Authors: Jeanne Bannon
Undiluted terror begins to rise from my feet until a wave of panic overtakes me. I’m going to die. I’m sure of it. My heart bangs so hard, sharp pains stab the left side of my chest. I pace, trying to quell my terror, but it’s no use. Despair has taken me in rough hands. It’s as if I’m watching myself from outside of my body, as I run downstairs to my parents. I can’t breathe. My legs barely carry me as I stumble into the room.
Mom’s curled up on the couch, still sniffling and dabbing wet eyes. She’s on the phone. Dad’s lying in his chair, feet up, head back and eyes closed. The everyday “normal” sounds of the television are disorienting and offensive, and I desperately want it turned off. Nothing is normal or okay. The world is a horrible, terrifying place. How can anyone be happy when unspeakable things happen to the people we love?
“
Mom, I don’t feel right.” I pace and pull at my collar. My throat is tight. I’m choking.
“
Mom?”
She ignores me.
“
Dad?” I almost scream. His eyes remain closed.
I run to the sliding patio door and try to open it, but my hand passes through the handle. “Shit,” I mutter, realizing I’ve vanished. Again I try. Despite my panic, I focus on the door handle, and by sheer force of will, this time I feel it solid and cool in my hand. With a yank, it opens and I step out into the late spring evening, inhaling until my heart slows. It’s nice to be free of the house; to be outside in what passes for nature in suburbia.
I turn to see Mom and Dad staring at me wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
“
That door opened by itself,” Mom says, the phone still clenched in her hand now hangs by her side.
“
How did you…?” Dad’s words trail off and he runs a hand through his spiky hair.
“
I was here the whole time. You just didn’t notice me,” I say quickly. “I didn’t feel well. I couldn’t breathe and it felt like my throat was closing up on me. I needed air.”
They nod in unison. How else could they react? They’ve just witnessed the impossible.
“
I’m gonna try to get some sleep.” I turn to leave.
“
Do you want to talk?” Mom asks, following me up the stairs to my room.
I feel a bit better now, but a part of me still wants my mother. “Sure,” I say, grateful for the offer.
Mom settles on the bed beside me. “You probably had an anxiety attack because of how scared you are for Grandma Rose.”
“
Anxiety attack?” I’ve heard the words before but can’t fathom actually being attacked by anxiety.
“
It’s when you feel panicky and your heart beats too fast and you can’t breathe. I’ve had them, so I know how you must have felt. They’re absolutely horrible.” She rests a hand on my knee. “Are you okay now?”
Anxiety attack
. I mull it over. It makes sense. Worry again floods my mind. “What if it comes back? What if Gran dies?” My hands curl into fists and my shoulders hunch to my ears.
“
Lola, you need to calm down.” Mom takes my hands and smoothes them open. “Why don’t you lie down and do some deep breathing. Try not to think worried thoughts.”
“
Okay,” I croak, and slide my bulk down until my head hits the pillow. My breathing is shallow at first, but as Mom runs a hand over my hair and caresses my cheek, it soon falls into a slow, steady rhythm.
“
Things have a way of working themselves out, honey. If the worst happens, you will get over it, in time. Think of how bad I felt when Grandpa Ken died. You were just little and didn’t understand what was going on at the time, but I lost my father, who I loved very much and yet, life went on for me.”
“
It hurts so bad right now. How much worse can it get?” Tears run down my cheeks and are absorbed by my pillow.
Mom grabs some tissue from my night table and wipes my face. “I’m still here and I’m not going anywhere for a very long time. You still have me.” She leans over and kisses my cheek.
I sigh. How can I tell her I prefer Gran over her? That maybe I love Gran more?
“
I know, Mom, thanks.”
“
You looked beautiful tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to tell you. I’m sorry your night was ruined.”
My stomach knots at the thought of Jon and of what could have been. “Nothing matters more than Grandma Rose getting better. It’s okay.”
