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How many times had I felt like the ceiling would crash down, that I felt that if I didn’t run, I would die? So often that I can recall addressing my teachers by the wrong name while requesting a restroom pass. One of those times, I called the teacher “Mum” when I raised my hand. I’d never been able to live that one down amongst my peers.
Barefoot, my husband finds his way outside and slumps onto a garden rock, scrubbing his face.
Careless of bugs and dirt and whatever else might lurk around at midnight in these woods, I kneel next to him.
“I’m going to touch you now, husband.”
He nods, and his hand is cold and clammy when I take it.
I talk him through it, reminding him what Dr. Brahms said. Find something he can touch, see, smell, hear, and taste. I remind him he’s safe.
“I’m sorry,” he says when he finally catches his breath.
“Don’t be.”
“I’m a fucking mess.”
“If you are, then so am I.”
Still, his chest heaves, and he shakes his head. “We can reinstate the divorce pact if you want.”
“Fuck you,” I blurt without thinking, which, to my relief, makes Etienne laugh out loud. An owl swoops from its hidden perch overhead, shrieking like a banshee, and I shiver at the creepy beauty of it all.
“It’s the weirdest feeling,” Etienne says when he’s finally calm enough to talk. “I woke up feeling like…do you know that scene fromStar Wars, where they’re stuck in the gigantic trash compactor?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what it felt like. In my head, in my body. I was absolutely certain everything around me was crumbling, and I felt like I was dying.”
I hate this for him. “You’re safe, Etienne,” I repeat. And I’ll keep repeating it as long as he needs to hear it. Until my knees give out.
No need for knee injuries, though. Before another word is spoken, he lifts me into his lap and hugs me so tight he takes my breath away.
“Kala.”
“Don’t apologize again; I won’t hear it.”
He chuckles into the soft material of my nightshirt, and the warmth spreads out and in, down to my soul.
I don’t know if these panic attacks will be frequent, but I’ll be here for him if they are. I know that we will not give in to the King’s command to come to the palace. Not today.
We do nothing until my husband is ready.
* * *
The following day passes without incident.
Etienne and I have a pleasant breakfast outside and take our coffee in thermoses out to the orchard to clean out the abandoned cider mill. We dig through rusty equipment, sorting items into potentially salvageable piles and what can be sold for scrap.
I think both of us are fidgety, so we fill our time with things to keep our minds occupied.
When we’re both physically spent, we hike back to the cottage hand in hand to shower before his therapy appointment. Upon arrival at the cottage, however, there are not one, not two, but five news vans parked up and down the lane.
“What the blazes?” Etienne asks.
I tease him for cursing like a grandpa before his time, but I see the genuine concern on his face.
I reach over and grip his hand.
