“Till death us do part,”George repeated up front.
The edges of Adam’s vision darkened, and the air thickened. He pushed someone out of the way and slid out of the pew, stumbling to the nearest side exit. The scent of flowers was everywhere, sweet cloying, gooey.
“To have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, till death us do part.”
He barely made it out before his stomach started to heave.
There was a small garden, empty, away from the crowds. He braced his arm against the wall and tried not to throw up. Tried sucking in gulps of cool air.
A distant part of his mind, the part that was a doctor, told him he was having an anxiety attack. But the rest of him was just trying to stop the world from spinning.
He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the stone wall and waited for the whooshing sound in his ears to pass.
A hand wrapped around his arm, below the shoulder. “Do you want me to loosen your tie?”
No, go away, don’t see me like this.
“Grrmmm,” was all he could make himself say.
“What’s wrong?”
“Xietyttack.” He spoke through clenched teeth. There was cold sweat on his upper lip.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her reach for her little bag and pull out a phone.
She had done that once before, when they got lost in the dark. The night he kissed her for the first time. It seemed like years ago.
She scrolled through it for a minute, or maybe an hour.
“Adam?” she said very softly. “Can you wash your hands?” She pulled both his hands off the wall, it made him collapse slightly, catching the wall with his shoulder and leaning on it.
She held both his hands in hers. “Remember when you washed before delivering Tirana’s baby? Can you do the same now. Doesn’t matter if there’s no soap, just do it.” She rubbed his hands together. “Just focus on your fingers, one at a time.”
He did. Slowly. Lacing his fingers together as he’d done a thousand times before. Imaginary soap foamed as he pretended to lather his palm then each finger carefully. She unfastened his cuffs and pushed his sleeves up helping him wash his wrists.
He was still having trouble breathing, something jammed in his windpipe.
He coughed to clear his airway, bent down and blinked to clear his vision. She seemed to be holding him up, or maybe be was gripping her wrists very hard.
“You’re okay,” she said. “Now wash my hands for me.”
He did, lathering her fingers one at a time. The repetitive task helped him breathe, inhale, exhale with each finger. Gradually, he could feel his back straighten and he stood upright.
“Can you walk?”
He could.
She led him behind the church, away from the doors, to a secluded part of the churchyard. Then made him sit on a low stone wall. And moved between his legs.
“Don’t read anything into this. Okay?” She took his face in her hands, brushed the hair away from his brow, and wiped his skin with a tissue. Then she brought his head to rest in the crook of her neck. Over and over, her hands brushed through his hair and stroked his temples.
It helped.
They remained like that for a long time. His arms were around her, his head on her shoulder, her cheek pressed to the side of his face.
“Thank you,” he said at last when he straightened.
“You’re still a little pale.”
