I try to breathe, bite on my lip and reach for Rhys, patting him gently, trying to find the source of his pain. Now I’m bothering to look somewhere other than his face, I can see that the ankle on his left foot has already swollen to twice its normal size. I wince and reach for it, but Rhys lets out a growl and pushes my hand away.
‘OK, OK,’ I say out loud. I’m trying to be soothing. ‘I won’t touch it.’ I try to take his hand. ‘Rhys,’ I say. ‘Rhys, look at me so I can talk to you.’
As my fingers close over his wrist, he lets out a yell of agony that frightens me so much I drop his hand and stumble backwards.
‘What?’ I am crying now. ‘Rhys, what? Tell me. Talk to me. What’s wrong?’
This is what everyone talks about when they say we both have communication difficulties. This exact scenario.
I would give every single one of my fingers and toes to be telepathic right now.
‘Can’t you sign?’ I ask, realization beginning to dawn. I look back at his arms, cradled to his chest. ‘Did you hurt your hands?’ My heart has now reached full-on thundering levels. It’s so loud I can hear it inside my ears.
And then I see it. There’s something wrong with his right arm; the angle is all weird. It’s broken or dislocated or something. ‘Oh, Rhys,’ I try to say, my voice all mangled. My emotions are all over the place. I’m worried for him, of course, and I’m devastated that he’s in pain, but I’m also starting to panic. Rhys can’t walk, talk or sign, and we’re stuck at the top of Arthur’s Seat.
And then the worst thing of all hits me. It really is all on me. No one is going to help us unless I – silent, useless Steffi – go and ask someone to help us. I am going to have to find a stranger on top of this Scottish mountain, explain that my deaf boyfriend has tripped on a rock and broken his arm and/or ankle and ask them to . . . what? Call someone? Carry Rhys down the mountainside? While I, what, trot alongside them and make conversation?
Oh holy fuck, I can’t do this. Panic sears through me, lighting my blood on fire. My hands go cold, my stomach knots like a noose. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
Breathe.
Breathe, Steffi.
Now is not the time.
But panic doesn’t care about stakes or context. It is loud and immediate and profoundly, all-encompassingly selfish. It has swallowed all my thoughts and my heartbeats and my breath. There is no one to rescue me; it is me who has to rescue Rhys. But I can’t even rescue myself.
Breathe.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I close my mouth and breathe in slowly through my nose, counting out six beats, then let it out over eight beats. I do it again, and then again, and then again. The screaming in my ears eases, then stops. My heartbeat calms. I open my eyes.
I touch my fingers to Rhys’s good shoulder and he looks at me. He’s in too much pain to have noticed that I just had a panic attack, and in a weird way I’m grateful. ‘I’m going to find someone to help,’ I say slowly, enunciating. ‘I will be right back.’
As I walk away from him, I’m thinking how unfair this is. Not just that Rhys has hurt himself, but that the fact of him hurting himself hasn’t done what films and books have always promised me it would: it has not transformed me into a better version of myself. Where is the Super Steffi who is SUPPOSED to reveal herself at times of crisis? Shouldn’t my love for Rhys overcome everything? Why am I still worrying about talking to a stranger when the most important thing is getting him help?
I am still me and all the crappy bits of myself are still in full attendance. When I spot a woman a few metres down the path ahead of me, my throat tightens and my palms get clammy, just as they would if I were in line at the bank. It’s not fair. It’s never fair.
I make my way as fast as I can down the path, ignoring my stupid tight throat and stupid clammy hands, and reach the woman. ‘Excuse me,’ I say.
It comes out, of course, like a squeak.
And she doesn’t hear me.
For Christ’s sake, Stefanie. Get a goddam grip.
‘Excuse me.’ This time, I overcompensate and my voice comes out loud and harsh. The woman turns, clearly startled, and spots me. ‘Hello,’ I blurt.
‘Hello,’ the woman says politely. It is the cautious, very-British hello that means ‘I am capable of assisting you’ but also ‘I am ready to run and/or scream for help if necessary’.
I look into this woman’s wary face, open my mouth and . . . nothing comes out. My words have gone. No. No, Steffi, not now.
I let out a choking, grunting gasp of frustration and the woman’s eyes widen in alarm. She takes a step back.
No, wait, I sign automatically. Sorry. Please don’t go.
As she watches my hands, realization dawns on her face, just as it had done with the coach driver back in London, followed by an expression I recognize: panic.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Oh, I . . . I’m afraid I don’t speak . . .’
‘That’s fine,’ I blurt out. My voice! My awful, shaky voice! There it is! ‘I can hear. I need help. My boyfriend needs help – he fell and he needs help.’ I realize I’m still signing as I talk, but it doesn’t matter.
The woman’s expression gets even more panicked. ‘Oh,’ she says again. ‘Oh dear. Where is he?’