersed in a storm.
It envelops me . . .
“Open your eyes. It’s okay.”
A voice hums in the background.
“You can do it,” the voice commands again.
My eyes flutter open. “Wh-what?” I mumble, trying to get my bearings. “I’m . . . What’s happening to me?”
“You’re okay. Inhale . . . now exhale.” Sharp lines etch away at the handsome stranger’s face as he studies me.
He has the most mesmerizing pale blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Hypnotic eyes. They remind me of a cloudless sky on a summer day. I continue to survey him, trailing down to his lips then across his chiseled jaw. It’s dusted with the perfect five o’clock shadow.
Lifting my chin to get a better look, his blue eyes pierce the distance between us and I realize I’m openly gawking at this stranger. Heat spreads through my body until it coils deep inside my belly.
“Who . . . who are you?”
“I’m Dr. Preston Montgomery. I’m one of the hospital psychologists.”
“Therapist?”
“Yes. Before the hospital is able to discharge you, they wanted me to talk to you. Are you okay to talk now?” No . . .
I bow my head in agreement.
“Okay, have you ever seen a therapist before?”
“No.” I whisper, wishing we didn’t have to talk about this.
“Do you often suffer from panic attacks, or is this something new?” His watchful stare sears me, and I feel restless under his scrutiny. His beautiful piercing blue eyes track my movements. They make my heart beat frantically in my chest.
“New.”
We sit in silence. The only sound comes from a cart being pushed in the hallway. My eyes wander around the room until I’m forced to meet his inspection again.
“To the best of your knowledge, have you ever suffered from anxiety or any of the other symptoms that presented themselves to you?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve always been a bit anxious, but I’ve never felt anything like that before. I honestly thought I was dying. What’s going on with me?” My mouth drops open as I feel a sharp pressure in my heart. It hammers violently against my chest. This time I’m for sure going to die.
“Shh. Breathe . . . Breathe. One. Two. Three. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”
Squeezing my eyes shut, I take in his words. Try to follow his prompts. Inhale . . . One. Two. Three.
Exhale.
“Wh-why is this hap-happening to me?” Tears pour down my face. I make no move to wipe them. My arm is lead, weighing me down. Breathe.
I finally register the doctor’s voice as he answers me.
“You’ve suffered a traumatic loss, and sometimes it’s too much for our minds and bodies to handle.”
I don’t know what to say. I feel so stupid for freaking out. I want this to all to be over.
“How do you feel right now?” His blue eyes are studying me closely.
“My head hurts.”
He chews his bottom lip. “Do you have any current medical problems?” he asks, continuing to scrutinize my answers.
“Not that I know of.” I lower my head, needing a moment of silence, but it snaps back up when he continues to fire off more questions.
“Are you currently receiving medical care for anything that I should be aware of, or are you taking any medications?”
“Shouldn’t you have this in my file? The other doctor already asked me a bunch of questions.” There is more bite to my comment than I intend, but I don’t want to answer any more questions.
“Unfortunately, the hospital computer filing system is experiencing some hiccups, so you’ll need to bear with me as I figure this out. I know that Dr. Levin is set to run a few tests.” He pulls out his phone. “He should be back in a moment to talk with you again.”
I close my eyes and wish for all of this to end. I just want to put the whole accident behind me.
“Okay.”
“Do you remember what was going through your mind right before the accident?”
My eyelids shut and I will myself to recall more details. Memories flash in my brain. “I was thinking about my . . . my . . . I don’t even know what to call him.” My chin trembles. “I was crying and I got distracted. Then I looked up and saw the lights . . . But . . . but then it was too late. My foot got stuck in the mat. I tried to stop—” My voice breaks into a sob.
Across the bed, Dr. Montgomery types on his iPad. I wonder what he’s writing. Does he think I did this on purpose? That it wasn’t an accident. That there’s something wrong with me? Does he believe me? Why would they send a psychologist in to speak with me? Can I ask?
Dr. Levin enters the room, ripping me away from my thoughts. “Hello, Eve. Dr. Montgomery,” he says as the device is handed to him. His eyes narrow when he reads the notes on what must be my chart, and nods to Dr. Montgomery in agreement.
