Everything Between Us (24 page)

She shrugs. “I am. Markus will be here for our private lesson soon. I’m giving sculpting another try—I needed a way to channel my emotions.”

“I’m so glad you’re doing that for yourself,” I say, pouring sincerity into every word.
Because Daniel is mine.

With that thought echoing in my head, I follow Romy. Somehow, she makes this seem possible. She doesn’t seem surprised that I was freaking out, and she hasn’t made me feel stupid about it. Maybe I can do this.

“Romy?” I call after her when I reach the breezeway.

“Mmm?” She’s in the mudroom.

“What if I …?”

“If you have a panic attack?”

I nod. Even the idea of it is making my heart thump harder. We could be anywhere. What if it happens in the car and she can’t pull out of traffic?

“I can handle that, Stella,” she says with absolute confidence. “I will make sure you’re safe, and I won’t leave you alone.”

“And if I want to come back home?”

She smiles and pulls a hat on over her short hair. “We’ll bring you back home. You’re not my prisoner.”

Slightly reassured, I slip on my boots and stand at the threshold. With the exception of the gallery opening, this is as far as I’ve gotten for weeks, but I can’t be trapped here forever. I can’t believe I thought I could without going insane. Romy stands outside, pulling on her gloves. Then she offers her hand again. “Come on, Stella. One foot in front of the other. We’re going there and coming right back. That’s it. No surprises, no changes in plans.”

I blow out an unsteady breath and let her pull me into the frigid winter air. My breath puffs in front of my face as I follow her to her car and get in. She gets in the driver’s side and turns on the heater. “So,” she says as she moves up the driveway. “Daniel.”

I fold my arms over my chest, distracted by the blur of snow banks as we drive past. “He’s … I don’t know. I don’t know how to say it.”

“He’s been different since he met you,” she says. “I mean, I’ve only known him for a few months, but Caleb’s known him for years, and he’s noticed it, too.”

I smile in spite of myself. “He’s really patient. And playful. And he makes me laugh. This thing with his mom has been hard on him, though.”

“How do you know?”

“He’s told me. He’s scared she won’t get better. He’s scared of what it’s doing to his dad.”

Romy smiles with a hint of sadness. “I’m glad he’s talking to someone about it. Caleb’s his best friend, and Daniel hasn’t mentioned it. I mean, even Daniel can’t hide that much pain, but he seems to be trying. Unless he’s with you, apparently. I’m glad you’re with him, then, because his mom’s going to have to go through chemo, and it’s going to be rough.”

Like every time Daniel has been vulnerable with me, I suddenly feel strong. The idea that he might need me makes my muscles tense, but in a good way. Like I want to spring between him and the danger, like I want to hold him tight and keep him safe. I’m so busy pondering that idea that I’m surprised when Romy pulls up outside a cute little office building at the edge of the Becker campus. My heart jolts, and I grip the seatbelt.

Romy gets out of the car and comes around to my side, then leads me by the hand, all the way into a hushed waiting room. Heather Gregory is a psychologist who specializes in cognitive-behavioral therapy, and when I talked to her on the phone, she had a reassuring kind of voice and a calm, confident way that made me believe maybe she really could help. Like Romy, she didn’t minimize it or make me feel stupid for being scared.

There’s nobody in the waiting room, and that’s a huge relief. As soon as I sit down, though, the office door opens, and a young man walks into the waiting room. He doesn’t look at me or Romy as he heads outside. I guess he’s Heather’s one o’clock. He looked normal enough, not weepy or tremulous or crazy. It’s strangely comforting.

A woman in her thirties with straight blonde hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, wearing a long cardigan over an ankle-length dress, pokes her head out of the office. Her gaze immediately lands on Romy, and she smiles warmly, then looks at me. “Stella? I’m Dr. Gregory.” She walks out of her office and offers her hand. “You can call me Heather.”

“Hi,” I say as I shake it.

“Romy can come in with you if you want, or you can come by yourself.”

I look over at Romy. “Go ahead,” she says. “I’m right out here if you need me. I’m not going anywhere.”

With that settled, I trail Heather into her office. She’s got a sitting area set up in front of her desk. Her diplomas are on the wall, as is her license. I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out one of the hundreds my dad left me—the money Daniel refused to take will be paying for this therapy. Heather takes the money and puts it in a little box in her desk. “As I told you over the phone, we can use your insurance.”

