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“Yes, you can.”
“I can’t, Jameson.” I really can’t.
“Stop talking and focus on your breathing. Count to five slowly as you take each breath.”
I do as he says.
I’ll do anything he says if it’ll get air in my lungs.
I breathe in slowly, counting to five.
“Good,” he says in the most calming voice I’ve ever heard. “Now, let it out slowly. Count to five.”
I do that too.
I do it all again.
And again.
Jameson keeps me in his arms the entire time.
I have no idea how long it takes to feel like I’m not going to die, but it seems like the longest time of my life.
When I finally turn in his arms and face him, I say, “I never want to do that again.”
He nods.
“That was a panic attack, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Have you had one before? How did you know what to do?”
He takes a moment to reply, like this isn’t something he wants to talk about. “Mom used to have them. When Dad was on one of his rampages.”
Jameson’s face is like stone. He really doesn’t want to discuss this. I know that just from one look at him.
“Thank you,” I say softly. “I hate that you know how to deal with a panic attack, but I’m grateful too.”
He studies me for a moment. “Do you want to talk?”
“I want to call my mother.” I didn’t realize this until right this second, but I need to ask her about my father, and I don’t want to wait until the morning.
Jameson lets me go so I can do that.
I sit in the bed and call her.
She doesn’t answer.
I call her again.
It takes me five attempts to get her to answer.
“Adeline,” she says, clearly grumpy that I’ve called at this time of the night. “I was busy.”
Busy is code for sex. She’s used that code since I was seven. I didn’t know exactly what it meant at that age. I just knew she had a man in her bedroom, and that they were making a lot of noise. Busy to me meant making noise.
“Who’s my father, Mom?”
