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“Take your time. Focus. Three things,” he repeats.
Three things. Three things. . .
“Pat. . .and Peggy’s uh-ugly c-curtains.”
He smirks. “That’s one.”
I draw in one longer breath, deeper than the hiccupping ones so far. I peer through wet, slitted eyes to my left. “My b-birdhouse.”
He nods. “That’s two. One more”
I bring my gaze back to his. “Y-your eyes.”
“Three,” he says, his voice low. “Now tell me three sounds.”
I listen for a moment. My heart rate is still elevated, but the pounding has subsided.
There are people talking around the corner of the house. “Ernie. He’s complaining,” I say on an exhale, then listen again. “There’s an. . . airplane flying o-overhead and—” I close my eyes— “a chipmunk that’s going to eat my pumpkins.”
“Good,” he says. “Now three body parts.”
At that, my eyes fling wide, and I feel my cheeks flush. Because my instant reaction is: your lips, your biceps, and your backside.
Obviously, I can’t say any of those out loud.
I look down at the ground. “I think I’m okay.”
He reaches down and takes off my gloves, then presses my hand into his. “How’s the hand?”
I must give him a quizzical look because he says, “I noticed it the day after the fire. The tremor? It’s a trauma response.”
I don’t say anything.
“It’s perfectly normal to have anxiety after what you went through.”
I take a breath. It’s a good one. “I don’t have anxiety.”
“Maybe not, but you just had a panic attack,” he says.
I stop arguing because I know he’s right.
“Did you think you could reason with yourself not to have big feelings about this?” he asks.
I nod, still a little shaky. I fight an overwhelming urge to fall into his arms and have him hold me.
“Something like that. It makes me feel—”
“Embarrassed?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“Do you remember when you told me that my learning differences weren’t something to be ashamed of?” he asks.
“Of course.”
“Did you mean it?”
I nod. And I get his point.