“I’d prefer it this way,” I say. Maybe this way my parents won’t be able to snoop about my diagnosis—they won’t have any ammo to give their lawyer if it comes to that, though I’m hoping this will defuse that particular bomb anyway.

She shrugs, then asks me about the panic attacks. We talk a little bit about the fall, but then she asks me questions about all sorts of things, my social life, my mood, my habits and preferences. I realize I’ve always been a bit anxious in crowded places—or situations where I feel stuck and can’t escape—and tend to avoid them. She tries to get me to describe the panic, and what I’m afraid of, and how it starts.

“It comes out of nowhere,” I tell her. “It comes up on me so fast that I can’t control it.”

“Tell me about one specific time, to give me a sense of it?”

I want to draw my knees to my chest, but it would be pretty rude if I put my shoes on her furniture, so I grip the edges of the chair. “It happened the last time I went out in public. I tried to go to an art exhibit, and I lost it, in front of everyone.”

Her brow furrows. “You said you hadn’t been out for eight weeks. How did you gather the courage to go to that kind of an event?”

“Alcohol.”

She smiles. “Ah. And alcohol actually increases the likelihood of a panic attack in people who are vulnerable to them. Did you know that?”

I shrug. “I wondered afterward. But this guy was talking to me, and he said something that embarrassed me, and it happened like that.” I snap my fingers.

“So you felt embarrassed.”

“My fingers sort of spasmed? And I dropped my glass. I remember staring at this one curved piece, and everything sort of felt unreal. I had to get out of there.”

“Did you have the same feelings you’ve described before? Heart racing, shortness of breath, trembling, tingling, numb, dizzy, feeling like you’re going to vomit?”

I’m starting to feel a little nauseated right now. “That about covers it.”

“And you tried to escape.”

“I ran to the bathroom. I needed to be away from people—and I wanted to be near a toilet since I needed to throw up.”

“What were your thoughts?”

I wince at the memory. “That I was going absolutely crazy, that I couldn’t control my body or myself, that I was going to shatter and disintegrate completely.”

She frowns, like she can tell how much it hurt me. “How frightening. Did any of that happen?”

I blink. “No.”

She doesn’t smirk or gloat like I expect her to. She simply nods. “Have you ever been in a dangerous or scary situation, like a car accident or a near-miss sort of thing?”

“Like … I guess … one time I was with my dad in Detroit, and he got mugged.”

“How did you feel then?”

“Terrified. I mean, my heart was beating so fast, and I was shaking. I can still picture every aspect of the mugger’s face and the way he was standing. The way his voice sounded.”

“So you were focused on the mugger.”

“Yeah.”

“Our brains function automatically in that kind of situation, preparing us to fight or run away. We don’t do that consciously—it just happens. We’re really fantastic machines, built to survive, and that heart-racing, shaky, ready-to-run feeling is meant to help us stay alive. It isn’t in and of itself harmful; in fact, it’s the opposite. But with panic attacks, you feel those sensations, and you think
they’re
dangerous. Can you remember your first panic attack?”

“It was in a crowded movie theater lobby—the place was absolutely packed. It was early September, and they must have turned the AC off because it was so hot in there. I felt this pain in my chest and thought I was having a heart attack, or maybe some asthma attack? I couldn’t breathe that well.”

“So you were in a packed, stuffy place, and you’ve never liked crowds, and you felt uncomfortable. You felt a pang in your chest, probably anxiety or some other normal signal in your body, but you thought, ‘I’m having a heart attack.’ So that made your heart race faster, and you became convinced that’s what was happening because your body’s panic response was coming online. But unlike the mugging in Detroit, where you were focused on the mugger, this time you were focused on what was happening
inside
your body, and feeling more terrified and out of control by the second.”

“That’s exactly how it was.”

“So the next time you felt that kind of pang?”

“I understood that it probably wasn’t a heart attack, but knowing that didn’t help.” I swallow back my frustration. “Heather, this has all been explained to me before, and it hasn’t made a difference.”

