Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 115833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115833 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 579(@200wpm)___ 463(@250wpm)___ 386(@300wpm)
“It’s Camille. Gotta take this.” He was up and out of the room before I could respond.
I sat for a moment, tucking my hands between my thighs. His brother committed suicide? And at such a young age too. I couldn’t imagine that pain. It’s one thing for a person to be sick, or to die in an accident, but it’s another to know that a person inflicted pain upon themselves to end their own life.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. It made sense that Deke didn’t want to talk about it. Suicide never made sense to the people closest to the victim. All they were left with were questions and anger.
How do you discuss something like that without feeling that pang of sadness, or guilt, even? Because I was sure there was some part of Deke that blamed himself for what his brother did.
We all blame ourselves after a death, wishing we’d talked to that person more, or hugged them one last time. Wishing we hadn’t yelled at them, cursed them out, or ignored their phone calls.
Guilt.
Shame.
Hurt.
It’s all tangled in the same web.
While Deke talked to his sister on the deck, I cleaned the kitchen. My mind was racing so fast I couldn’t keep my thoughts straight. I kept cleaning, clinging to the distraction, even going so far as to wipe the inside of the microwave.
It wasn’t until I’d cleared the counters that he walked inside again. He met up with me, holding my eyes while taking one of my damp hands in his.
“Come to the room with me.”
I let him lead the way, but with each step we took up the stairs, my heart was hammering. I wasn’t sure what had me going or what was making me so nervous. It was like all the emotion I was trying to swallow was bubbling up and the lid on the pot was wobbling and ready to fly off.
When we entered the master bedroom, Deke released my hand to sit on the edge of the bed. “I feel like I should tell you more about my brother so you can better understand.”
“No, Deke. Don’t.” I waved my hands and took a minor step back. My breath was coming out heavier. “You don’t have to. Seriously.”
He noticed me backing away, and a slight dip formed between his eyebrows. I thought about what Deke said on the boat, about how I could talk to him about Lewis. How could I just talk about my dead husband knowing his pain was probably much worse?
All these thoughts of death, of suicide, of sickness . . . it hit me so hard. Suddenly that giant room, with the endless ceiling, felt too small, and I couldn’t breathe. My head was spinning, my throat drying . . .
Oh, God. I’m having a panic attack.
I hadn’t had one in so long. The first time was after Daddy died. I was ten, sitting in my classroom and gasping for breath. I had several of them throughout that year, to the point where my doctor suggested to my mother that I see a therapist.
The last time was a week after Lew died, when the funeral and wake were over, the people had left, and I was alone in my room, with no noise.
I thought that after Lew, I was officially done having them, but there was something about this moment. The weight of it was crippling, like a giant thumb was pressing down on me and smashing me down until I was flat.
It wasn’t until Deke was in front of me, his hands on my shoulders and his eyes full of concern, that I realized I was hyperventilating.
“Davina, breathe. Look at me. I’ve got you. Breathe.”
I tried collecting breaths, but that only made my chest tighter.
I pulled away from him, rushing around him to get to my bag in the corner. I scrambled through it, searching for my phone. I wanted to call my sister or Tish. They were the only two people who could take me off the ledge. I stopped a moment, flinging my hands as if they were on fire.
“Where’s my phone? I—I need my phone.”
“Davina,” Deke called again, but I didn’t want to hear him. I remembered I left my phone downstairs. All the way downstairs. My body couldn’t handle it. I would’ve fallen if I tried going down there.
I glanced at Deke, watching as pity consumed him, and because I didn’t know what else to do, I ran past him to get to the bathroom. I slammed the door behind me and locked it. I should’ve left, but I couldn’t drive in that state, panting wildly, my heart racing, fear sinking into my heart.
It was all coming at me at the wrong fucking time.
All the memories.
All the panic attacks I’d had when I was younger as I feared the unknown.