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"It's not what you're saying; it's how you're saying it. Like you don't want me to work and get my memory back," I screamed at him, and he flinched and took a step back. I thought my reaction crushed his, but in a matter of seconds, he was back on his feet, and there was a rage in him I had never seen before.
"Well maybe I don't because we just settled, and I don't want my life rearranged again."
His palms slammed on the table, and the time seemed to stop around me. All the air was knocked out of my lungs, and I collapsed on the floor. The tsunami of fear that took over me was uncontainable - I couldn’t breathe; I couldn’t think.
"Rita!" My name sounded like distant whisper, and it was not strong enough to pull me out. Why was this happening?
I had seen him raise his arm, and I expected the pain from his hit, but it never came. James did not touch me. He didn't. He just slammed the tabletop. I repeated this in my head, trying to regain focus. He. Didn't. Hit me...but I feel like he did.
"Love, listen to me, you're having a panic attack. Try to breathe as steady as possible." I looked up to find his eyes watching from my level; he was kneeling on the floor right in front of me, but he didn’t attempt to have any type of contact.
In the distance, I heard the one sound that could make me get a grip, Chelsea's cry.
"The baby, I...I need to..." I pushed myself up, and James tried to give me a hand so I could stabilize my balance, but again, the weirdest thing happened: I flinched, and he immediately stepped back.
Swerving all over the hallway, I was trying my best to get to the stairs, but the nausea got the best of me, and before I knew it, I was desperately reaching for the bathroom where I lost everything that I ate through the day. The nausea hit me again and again, making my stomach convulse for minutes in a row. Finally, when it was over, I flushed the toilet and leaned my head into the cold wall.
"Love," James appeared at my side with a tall glass of ice water, "here, drink this." He shoved the glass my way, but I pushed it away.
"Chelsea, she's crying."
"I took care of it; she went back to sleep. Breathe, please, Rita."
I was...I was trying, but my body didn’t want to cooperate. My breaths were irregular and loud, like I had just finished the Boston Marathon.
"Go, I might throw up again."
"So what? I'm a doctor, love, this is exactly when I should stay with you."
But this was the first time I didn’t want him close.
"James, I'm fine, maybe it was the pasta."
"It was not the pasta. You had a full-blown panic attack. Look at how you're shaking still."
He was right; my flesh was trembling like I was made out of jelly. My heart was trying to escape my chest, and my legs weren’t fully functional yet. I was a mess. Was he right, was that a panic attack? The fear that rained over me right before flying into this state would be an indicator. I was so petrified....
"Let's go in the living room so I can check your vitals and blood pressure."
"James..."
"Not negotiable."
Before I could say anything else, I was picked up from the floor and carried through the house all the way to the couch. He fussed around me, making me look into the light, follow his fingers and all the useless staff you see in movies. Finally, he hooked me up to a blood pressure cuff, and when the numbers showed on the screen, he frowned.
"One-thirty over eighty."
"But that's good."
"Yeah, but your pulse is very high. Try to relax. Have you had any similar episodes since Boston?" There it was again, that change in attitude. When James got into his doctor skin, it was like someone had flipped a switch, and he became this God, like he had anything of control.
"No, nothing of sort."
"What happened, did a memory triggered you?"
Was he fucking with me right now? The cabrón had some big balls to bring something like this up right after he told me he didn’t want me to remember.
"¿Me estás tomando el pelo?"