“
This too shall pass.”
More tears come with those words. Gran always says the same thing.
Mom wipes away her own tears. “I hate to see you in so much pain.”
“
I’ll be okay.” My eyes are heavy and burn from crying. “I just want to sleep now,” I tell her, needing to be alone with my thoughts.
She gets up and stands by my door, looking haggard and worn; tiny and frail. Her eyes glisten wetly. “Do you want me to turn off your light?”
“
Yes.”
I’m left with the soft glow of the nightlight I still haven’t outgrown, as the door clicks shut behind her. I open my night table drawer and pull out the blankie I haven’t needed for years. Grandma Rose knitted it when I was a baby. Its fuzzy softness brings back memories of childhood. I inhale its familiar scent and calm settles over me, enough at least to take me to sleep’s antechamber.
My sleep is thin and filled with anxiety-riddled nightmares. In my dreams, Grandma Rose is hit by a bus and tossed broken and bleeding to the side of the road. Unable to get to her, I can only watch helplessly as she dies. There’s some sort of invisible barrier that I’m not allowed to cross. A jolt of adrenaline propels me awake and I sit straight up. I glance at the glowing red numbers of my alarm clock – 5:30.
It takes a moment until I remember Gran’s heart attack. Grayness descends, settling heavy on my chest and I will myself out of bed. My room is suffocatingly small and I need to get out. I go downstairs still dressed in yesterday’s clothes.
Mom is nursing a coffee in the living room and turns to me as I enter.
“
Have you phoned the hospital yet?” I ask.
“
Yes, they said she had a restless night but she’s resting comfortably now.”
I settle beside her. She looks older, like she’s aged ten years in one night and I realize that I’m not the only one hurting. Grandma Rose is my grandmother, but she’s also Mom’s mother. I hold out my arms and pull my mother into an embrace. It feels odd, yet wonderful and I wonder why we don’t do this very much. Guilt creeps over me; guilt at being so selfish. Maybe Mom needed me last night and I let her in just enough, until I felt better and then pushed her away.
Her shoulders heave. She’s crying.
“
This too shall pass,” I whisper and she hugs me tighter.
Chapter Nineteen
Despite one last attempt at convincing my parents to let me go to the hospital with them, Dad forced me to go to school.
Charlie was waiting at my locker. She wanted to walk to school with me, but I needed some time to myself, to think.
“
Sorry about Gran,” she says, giving me a sympathetic pout.
I sniff and pinch away the tears blurring my vision. “She’s going to pull through. She’s a fighter.”
“
Is that what the doctor said?” A ghost of a smile shadows her lips.
“
No, it’s what
I
say.”
Her smile fades. “Oh,” she whispers and drops her gaze.
“
I vanished last night,” I say quietly, suddenly sorry for my harsh tone.
“
Oh, no. Where?” Charlie’s eyes widen with alarm. “Not at the hospital?”
“
No, at home. My parents kinda noticed. But I made up a good cover story and I think they bought it.”
“
Phew. What happened?”
“
I was having a hard time dealing with Gran being in the hospital and all, so I ran to my parents for help. It was so weird. It was like my throat was closing up and I couldn’t breathe. They were in the living room and when I walked in, at first I thought they were ignoring me. Then I realized I must be invisible.” My hand flutters to my throat and I pull on the collar of my T-shirt. “But something interesting happened this time.”
Charlie crowds closer. “What?”
“
I found a way to move things. I opened the patio door. First my hand went right through the handle, but when I really, really concentrated, I did it.”
She gasps and grabs my hands. “Do you know what this means?”
“
I know. It was the one flaw in our plan.”
A broad grin expands across her face, but is quickly replaced by a more solemn expression, as if she’d just realized she should match my mood out of some unwritten rule from the best friend code of conduct.
“
Sorry. We can talk about this another time. I know you’ve got a lot on your mind right now.”
She holds her arms out for a hug and I bend to meet her embrace. “It’s okay, Char, really.”