Dr. Montgomery stands and reaches into his back suit pocket, then pulls out his wallet and removes a business card. “Eve,
I want to give you my card. If you need me, please don’t hesitate to call and make an appointment. Anxiety and panic attacks can be serious and, if left untreated, can get worse. I think therapy can help you discover your triggers and help you find an appropriate way to manage and treat them.” His fingers brush against mine, and the soft pads cause my skin to pebble. “I really do hope you will call and make an appointment.”
I’m not sure I’m ready for that. To actually face what’s haunting me.
Hours pass, I lie in bed tossing and turning, waiting for the doctor to return. When he finally does, I’m filled with relief and foreboding at the same time. Everything is fine. Only a mild concussion, and a request to follow up with a therapist. A therapist. Can I do that? Can I speak to someone?
My hands grow clammy, and a tingling begins in my chest. With each moment that passes, the fear grows stronger and stronger. I don’t know if I can.
I’m waiting for my discharge papers when Sydney walks into the room and peers over at me. “So now what?” she asks as she rubs the back of her neck.
“We wait for me to be discharged.” I try to smile, but I doubt it reaches my eyes.
“Are you going to talk to that therapist? Will you make an appointment with him?” Her left brow quirks up when I shake my head.
“What? Why the hell not?”
“Are you kidding me right now, Sydney? Did you see him? I would have to be all types of desperate to let a man that gorgeous see my crazy.”
“Well, you better find someone else, then, and fast. You didn’t see yourself, Eve. You were basically catatonic. I have never been so scared in my life. You have to talk to someone. If not him, then someone else.”
“Fine, I choose option two . . . someone else.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t mind talking to him, seeing him, being over him, being under him.” She winks “He was pretty freaking gorgeous.”
I can’t help but laugh. Sydney makes things feel better, even if it’s short lived.
Much later in the day, I’m finally discharged from the hospital. Sydney stayed with me the whole time, holding my hand and reassuring me that everything would be okay.
As we exit the hospital, she steps forward and hails a cab. Thank God for that, because I’m too physically and emotionally drained to lift my arms. I swear I could sleep for days. My entire body is weak and fragile. Our cab speeds off into the flow of traffic. It only takes a few minutes to arrive at our apartment building. Sydney pays the driver and we both step out.
The sidewalk is crowded and I find myself having to avoid bumping into bystanders. My steps are slow and unsteady, and crossing the short distance to the lobby door feels like completing a marathon. The wind whips mercilessly against me, causing me to feel chills and tremors.
Finally, we make it into the high-rise and into my apartment. I see a picture of Richard and me at my college graduation on the side table. Suddenly, I can’t breathe again. The walls close in as every muscle tightens in my chest, inflicting unbearable pain. Each beat of my heart is a thunderous pounding that threatens to be my last. My oxygen level dwindles to near nothingness as each pull of breath comes faster and faster. Why won’t it stop? The memories are so vivid, they play out as if it was only yesterday.
The day was finally here.
My eyes scanned the crowd, searching for her, searching for him. It was no small feat, getting my mother to come today. So with excitement, I looked out amongst the mass of smiling faces to find her. I finally did, but it wasn’t a look of pride I saw. Her eyes were void of emotion, a blank canvas. She fanned herself and checked her pulse against her neck. There she went again, feigning some imaginary illness. A deep-rooted sadness engulfed me. She couldn’t find it in her to pretend to be normal even for a day.
My shoulders slumped forward.
Richard’s gaze locked on mine. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. I understood what he was conveying to me all the way from across the room.
Stand tall.
Be proud.
And with that, I smiled at him and felt satisfaction swell up within for what I had accomplished.
“Here, drink this,” Sydney says while thrusting a glass in front of me. I take a swig, swallowing the water, but the room continues to spin as I breathe frantically.
Sydney’s hand rubs circles on my back. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
My body rocks in place, the movements growing faster and faster as I wait for the impending calm that doesn’t come soon enough.
“Shh, you’re okay. You’re okay.”
I lean back and close my eyes. I don’t know how much time passes, but when I reopen them, I realize I’m back to normal. I’m calm. The fear is once again dormant, but the fuse is now lit. I feel it in every breath. The flame is slowly burning away, and it’s only a matter of time before I explode again.
With slow movements, I turn my attention back to Sydney. Seated at the edge of the couch, her face is ashen as she nibbles on her bottom lip while she watches me.
