Page 58 of In Sheets of Rain

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And The Blood Came Down In Sheets Of Rain All Around Me

“Do you want to talk about the Weet-Bix guy?” the clinical psychologist asked.

I stared around the white-walled room, glanced at the painting of One Tree Hill, skipping over the box of tissues on the coffee table between us.

“Not really.”

“Why’s that?”

I said nothing, wringing the tissue in my hands to shreds.

“I want you to do something for me, Kylee,” Gareth said. “I want you to try a cognitive therapy technique to help slow your breathing down.”

“My breathing?”

“Yes,” he said. “Since you’ve sat down here, I’ve been counting your respirations. You’re breathing twice as fast as you should be.”

He stared at my constantly moving hands.

“Do you think you could give it a go?”

I shrugged.

“OK,” Gareth said. “I want you to take a breath in slowly, counting while you do so, up to three. Then don’t hold it, but let it out again afterwards, slowly, counting again to three. Ready?”

I frowned but nodded.

“I’ll do it with you,” he said. “Breath in. One. Two. Three. Breath out. One. Two. Three. Nice and slow. That’s it. I want you to use this technique every time you feel like things are getting on top of you. Can you do that?”

“Yeah,” I said, practising the routine.

“Great,” he said. I smiled. Or tried to. “Let’s talk about not being able to get pregnant.”

My breaths escalated all over again.

* * *

People were milling around on the sidewalk. Some of them had their cameras out. I glanced up at the telecommunications building, taking in the blank staring windows as they caught the sun’s rays in the early morning light. It looked like they were winking. One window was open, curtains billowing out as though possessed.

There was already a crew on scene. A 5-1. North Shore e-car. Obviously cleared from Auckland Hospital and sent straight here. Ted pulled the Life Support Unit up, bracketing the scene; attempting to shield the patient from rubber-neckers.

I hopped out of the ambulance and glanced up at that open window, knowing what we’d see when we approached the patient. I grabbed my gear, straightened my back, and attempted to use Gareth’s breathing technique.

The e-car crew had a bag-mask over his mouth. The defib and a c-collar lay discarded to the side. The paramedic was attempting to get an IV line established.

“He just walked through the door and straight to his office,” someone nearby said. “Then out the window,” they whispered.

I crossed the carpark to the scene, my eyes drawn again to the open window high, high above. The curtains curled like fingers beckoning me.

“Status one,” Mike the e-car paramedic announced.

“I’m surprised he’s still breathing,” Sheryl the e-car ambo added.

“Attach those electrodes,” Ted ordered, and she scrambled to obey his order. “Line established?” he asked Mike.

“Having trouble getting a vein.”

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