“
We’ve got to get to class anyway. Just know I’m thinking of you and I’ll be saying prayers for Gran.”
The genuine concern in her voice coaxes more tears. I quickly wipe them away. “Thanks,” I whisper, but I want to say more. I want to tell her how much I love her and how thankful I am to have her as my friend. But she breaks the embrace and the moment has passed. We part ways and head to our respective homerooms.
Jon’s not in class yet when I slide into my usual seat. The morning announcements start and soon after we’re standing for the national anthem. Still no Jon. My eyes keep darting to the door, hoping he’s just late. I desperately want a chance to explain what happened last night. To watch his eyes as I tell him, so I can make sure he still likes me. As Gran always says, “The eyes are the windows of the soul.”
Halfway through class, I give up my search and turn to stare out the window. The sky is blue and cloudless and the grass freshly mowed. Wild flowers bloom at the edges of the groomed field. I marvel at how life goes on, how the sun still shines and people smile and laugh, while my heart slowly crumbles.
Class is over and my ears prick up when I hear my name over the PA. “Lola Savullo to the office, please.” Panic swells my throat and an icy-fingered tendril of dread slides slowly down my spine. Being called to the office can only mean bad news.
I make it out of the classroom on rubber legs before the fog rolls in and I begin to fall, seemingly in slow motion, caving in on myself like a tent without poles. Someone’s caught my arm. There’s a call for help, but it sounds so far away.
When I open my eyes, there’s a crowd. I’m lying on my back on the cold, hard floor of the corridor. Someone’s book bag is tucked under my head: a makeshift pillow.
Mrs. Wright kneels by my side, and gently slaps my face while calling my name.
“
I fainted,” I say, more of a declaration than a question.
“
Yes,” she replies. Concern looms in her expression.
With noodle arms I try to push myself up off the floor.
“
Whoa, let’s wait for Mrs. Dalhiwal.” She places a gentle hand on my shoulder in an effort to keep me in place until the school nurse arrives.
“
Okay, everyone, she’s all right,” Mrs. Wright announces to my audience. “You can all go to class now.”
The crowd slowly disperses. There are whispers and lingering glances.
A deep, rolling groan escapes me when I see my father running toward us. I’m vaguely aware of the accented voice of the school nurse, asking me how I feel. I push her away and stagger to my feet. She huffs her displeasure. “Please, young lady. Let me check if you are all right. Do not be moving around yet.”
I move past her and into Dad’s arms.
“
Did she…?” I whisper.
“
Yes,” he replies.
Chapter Twenty
“
We have to go to the hospital. Mom and Eva are already there,” Dad whispers into my hair.
Mrs. Dalhiwal and Mrs. Wright linger for a while, but soon walk away, leaving me and Dad in privacy.
The bell for second period rings and the halls are now finally empty.
“
No. I can’t.”
Dad holds me at arm’s length. “Lola, don’t you want to say good-bye before they take her to...”
I hold out a hand and turn away. “No, don’t say it.” I can’t let my mind wander to the funeral home and what they’ll do to my poor Gran. “There’s no one to say good-bye to now, Dad. Grandma Rose is gone.” My composure surprises me.
“
But your mother will want you with her at a time like this.”
“
She’ll have you and Eva. Please, there’s something really important I have to do. I’ll see you at home tonight.”
He opens his mouth to speak and I expect a fight, but his expression softens and he lets out a sigh. “All right. Whatever it is you need to do; I can tell it’s important to you. I trust you, Lola.”
“
Thanks.” I kiss his stubbly cheek and run down the hallway and out the rear doors, before he can change his mind.
My textbooks are still scattered on the hall floor. I suppose Dad will pick them up. I can’t make myself care about anything except the mission I’m now on. My small purse is still slung across my shoulders and I’m grateful I didn’t lose it when I fainted, or that no one took it from around my neck to make me more comfortable.