Shivering Mind

Chapter 40

“You were the one who ended our break, Matilda.”

“It wasn’t a break, it was—” I refuse to have this argument with a cell phone. “Where are you?”

“Nearby.”

Now I’m outright scared. “Stop it! We are not dating anymore. Or working out anymore after this. We’re done, Brad. This is not okay.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Brad says.

And hangs up.

Chapter Thirty-three

Matilda

It starts when I’m driving.

Just as I’ve always been afraid it would.

This car whips by, passing on the right, swerving around, too close to my side, too close in front. I smash down on my brakes, but I’m on the bridge over the river, high up, and there’s a strong wind whistling up from the bay, making the bridge cables overhead bounce and shake. The Bug fishtails a little, but I know I can correct it, happens all the Maxe, not a big deal.

Until it is. Until the black sedan’s weaving through cars far ahead of me, long past posing any danger, the Bug once again driving straight, nearly to the exit, but I’m chasing after something I can’t catch.

My breath.

I’m only exhaling, no air coming in; almost right away my hands are tingling and seizing up because that’s what happens, that’s what bodies do, to get oxygen where it most needs to be, shut down the things that aren’t as vital.

Except that my hands are vital because I have to hit the turn signal and ease down the ramp or someone will bash into me from behind or I’ll go spiraling into the guardrail or—

Going hot, then glacial under the sweat breaking out all over my skin.

Don’t know how I make it off the highway, onto the smaller Route 7, then down a few miles, to the Stony Bay exit. Later, I won’t even remember how I did that.

Exit.

Downhill.

Left turn.

Familiar enough to be automatic, but it’s harder and harder to pull any air in at all, some trapdoor in my throat has slammed shut, sealed so tight I can’t even swallow.

I should pull over.

Here, on the shoulder.

But the curve of the road near the roundabout at the top of Main Street has no shoulder, the street’s too narrow, no side parking, so I keep going, trying to shake my fingers out so they work better. So they work at all. Flatten my tingling left hand on my thigh for a second, then my right. Drive too close to the roundabout, so that one back wheel bumps up over the raised base, then slams down. Some old lady about to cross at the crosswalk in front of the Dark and Stormy glares at me because I don’t stop for her.

I can’t stop for anything, just need to get home.

Now my toes are tingling, edging into numb as I shove down on the brake to switch gears, fourth, third, second. Into the driveway, thank God, right behind Max’s car. Roll the window down, but even though air pours in, it’s not enough. I’m trying to pull burning sandpaper into my lungs and it sears my throat all the way down.

Snatch at the door handle but it’s not opening; it’s locked and for some reason that’s just it, too much. Bury my forehead in the crook of my arm, shoulders shaking, all of me shaking.

Then there are hands tight on my upper arms and Max saying, “Matilda. Matilda!”

Max

If this were another movie, I’d haul her into my arms and up the garage steps, kick open the door with one heel, muscle her over to the couch, all without breathing hard.

As it is, small as Matilda is, she’s so tense that I can’t even bend her, much less scoop her up, so I half drag her out onto the driveway, back over onto the lawn, land on my ass with her held tight against me, rigid as a surfboard. She’s, like, quivering, and I’m scared out of my mind.

So we’re both gasping for breath. “Tell me what’s going on!” I try for a calm, neutral tone. My voice cracks twice in the short sentence.

“P-panic attack.” She’s flicking her hand toward her face, the harsh breaths coming a little less close together.

“Do you have a—”

Something to fix this? What? An inhaler? It’s not asthma. Brown paper bag to breathe into? Not on me, no.

“You’re okay,” I say finally. “Just breathe. You’re okay.”

Stroke her back in slow circles, like she’s Cal.

“You’re safe. You’re okay.” Her eyes are so wide, frantic. My chest clutches like I’m not getting enough air either.

“’S okay,” I repeat. Her hand shoots out and grabs on to my wrist, tight. All sweaty. I rub my other palm against the back of it. Despite the sweat, her hand is icy. “It’s fine. You’re fine. It’s all good.”

Matilda

It takes about ten minutes, longer than I ever remember it taking. By the end, I’m lying across Max’s legs, my head in his lap, staring up at the wedge of his chin, the pale blue sky, the scarlet leaves of our maple tree filtering the light.

It’sokayit’sokayit’sokay. He keeps saying it over and over and finally the air comes all the way into my lungs and hangs around long enough to fill them. Still I don’t move, and he keeps on massag

ing his palm over my back, my neck, my upper arms.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

No idea how long we stay like that.

“Are you back?” Max asks in a hushed voice.

I nod. “I think so.” My voice is squeaky and breathless but at least I can talk.

So, progress.

“Can you walk?”

I shake my head.

“Do you want water?”

Shake my head again.

“Does it help if I hold you? No funny business.”

“Funny business?” I say.

“I have no idea where that came from. Please forget I said it. What happened here? Can you tell me?”

Shake my head. My breath starts to clutch up again.

Five minutes later I’m flopped back on Max’s couch and he’s pacing around the kitchen, waiting for water to boil. He keeps checking on me.

“Still okay?”

