Page 18 of Not Our First Rodeo
I found her in the kitchen, hands propped beside the kitchen sink, staring at nothing. But when I said her name, she turned to me, as if noticing I was there for the first time, plastering a fake smile on her face, and asked if I was ready to go.
It made nerves settle in my stomach, but I clung to that optimism and gave her what I hoped looked like a real smile and led her out to the car.
I can see now that it was the right course of action, because Elsie isnotfeeling any of the optimism I am. Her eyes are glazed over as she looks out the window, and she’s breathing louder than I think she realizes, her breaths coming in short puffs.
It makes me want to pull the truck over and gather her in my lap, hold her until the fear recedes. Instead, as we stop at a light, I ask, “Can I turn on some music?”
The cab is painfully quiet, only the sounds of the road bumping beneath the tires and Elsie’s breathing filling the air. She turns to look at me like she forgot I was there, like she’s retreated so far into her head that she doesn’t even know how she got here in this truck with me.
It makes worry gnaw at my gut, and I fight to shove it down.
“Yeah,” Elsie says, voice cracking with disuse. She clears her throat. “Music is fine.”
This truck is so old that the AUX cord is attached to a tape player. I hook it up to my phone and turn on a nineties country playlist before the light turns green. “Strawberry Wine”by Deana Carter starts playing, but Elsie doesn’t sing along quietly like she normally would. Instead, she turns back toward the window, lost in her thoughts.
I can feel the tension rolling off her in waves the closer we get to the OB-GYN office, hear the way her breathing becomes more shallow. My heart, the organ I’ve been trying so hard to protect, shatters in my chest.
“Elsie,” I say the second we pull into the parking lot. I turn to face her, and my words fizzle out at the look on her face. She’s white as a sheet, staring straight ahead at the office.
“Beau,” she whispers, her gaze swinging to mine, eyes wide. “I can’t do this.”
Ihaveasecret,one I’ve never shared with anyone, not even my best friend or my husband—I have panic attacks.
The first time I had one, I was in elementary school. I told my mom I was scared to try a particular jump in ballet rehearsal, and she told me to not let the fear keep me from doing it. So I pushed myself. And I did it, but not without falling many times. Each time, I felt the noose tightening more painfully around my neck. And the night I finally nailed it, I walked out of the studio and into the bathroom and slid down the wall, clutching my chest, thinking I was dying. I didn’t tell my mom about it.
And those panic attacks remained my secret. Even after spending almost half my life with Beau, he still doesn’t know about them. He knows certain things make me anxious, but he’s never seen the anxiety overwhelm me. I’ve never let him.
After my injury and the miscarriage, it was too hard to have him around and hide it. So I asked him to leave, and just when I finally felt like I was making progress, I found out I was pregnant and they came back with a vengeance.
The thing is, I’m actually so happy to be pregnant again. I want it to work out so badly. I want to be healthy for this baby, and I want to fix things with Beau and raise our baby together, but I’m so scared of my body failing me again. Of losing this baby. Of falling apart so epically this time that I’ll never be able to repair myself enough to let Beau come home.
It’s that fear that has me in a chokehold as we pull into the doctor’s office. It’s the trauma from the last time we were here and the terror that it’s going to repeat itself that has me gasping for air, clutching the cracked leather seats in Beau’s truck like my life depends on it.
I hear Beau say my name, but he sounds far away. There’s a whooshing sound in my ears and my vision is blurry. It feels like the cab is closing in on me, suffocating me. I’m overwhelmed and out of breath, my chest squeezing until breathing is a chore.
Distantly, I think I need to gather myself, to hide this from Beau, to wipe the worried look from his face, but I can’t.
Ican’t.
And so instead, I look him in the eye and tell him the truth. “Beau, I can’t do this.”
He reaches for me, but I wrench open the door, needingair. I stumble out of it and round the front of the truck. I can’t see where I’m going with tears blurring my vision, so I sink to the ground right there. There’s a small part of me that is thankful that I made it to the front of the car before falling apart, that I’m hidden from the view the receptionist has from her window. She may not be allowed to talk about what goes on inside the office, but she wouldn’t hesitate to tell the entire town what she saw happening outside.
The dangers of living in a small town.
My breath is heaving when I feel Beau’s hand on the back of my neck as he slides down to sit behind me. “Are you about to be sick?”
His voice is so warm and gentle that it gives me the strength to shake my head. He doesn’t say anything else, only smooths his hand up and down my back as I gasp for air. It’s…comforting. And it keeps me from fully falling apart.
I hate that he’s seeing me like this, but the feeling of his hands on me is so good that I can’t help but lean into his touch a little more, soak in the warmth he’s always radiating. He’s the only thing anchoring me right now, and I’m grateful for it, greedy for it in a way that feels as essential as breathing.
I’m not sure how much time passes before my heart rate begins to slow down. When it’s happening, I never have any concept of time. Sometimes I sit in my shower, and by the time the water runs cold, I’m still shaking too badly to get out. Sometimes I just need a minute in the janitor’s closet at the dance studio. And right now, I have no idea how long I’ve been sitting on the cold asphalt of the parking lot of the doctor’s office, Beau’s hand sliding up and down my spine, his fingers brushing the skin of my neck above the collar of my coat before moving back down.
When I finally chance a look at him, he’s watching me with those piercing eyes of his. They’ve always seen more than I want him to. Right now, that divot looks permanently etched between his brows. I think he’s going to have wrinkles beside his mouth from frowning so long. He looks ready to fight every single one of my demons.
He doesn’t know that they’re all just me.
“What happened?” he asks, sounding as wrecked as I feel.