She meets my gaze. “That’s because you can understand something, but if you don’t
practice
that understanding, it won’t take root—and it flies out the window when you panic. Like the second time you had a panic attack. At some level, you knew it wasn’t a heart attack, but you were still scared of feeling that way again. That
feeling
is like the mugger. Terrifying, something to be on the lookout for, right? Something to protect yourself from? Do you avoid exerting yourself, just to avoid those dizzy, nauseated, heart-pounding sensations?”

I nod. It’s why I was scared that night with Daniel, because he was making me dizzy and hot and nervous, and I didn’t want to lose it in front of him. The only thing that helped was taking it slow, and knowing he wouldn’t let anything happen to me. I don’t tell Heather about that, though. Instead, I say, “That’s why I don’t drink caffeine. I don’t like how it makes my heart race.”

“But unlike the mugger, that feeling can’t actually hurt you,” Heather says. “It’s uncomfortable, but not dangerous.”

“I’m not so sure …”

“Stella, you’ve been through a lot, and you don’t have to be sure right now. But I can help you get control of this.”

“You sound so confident.”

Her eyebrow arches. “Because I am. Not for nothing, though. There’s a lot of research that shows this treatment is effective, and I’ve seen it work many times before.”

I could argue. Part of me wants to … but the rest of me is desperate to believe her. “You think it could work for me, after everything I’ve told you?”

She gives me a gentle smile. “I think it would work brilliantly. But only if you understand one important thing.”

“What?”

“To get control, you’re going to have to stop avoiding it. You’re going to have to become like a scientist of your own mind. You’re going to learn to recognize the signals that lead to panic for what they are, and you’re going to pay attention to the thoughts you have as you feel these sensations.”

My fingers claw at the armrests. “I thought you could tell me how
not
to panic. Not to observe myself
while
I panic!”

Heather’s gaze flicks to my white knuckles. “Are you panicking now?”

“I’m getting there!” I snap.

“And what’s going on inside your body?”

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Because I said you’ll have to face your panic, and that’s frightening to you. Have you ever actually thrown up during one of these episodes?”

“No.”

“Do you think this time will be different?”

“No idea.”

“Okay.” She moves a wastebasket from beside her chair and sets it next to my legs. “Just in case.” She doesn’t look worried or flustered at all, nor does she look disdainful. She looks like she believes it’s going to be okay. I wish I shared that belief.

While I sit there, nausea rolling, heart stuttering, she calmly gathers a bunch of paperwork, some handouts explaining the physiological process of panic, and a log where I’m supposed to record my feelings of panic, my mood, my thoughts. She sits down across from me again and gives me a sympathetic look. “You’re working so hard and suffering so much. This is going to get better quickly, though it won’t be easy at first. Can you trust me for a few sessions?”

“You promise it will get better if I do this stuff?”

She smiles. “
If
you do this stuff, I promise it will get better. Before Memorial Day.”

“How about by the first of April? That’s about seven weeks from now?” My mom’s deadline. She wants me out and about and ready to return to Wellesley …

Heather ponders, looking me up and down, my hands now folded over my middle, my knees pressed together, my entire body coiled tight. “It depends on you, and how much you do. We could see significant improvement by then, I’d think. But only if you don’t quit.”

I think of being able to do the things I used to be able to do, to drive, to go to the movies, … and then I think of the things I’d like to do, like being with Daniel wherever he is, whatever he’s doing. I take the papers from her, gripping them with my clammy hands. “I’ll do it.”

Chapter Twenty-one: Daniel

The snowflakes are coming down fat and wet as I pull into the drive. I look up at the heavy gray sky, wishing for another blizzard to trap me here with Stella, wishing for a string of hours when it could be just her and me. That hasn’t happened lately. Liza’s always here when I come over, and so is the housekeeper. Also, the construction workers, coming in and out. I get an hour with Stella each day, and I’m thankful for that. I’d come for free, but it’s only been two weeks since Liza decided she was done with me, and this is too important for me to rush.

Movement at my periphery draws my gaze, and my mouth drops open as I see Stella coming toward me. She’s got her hair up in a ponytail, and she’s wearing Ugg boots and a loose coat, obviously thrown on. I kind of love that about her, that she doesn’t worry too much about making herself perfect. I swing my door open and get out of the car, my usual jittery excitement at seeing her kicking into overdrive.