“Stop asking that. Makes me tense.”

He runs his hands through his hair, short, sharp nod. “Of course. Sorry.”

In. Out. I’m tracing slow circles on my thigh, concentrating hard on that. When I first had these, back in middle school, that’s what the school counselor, Mrs. Garafalo, had me do. Circle, bigger circle, bigger circle. She also had music—a CD she gave me—lutes or sitars or gongs or something slow and rhythmic with no words.

“Have any music? Just, like, instrumental?”

He looks around the room, his fingers scrubbing at his hair, then reaches down and scoops something out of the basket, twists something, and sets it next to me. It’s a small lavender stuffed elephant, evidently with a music box inside, because it’s playing a song that takes me a moment to identify.

“‘I Am the Walrus’?”

“I know. And it’s an elephant. Don’t ask. Obviously a refugee from the Island of Misfit Toys. Just close your eyes and listen, Matilda. Do the breathing thing.”

I tip my head back against the couch, listen to him moving around the apartment. Then I feel him standing near me.

“It’s happened before,” Max says. Not as a question.

I nod.

“A lot?”

My stupid throat is tightening again. “Years ago. When I was twelve.”

“Ah. Before you ‘flipped it.’”

“There were other things going on. But yeah. Not since then. Till a few weeks ago.”

He shoves a hand into the breast pocket of his rumpled oxford shirt, in that “reaching for a cigarette” way, comes up empty, looks around helplessly for a moment, then scoops up a fireball from a bowl on the table. Pops it through the plastic coating directly into his mouth.

“What happened a few weeks ago?” The fireball’s scrunched in his cheek, so his words come out funny.

I start telling him. Only a few halting sentences in, Max jumps up and starts pacing back and forth like a caged coyote. All the way through, he keeps peppering me with questions:

“Did you go by the bank?”

“Did you talk to a lawyer?”

“Have you tried going through Samantha?”

“I’ve thought about it,” I admit to him, “but I thought, first—”

“You know you have to talk to Gracie,” he says, setting tea on the coffee table next to my feet. My hand goes toward my throat and he grabs it, holds on to it, squeezes. “I know Grace Reed, Matilda. She backs down. She’s gotta know she’s in the wrong all over the place here.”

“You think she cares? This is the woman who was going to pretend nothing happened when she smashed her car into my family’s life, Max.”

“Until Samantha called her on it. And your brother. She’s a coward, really. Bullies usually are.”

“These bills are going to collection. I got nowhere at the bank,” I repeat, not telling him who I spoke with there, because why make things harder.

“So you have nothing to lose,” Max says. “Drink your tea. Let’s get there. I have to pick up Cal, but not until four—that gives us plenty of Maxe.”

“I don’t need you to go with me.”

“I’m driving you, in case you freeze up. I’ll be in the car outside, in case s**t gets weird. And I’ll have my phone, in case you need me to go ninja and crash through the window or something.”

“But—”

“Shhh.”

“Don’t shhhh me!”

“Angry? Good. Now let’s get you to Gracie.”

Grace Reed is wearing overalls, but designer—definitely not Oshkosh—and holding a paint roller in one manicured hand. “Yes?”

She looks a lot like Samantha, except her hair is silvery blond and straight, while Sam’s is tawny and wavy. But Samantha doesn’t have anything close to her mother’s smooth, expressionless face. Everything Sam thinks is right there, easy to read. If Grace had expressions, she might have wrinkles. Laugh lines, like Mom, who I’m pretty sure is younger.

Reaching into my backpack, I pull out the pile of envelopes secured with a rubber band. “These are for you.”

She takes a step back, her eyes skating over the envelopes, back to me. Opens the door wider. “I think you’d better come in. You can leave your shoes right outside.”

Swallowing hard, I slip off my sneakers. She drops the paint roller into a paint pan, wipes her hands on her pants, and leads the way into the living room.

White on white on white, with a few splashes of black—the pillows, the frames of the muted photographs of Samantha and her sister, Tracy. The only color is a huge painting over the mantel of the white brick fireplace. Grace at a piano, with a preschool Tracy and toddler Sam at her feet, all of them wearing dark green dresses with pink satin sashes. Sam is all ringlets and big wide eyes. Tracy looks a tiny bit scornful—typical, from what I know.

Grace Reed points to the frost-white couch, looming like an iceberg off the snowy carpet. “Would you like some lemonade?”

Please. We are not making this into a social occasion. I shake my head. Hold out the envelopes again. Repeat, “These are yours.”

“I think I’ll have a glass of Pinot, myself,” she says, giving me a conspiratorial smile. “I’ve always hired someone to do the work before. Never appreciated how tiring it is when you DIY!” She click-clicks her heeled sandals across the wooden floor into what I guess is the kitchen. The footsteps seem to go on forever. Huge, this place. High ceilings. So white. I’m small, hunched on this sofa, cushions so puffy, my feet barely reach the ground.

My chest cramps.

Deep calming breaths.

I fan the envelopes out on the coffee table. She returns with a large glass of white wine, sets it down on the table with a clink, crosses her ankles, and looks me, at last, in the eye.

“Which one are you?”