Page 11 of Light Up The Night
"At the Crenshaws! It has my phone in it, in my wallet, my laptop,everything." She lets out a frustrated growl. "Stupid, Cadie. You're stupid. Stupid.Stupid." She repeatedly smacks herself in the forehead with a closed fist.
I seize her wrist and prevent her from hitting herself. "Hey, whoa, whoa. Easy, Cadence. None'a that."
She's panting raggedly, whimpering in her throat—nearly hyperventilating. "I forgot it! I forgot my bag. I forgot my bag."
She's still trying to hit herself, and my god, she's stronger than she looks. I end up holding both of her wrists and pulling her against my chest, pinning her hands between our bodies in a bear hug.
"Cadence, hey—hey. It's okay. It's alright."
She writhes in my grip, strong and wiry and soft and exploding with panic. "No! No! No! It's-not-it's-not-it's-not. I forgot my bag. I have to have my bag. I have to have my bag."
Fuck. What do I do? I've seen and had plenty of panic attacks and anxiety attacks in my life. My first cellmate in prison, Rick, had them all the time, and I learned by necessity how to help him through them.
But this?
I don't know what this is.
"Hey, Cadence?" I keep my voice low and soft, holding her flailing, thrashing form—which is sort of like trying to hold ontoa mid-death-roll alligator…if alligators could be soft and sexy. "Try to breathe for me. Take one deep breath, please."
“No, no, no, no, no, no…" she whimpers, and then launches into a refrain of "I lost my bag, I need my bag."
Shit. I really wish to fuck I knew how to help her calm her down. It's fuckin'…what? One-thirty in the morning? But it doesn't seem like there's much that's gonna calm her down except getting that damn bag from Grand fucking Lafayette.
She's rocking back and forth, or trying to, in my arms, chanting about her bag. I'm not even sure how aware of me she even is, except as a vague feature of the world beyond her panic, or whatever this is. I just know I'll do any-fucking-thing to stop it.
"How about we go get your bag?" I say.
She stops rocking instantly. "Get it?" She turns tear-wet eyes up to mine, and fuck my entire world, but the look on her angelic face guts me to the core: it's look of pure, raw, ragged hope shining through tears of despair.
I am so, so, so fucked.
"Yeah," I whisper. "You need your bag, so let’s go get it."
"It is far away."
"That's okay. I don't mind. You know the way?"
"Yes," she whispers.
I slide my hand palm-to-palm with hers, thread my fingers through hers. Pull away and step carefully backward through the door into the hallway, tugging her after me. "C'mon, then, Gorgeous. Let's go get your bag."
"I am not gorgeous."
"Hell, yes you are." She's following me easily, now, sniffling and shuddering, eyes semi-vacant—this is a look I recognize.
It's the post-panic empty, shell-shocked lethargy.
I stop backing up and let her step closer, into my space. I try to find her eyes, but hers keep slipping away from minelike same-polarity magnets. I brush my thumbs under her eyes, swiping away her tears. "You with me, Cadence?"
Her gaze finds mine for a few seconds, and then she squeezes her eyes shut, and lets outa breath. "Yes. I am with you."
"Cool. C'mon, then. I like a nice late-night cruise." Good thing I didn’t start drinking that second beer, I guess.
I lead her through the house, out the side door, and to the garage. Help her up into my truck. She still seems shell-shocked, making no move to buckle up, so I lean across her and click the seatbelt in place. When I take my seat behind the wheel, she's in that position again—knees together directly over her feet, hands on her lap, back perfectly straight, eyes fixed sightlessly forward.
It takes ten minutes or so to get out of town, and then I can open her up a bit. It's a beautiful night, warm and clear, so I lower my window to let some air circulate in the cabin.
I notice Cadence turns her face toward the open window, eyes closing as the wind buffets her. "Want yours down?"
