Page 12 of Goodbye Days

I describe what happened. Dr. Craig nods. “You paint quite the picture.” She clicks her pen, looking over my chart. “Have you been under any extraordinary stress lately?”

“You mean besides my three best friends dying in a car accident last week?”

She stops clicking her pen and freezes, her brisk confidence abruptly vanishing. “My God. The texting accident? I read about that in the Tennessean. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.”

“I was at a funeral a few hours ago.”

She winces and sighs. “Well. The timing, the symptoms, your EKG: it’s a textbook panic attack. I had a roommate in med school who got them around finals. They’re common among people who’ve experienced a traumatic event. Or three. Normally, they happen a little later and at more unexpected times, but you may be wired differently.”

“So—”

“So physically you’re a healthy seventeen-year-old. You’re not going to die from this. You may never even have another panic attack as long as you live. But you’ve had psychological trauma and it’s important to work through it. There are medications, but I’d prefer any such prescription come from a mental health professional. You have insurance. I’d look into who takes your plan and see someone. That’s my official recommendation.”

“We have someone,” Georgia said.

I look over at Georgia. She mouths, “Later.”

“Great,” Dr. Craig says, extending her hand. “Anyway, you’re good to go. Carver, all the best. Again, I’m so sorry for your loss. What a difficult thing to deal with, especially at your age.”

Especially at my age. I bet this is something I’m going to be hearing a lot in the days to come. I shake her hand. “Thanks.”

She hurries off to deal with people who are actually hurt and not merely crazy. I wonder if I would have preferred that there be something physically wrong with me. Something you could heal with a cast. Stitch up. Excise. My mind is all that makes me special. I can’t afford to lose it.

We sign some more paperwork and leave. Georgia’s phone rings as we’re walking out in the parking lot. I listen to her side of the conversation. “Hey….No, he’s fine. It was a panic attack. Said they’re normal during stressful—Right….Yeah….No, don’t. We’re literally leaving this minute. We’ll talk when y’all get home….Just— I know….I know….Yeah, I’m gonna talk to him. No, I said I’ll talk to him. Okay. Okay. Love you. Have a safe flight and don’t stress. We’ll see you at the airport. Okay. Hang on.”

“Is that Mom?”

“Telemarketer. I swear, these guys.”

“Hilarious.”

Georgia hands me her phone. “Here. She wants to talk to you.”

My mom sounds distraught. She puts me on speaker with my dad. I summon all my strength to tell them I’m okay; that I’m going to be okay. I tell them I’ll see them soon.

Georgia unlocks her car and we get in. It’s dark out, but the car is still warm and it comforts me like a blanket.

I recline in my seat with my eyes closed, further sapped by the effort of trying to seem as fine as possible for my parents. “Sorry to make you bring me here for nothing.”

Georgia puts her key in the ignition and starts to turn it but stops. “It wasn’t nothing. You had a panic attack. You didn’t know if you were having a heart attack or what.”

“I want this day to be over. I want this life to be over.”

“Carver.”

“I’m not going to kill myself. Chill. I just wish I could go to sleep and wake up when I’m eighty.”

“No you don’t.”

“I really do.”

“We need to discuss what the doctor said. About talking to someone. And you don’t talk to Mom and Dad. You’re Mr. Secret Agent High School Boy with them.”

“I’ll talk to you.”

Georgia starts the car and backs out. “That won’t work. First off, UT starts in a couple of weeks, so I won’t be here.”

“We can talk on the phone.”