Page 33 of Our Last Resort

Can’t swallow, either. My throat has seized.

Gabriel remains oblivious, his face buried under his hat.

Get a grip.

For years now, I’ve worked to domesticate the wild beast that is my anxiety. My social life used to consist entirely of Gabriel (and, once upon a time, Gabriel and Annie). After they both departed, I looked for ways to give shape to my days outside of trading hours. Most activities, I have found, bump against the sharp contours of my mind. So every day I have two options: do things that scare me or die of boredom.

I started rock climbing. A couple of ladies at the gym—Cara and Jessie—became my belay partners. Cara meets me there on Tuesdays, Jessie on Fridays. Every session is a fight against my intrusive thoughts—what if I drop her what if she drops me what if I didn’t tie my knot correctly.It’s a workout for my mind, even more than for my body.

The sounds of children splashing in the pool reach me from a great distance. I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, I’m looking at the world through a deep, dark tunnel.

Maybe I’m having a heart attack.

No. Keep trying.

Twice a week, I go to a pottery workshop. I sit and shape clay and place it in a kiln. Pottery is the opposite of rock climbing in that it puts my mind to sleep. No thoughts there—just thewhirl of the wheel and the dozens of beautiful, breakable things I’ve made. When the workshop ends, I wash up and go to the Irish bar around the corner for a beer with two or three of my fellow potters.

I get up. There’s the ground underneath my feet, the gritty tile. Something real, finally. I wait for a loosening in my chest. Nothing.

Maybe I’m dying.

Is this what it feels like to die?

I can’t die. I’ve got things to come home to.

Charlie, Cara, Jessie, the potters. And my car.

I bought it—an old convertible Fiat 500—once I resigned myself to the fact that I would no longer be flying out to Seattle. On weekends, especially during the spring and fall, I drive on country roads, with the top down. Aside from one cursed area I dutifully avoid, the Empire State is my oyster. There are so many things to look at. I take pictures of foliage. I listen to birds. I stop at diners. I’ve yet to run out of roads. Or birds. Or diners.

Gabriel must have felt me move next to him. He takes his hat off his face and sits up.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t breathe,” I say, except I don’t, because you can’t speak when you can’t breathe.

“Sit down,” he says.

Gabriel lowers me back to my chaise.

“Put your head between your knees.”

Does that really work?

“Is she okay?”

I think I recognize Lazlo’s voice. My arms are numb. In fact, I can’t feel my body. My eyes are shut. When I open my mouth to speak, all that comes out is a series of increasingly desperate gasps for air.

Gabriel’s hand tightens around my shoulder.

“Hey,” he says. His voice, reassuring just a few seconds ago, is tense. “You okay? Did you eat something?”

I shake my head.

“Excuse me,” Lazlo says. I raise my head but can’t see whohe’s talking to. “Is there a doctor here? Someone’s not feeling well.”

“No…doctor,” I manage to mumble.

The sound of my own voice gives me hope. Can I breathe? Maybe. My head spins.

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