The tornado in my head picks up speed and I have to scratch. I need to stay busy. The silence is a lit burner and my panic attack is already starting to bubble. I exhale a breath, head to the fridge, pour myself a glass of orange juice, and take a sip. It makes me cringe. Freshly squeezed citrus and recently brushed teeth do not mix.
When I turn around, Luke is channelling his inner psychic and attempting to read my mind, again. I wonder if he realizes that concentration won’t make my skull any more transparent.
Does he want me to break the silence? I hope not. I’d be more comfortable sharing a swimming pool with a gaggle of potty-training toddlers.
‘About the text . . .’ he says. Half my brain is with him; the other half is straightening a tub of butter in the fridge. ‘You remember me telling you about Queen Amy?’
‘You said she was hunting you.’ Ugh. My voice wobbles nearly as much as my knees.
‘Right. See, she just broke up with this guy, Derek, and, well . . .’ He pauses, sits down, squirms in his seat. ‘She keeps dropping not-so-subtle hints that she wants to hook up with me.’ I glare at a jar of mayonnaise, try to melt it into mush with my mind. ‘She is one insistent chick.’
If he starts detailing said insistence, I might have to pick up this damn fridge and throw it. At least, I would if I weren’t, you know, teetering on the precipice of panic.
‘You don’t have to tell me this. It’s really none of my business.’ I fight to get the words out.
‘Thing is, she kept calling, so I blocked her number. Last night, when you messaged, I didn’t recognize the digits and just assumed it was her, using a friend’s phone or something.’ I turn to him, relieved, though I’m sure I don’t look it. Holding off anxiety feels like clenching your teeth for a prolonged period. My face aches; pressure is building at the back of my neck.
‘I would have told you this last night, but my phone up and died on me. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. Anyway, I just needed you to know that I don’t go around giving out my phone number to every girl I meet.’ He puts emphasis on the word you, a sentiment that I’m sure would make me feel like a million bucks under different circumstances.
More silence. Stretching out for ever.
There’s nothing to think about. There’s nothing to do. My head whips around the room searching for a distraction, which is when it hits me that I’ve forgotten to breathe. So easily done.
‘Norah. You don’t look so good,’ Luke says, the tempo of his words rising.
My heart stops dead. It makes me light-headed, and I have to grab the countertop to steady myself. I’m free-falling.
‘Whoa. Are you okay?’ Luke panics, lurches towards me, and snatches my arm. His fingers close around my wrist.
His flesh, pressed against mine. His palm is warm, damp. I think of pores, open pores on my arm, and his sweat settling on my skin. He sees me glaring, releases me immediately, and lifts his hands in surrender.
‘Norah, honey. Relax, take a deep breath.’ My mom swans into the kitchen, 700 per cent casual as poor Luke loses his shit all over our linoleum.
‘I’m sorry,’ Luke splutters. ‘I thought she was going to fall.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ My mom dismisses his apology with a flick of her wrist then continues to wash the soil off her hands in the sink.
The kitchen is turning. Words are melding into one.
‘Do you need me to do something?’ Luke can’t stand still. He’s looking at my mom like he might be getting irritated by her lack of haste. Thing is, when you’ve lived this a thousand times, it becomes less of a trauma and more of a scraped-knee type situation. ‘Is there something I can do?’
Go home, I think.
‘Stop worrying, for starters. I’m not sure I can handle two anxiety attacks at once.’ She smiles, all warmth. ‘Why don’t you take a seat?’ Mom links her arm through mine and leads me to a chair. ‘This will all be over in a few minutes.’
Why in hells bells would she offer him a seat? This is not a play, a production. He’s the last person I want around to witness this. But she is a lover, a Beatles song, one of those people who collect inspirational quotes. She thinks that all my baggage shouldn’t matter. She thinks people should see past it, should see that I am more than what is wrong with me. The clouds in her sky are always rose-coloured, which I know is a beautiful way to be. Alas, I have a mind that muddies everything. My skies aren’t so pretty; more tainted with fear than tinted with whimsy.
I cling to the tabletop; the room is tipping upwards like the Titanic.
‘Norah, your lips are going purple. If you don’t take a breath, you’re going to pass out,’ Mom says, kneeling in front of me and resting her hands on the top of my legs. She rubs circles. ‘Come on, honey. Take a deep breath.’ She shows me how and I copy her. The rhythm feels unnatural. My chest fights it, tries to go faster, tries to go slower. A bead of sweat trickles down the back of my neck.