Page 12 of Little Girls Sleeping
She was returning to the kitchen to fix another cup of coffee when a strange creeping sensation welled up inside of her. It began with her lower extremities tingling, followed by the uncomfortable movements shifting up through her torso, and then to her head and eyes.
Anxiety was a stealthy and unpredictable enemy.
“Oh…” she whispered, barely audibly. She bent forward, bracing herself for the dizziness and fuzzy vision that usually followed. Her nemesis was back.
Cisco had a sixth K9 sense and immediately confronted her with soft whines and quick hand licks. He circled her, keeping his trained eyes on her hands and face.
“It’s okay,” she whispered to him, not recognizing her own tense voice.
Her breathing caught in her throat and a profuse heaviness pressed down hard on her chest, making it difficult to fill her lungs with air. It was as if a ghost was chasing her down and making her submit to its devious will. It was a scary, debilitating sensation unless you fully understood how to ignore it in order to make the symptoms disappear—a delicate balancing act.
The most difficult aspect for Katie was the fact that she couldn’t fight the panic attack head on. Relaxing was key at the moment the anxiety struck.
You couldn’t fight it.
You couldn’t reason with it.
And it wouldn’t make you promises that it wouldn’t come back.
Anxiety, you’re not welcome here anymore.
Katie wanted to run.
But where?
Anywhere.
She wanted to hide from it as the familiar shakes began to rattle her bones and perspiration soaked her entire body.
“No!” she yelled. She’d had enough. “No!” She gasped for breath and tried to steady her breathing.
Cisco barked three times and ran to the window, staring outside to look for anything or anyone that shouldn’t be there. They had coped through these attacks together before, and they’d been happening more often. It was one of the reasons she’d decided to come home for good.
She pushed her trembling and adrenalin-ridden body toward the refrigerator, opting not to drink any more caffeine. Opening the door, she stood staring aimlessly inside. The cool air from the fan relieved some of her distress, and she was able to breathe deeply, slowly, in and out.
Cisco returned to her side, seemingly satisfied that there were no bad guys lurking.
“Crap, Cisco, I hate these episodes,” Katie blurted out.
She chose a glass of lemonade. The coolness of the drink relieved the rest of the anxiety episode, but she was left re-imagining the smell of spent rounds of ammunition and the dusty heat from the battlefield. It all seemed so real.
It was an odd realization that her mind could conjure up on a whim the smells, tastes, and feelings of being in the desert of Afghanistan.
Would it ever go away?
After these anxiety attacks she generally became exhausted and a little lethargic. This time, however, she had important things to accomplish and she was determined to work despite her personal difficulties. She drank another full glass of lemonade and stood a few more moments until her pulse became slow and steady.
Her welcome-home basket from Aunt Claire still sat on the end of the counter. Claire hadn’t been her aunt for very long; she’d married Wayne barely six years ago. It was such a thoughtful idea to leave a basket filled with necessities, including a small leather-bound journal with a delicately etched flower on the cover.
Katie plucked the notebook from the basket and flipped through it. Each page allowed for a personal entry and a reflection on how you were feeling. It made her think. Perhaps her aunt knew more than she’d realized about war and the inevitable post-traumatic stress disorder that came home with most soldiers. Katie had never kept a diary, even when she was a teenager, because she didn’t have much to report or reminisce on. But replacing the journal in the basket, she couldn’t completely dismiss the possible therapeutic effects it would have for her now.
She padded barefoot back into her study, which was in full investigative mode. She had some ideas that she wanted to work through to see if there was any credibility to them. If so, it would mean that the case warranted more investigation and digging in order to move it forward to a definite conclusion—good or bad.
Cisco followed her into the room and took a seat in the oversized chair in the corner. He kept an eye on Katie for as long as it took him to fall asleep and release subtle doggie snores.
Standing in the middle of the small bedroom with her hands on her hips, Katie perused the bookshelves along three of the walls, trying to recall similar cases involving a kidnapped or missing girl in a comparable community within a seventy-five-mile radius.
She pulled out two thick true-crime books containing various cases of abducted children. Skimming pages quickly to refresh her memory, she found one case where a seven-year-old girl left a birthday party and never made it home to her apartment complex only a half mile away. It turned out that a resident in the same complex had been stalking her and waiting for the right moment. Because she knew him, it was easy for him to get her into his car without raising any suspicion. He drove her to a remote location, raped and murdered her, and then tossed her body down a ravine. It was not until almost ten years later that some hikers discovered her bones.
