“Honey, let me?—”
“Tate. I can’t think about anything except my mom right now. I’m sorry.” She opens one of the bureau drawers and yanks out all her underthings, leaving a trail of them as she rushes to her open suitcase.
I pick up what she’s dropped and follow her quietly, trying to figure out what to do to help. If I can get her to take a breath and listen to me for a second.
She hurries into the bathroom and I watch from the doorway as she starts gathering all her toiletries. Her brush and makeup. Shampoo and conditioner. The bag she usually stores everything in so neatly. Now it’s just a jumble in her arms and I notice that her hands are shaking.
“Honey, please take a breath.”
“I can’t.” She’s almost manic in her movements, and it’s painful to watch—I’ve never seen her this out of sorts.
I’ve seen her cry. I’ve seen her manage a diner full of rowdy truckers. I’ve seen her gently coax her mom out of whatever mood she’s in. I’ve even been lucky enough to see her laugh and crack jokes.
Tonight, she’s none of those.
“Fuck. I can’t breathe,” she mutters, suddenly pausing and leaning on the bed for support.
This can’t be good for her or the baby.
“Summer, sit for a minute, would you?” I manage to guide her onto the edge of the mattress and realize she’s white as a ghost.
“I think…I’m having… a panic…attack,” she whispers.
“I’m right here. Slow, steady breaths. Come on, can you count with me?” I read about this once, where you breathe in slowly for eight seconds, then hold it for eight, and breathe out for eight. I explain it to her and she manages to nod, like she understands.
And we do it together.
“One-two-three-four…”
At some point in the process, her color starts to come back.
“You’re okay,” I say, rubbing her back. “Just keep breathing.”
“This is all my fault,” she says, her voice filled with anguish.
I don’t want to argue with her but it’s hard to stay quiet when she says stuff like that. “Honey, you know it’s not black and white like that.”
“But it is!” she protests, her eyes wide as she looks at me. “Look what happened. I went away for nearly two weeks and—this is the result. She could be dead, lying in a ditch somewhere because I decided to go on vacation. I’m a terrible daughter! And what kind of example am I going to set for my baby if I can’t even be good to my own mother?”
There doesn’t appear to be anything for me to say to that, so I watch in silence as she gets to her feet and turns to stare out the window, her thoughts obviously a million miles away.
“This was all a mistake,” she murmurs, almost like it’s an afterthought.
Like I’m an afterthought.
“Babe? What part of this was a mistake?” I ask after a moment.
Instead of answering my question, she says, “I need to try to get some sleep, but you should go finish dinner.”
Her hands shake a little as she stuffs her toiletries into her suitcase and all I can do is stand here, somewhat shellshocked.
This was all a mistake.
All of it?
Everything between us has been a mistake?
I guess I know where I stand.
