Page 21 of The History in Us

“Levi?” My name whooshed through my ears like I’d broken the surface of water. Delicate fingers cupped my jaw. Her thumb stroking down the stubble under my chin. The sensations reminiscent of a time too long ago.

“Katie?” I blinked, staring down at her, her body against mine. Her other hand rubbed the back of her head.

“Levi, are you okay?”

“I…” I turned left to see the thick barrier of glass, holding the gorilla hostage. I turned right to see a swarm of children and parents visiting the exhibit. I looked down to find AJ asleep in his stroller. I looked up, and Katie stopped rubbing the back of her head. Had I hit her?

“I…” I couldn’t find the words to tell her I’d had a panic attack. Too much in my head, thoughts of the past, then the sound of the children, and the presence of too many pressing bodies. The imaginary threat of attack present, I over-reacted. My breathing was erratic, my chest rapidly rising and lowering against hers.

“Are you okay?” Her thumb caressed the heavy scruff at my jaw. The scratching brought me comfort, slowing my heart rate as I concentrated on the strokes. Up, down. Up, down.

“I…”

“Maybe we should step outside for some air?” Her concerned tone startled me even more. Suddenly, I was irritated. Mad at myself, mad at the panic, and mad at Katie Carter for being the start to something that hadn’t happened to me in years. I hadn’t reacted this way in a while, hadn’t panicked with need to protect for a long time.

“I’m fine,” I barked. Katie blinked in surprise and stepped back. The loss of her body made my hand twitch, instantly wanting to pull her back against me. Her presence was like a warm blanket, covering me.

“I’m sorry,” I grumbled, but Katie only nodded, her brow creasing in concern. She reached for AJ’s stroller and pulled it away from the window, positioning it toward the exit.

“I got it,” I offered, reaching around her to take the handle, but landing on her hands instead. My body surrounded hers again, selfishly drawing heat to my cold shakes as her back pressed to my chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I muttered into her neck, nuzzling her hair. Her head fell back to my shoulder for the briefest of seconds, as if lulled for rest before she caught herself and snapped awake. Cognition taking hold, she stepped under my arm and out of my embrace.

“You didn’t hurt me.” Her tone was chilly, distant. I’d never hurt her, I wanted to tell her, but I knew it wasn’t true. Physically, I’d never harm her, but emotionally, I didn’t trust myself.

It wasn’t until we were outside and walking toward the zoo exit that she spoke again.

“Maybe we should sit for a second before we walk home.”

My mood sobered. I’d ruined a distractingly perfect day by having a panic attack. Nodding toward a bench, we sat to look at the flamingos, a strikingly unusual bird to find harbored in the Midwest.

“Want to tell me about what happened?”

“Not really.” I sat forward and braced my elbows on my knees. I looked up at the strange pink birds, many standing on one leg. Oh, the irony. I extended my right leg and twisted my foot side to side, my heel rotating on the cement. More memories flooded me, ones I tried too hard to suppress.

“I feel sorry for them.” Katie’s words broke through the blood and screams within my head.

“Who?”

“Animals at the zoo.” She sighed, still facing the flamingos. Her hands were tucked under her thighs, like she was trying to contain them, as she gripped the bench. Her eyes pinched in concentration on the birds. “I love the zoo. It’s amazing to see animals I’d never see otherwise, but this isn’t a natural habitat and it’s kind of sad that where they live is a cage, holding them in.”

My heart rate had finally lowered to normal beats, but her words set a new pace. What truth she spoke, I thought.

“Ever feel like you live in a cage?” Her question sent my heart galloping again. How could she know? I’d always felt caged in my home. A struggling bird longing for freedom. “It isn’t even physical. Just as if you are trapped inside yourself. It’s like an itch under your skin, scratching below the surface, wanting to be released. It’s dark inside.” Her voice softened. “I don’t mind the dark. There’s a certain peacefulness in the quiet, the solitude, the ignorance. But it isn’t safe there. It isn’t healthy. Whatever that crawling, clawing feeling is, it needs to be set free.” She looked to me, narrowing her eyes. “Does that make any sense?”

I knew exactly what she was talking about, and yet looking at her, her perfect physique, her freckled nose, and her innocent blue eyes that trusted the world, I couldn’t imagine what she knew of dark things in life. I didn’t answer her question.

“I guess that sounds silly coming from someone like me.” She straightened her back and stretched her arms before her.

“What do you mean?”

The soft curve to her mouth wasn’t a complete smile.

“Being from a small town makes me boring.” Her eyes drilled into me, willing me to ask the question we both wanted answered but didn’t dare ask. Do you remember me? “I guess, the girl who hasn’t been in the military or seen the world, isn’t married, and doesn’t have a child is pretty lame.” She snorted softly. “And doesn’t have a real job. I guess that should rank in there as well.”

I chuckled with her remembering the words she dumped for our introduction assignment. “You’re not boring,” I offered weakly. “What do you want to be, anyway?” Suddenly, I had a need to know everything about her, but I was afraid to learn too much. I balanced on a precipice of craving and fear.

“I want to write stories. I have an active imagination.” She shrugged embarrassed as if she’d shared too much. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “It’s not a very realistic job. Instead, I’ve been certified in copy editing and I’m hoping to get in with a publishing company. Work my way up, I guess.”

“So reading others’ work instead of writing your own?” I offered questioning her. She didn’t sound very enthusiastic about that prospect. Her head spun to me and her shoulders fell. Somehow, I sensed I’d hurt her feelings, the pinch written in her wrinkled freckles. “What do you want to write?”