“Are you okay? Do I need to call the doctor?”
“I’m okay. I promise I’m fine. I’m just tired. Really, really tired.” I slump back into the couch and sigh.
“That’s totally understandable. You’ve been through so much in the last few days. I swear I’ve never seen anything like the attacks you’ve had today. You must be exhausted.”
“I am,” I mumble as I force myself to answer her inquiry. As the words tumble out, my vision is blurry and it’s hard to focus on her.
“Does anything else hurt? You look like you might puke.”
“I kind of feel like I might.”
“It’s probably the concussion. They said throwing up could be a side effect. Why don’t you lie down in your room and I’ll sit with you while you rest?”
She stands and reaches her arm out to help me up.
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine.” I’m not sure I will be, but I don’t have the energy to tell her.
“I don’t want to hear it. Between the concussion and your panic attacks, I don’t feel comfortable leaving you alone right now.” I nod, then walk into my room and lie on my bed. The bed dips with Sydney’s weight as I rest my eyes.
My eyes flutter open a few hours later. Sydney’s head snaps in my direction. Her eyes are red and swollen from lack of sleep. She rubs at them frantically and I notice moisture collect on her finger. Was she crying? Is this because of me? Or is there something else making her sad?
“Are you okay?” I ask her and her back stiffens.
“I will be.”
“Is there something you want to talk about?”
“Nah, I’m just tired.”
“You do look exhausted. Did you sleep at all, Syd?” I groan out, my voice still laced with sleep.
She gives me a tight smile. “No, not really. How are you feeling? Do you need anything? Some Motrin?”
“I can get it,” I say right before I yawn.
“No. It’s okay. I’ll grab it.” She lifts from the bed and heads out to grab me some water. When she returns, I notice how sad she still looks. It makes every muscle inside me tighten, constricting my breathing to the point of pain, and a wave of guilt consumes me. The thought plagues me again. It’s an incessant voice in my head playing on repeat. Is this because of me? Or is it more?
“I’m sorry, Syd. I hate that I’ve put you through such an ordeal these past couple of days. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. How are you? Do you want to talk about Richard’s death? You don’t talk about your family much, but maybe you would feel, I don’t know, more comfortable with me?”
My eyes well with tears and I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“I understand, I do, but don’t you think you should? You’re still grieving. Maybe it would help to talk about it.”
“We’ll see.”
“Please think about it.”
“I promise I will,” I lied.
Eve
ry week I volunteer at Sinai-Grace, but I don’t keep regular hours. I’m just here as a free resource for the staff to use when they need a consult.
It never gets easier. Sometimes I’m met with confusion, and sometimes anger, but the hardest is the sadness. Sadness can break a person. It can make a home inside you, slowly building a wall around your soul. At first, my job was part of a reparation I made to myself, then it quickly grew into something I loved. Helping people is what I was meant to do, but everything has changed. What became my passion is now, once again, a constant reminder of what I lost.
Today was different, though. Today she was here. In my hospital. What were the chances? When our eyes met, it was as if my world fell off its axis. Disbelief, and then worry. What the fuck happened to her? Those icy blue eyes were once so dynamic. What happened to cause that much pain?
I remember the first time I saw her. She stole the breath from my lungs.
She was sitting at a table in the far corner of Paradise Diner looking out onto the street. She was beautiful. Serene. But what left me breathless was that she looked just like her.
I remember thinking it was her . . .
Sloane.
But that wasn’t possible. And as much as I knew that, I still found myself gazing across the space that separated us. The similarities were uncanny.
I stepped forward and her familiar features began to fade. Like an impressionist’s stroke on a canvas, up-close formed a new image.
This image was vibrant and alive. This image was not the woman who haunted my waking thoughts, who taunted and tormented me. No. This woman was something else all together. A part of me wanted to cross the space that separated us. Wanted to speak to her. Wanted to discover everything about this girl who reminded me so much of a time before. But I didn’t. How could I? What would I even say?
I almost fell over in shock today. It took every last piece of my soul to hold myself together as I watched her.
There she was lying in a hospital bed, weak and frail. She reminded me of fresh fallen snow. She had fair skin, pale blonde hair and icy blue eyes. Now I had a name … Eve Hamilton.