Panic

by Sasha Dawn

“Madelaine.”

  Tears of relief sprout when I hear Brendon’s voice.

  “Honey.”

  I barrel into Brendon’s arms, and soon McKenna’s joined in, too.

  “What happened?” McKenna asks. “Is it your mom?”

  I shake my head, but I can’t speak.

  “Mom’s okay?” Brendon confirms.

  “Y-y-yes.” For the time being. But I don’t know how much longer she’ll be with me, and on top of that I’ve inadvertently brought another shitty guy back into her orbit, and my relationship with my dad is broken, and I can’t take it. I’m heaving over tears.

  “Breathe, girl. Breathe.” Brendon strokes my hair.

  “What’s going on?” McKenna asks.

  The sound of our director’s two sonic claps jars me.

  “Shit. Go time,” McKenna says. “We’ll talk after?”

  I eke out a nod. Brendon releases us. He hands me a tissue for my tears.

  I close my eyes.

  Time to let go of Madelaine.

  Time to become July.

  Chapter 44

  “Madelaine, wait up,” Brendon says.

  I’m practically running out of rehearsal. It’s not that I want to avoid the Weekes twins, but I don’t have time to get into everything that’s happened. And maybe I’m not ready to admit that I was so easily fooled by Dylan Thomas. It’s hard to imagine that they won’t lose respect for me when they find out the full story. “I’ll text later,” I call over my shoulder. “Gotta get to the hospital.”

  “Okay, but—”

  McKenna’s words are lost in the breeze.

  A familiar limo is parked at the curb.

  Emotion floods me again, cycling through gratitude at Dad’s gesture, to annoyance that he didn’t come himself, to relief that I don’t have to be alone in this . . . running and repeating in the matter of seconds.

  “Miss Madelaine.” Giorgio opens a door for me. He remembered to use my full name.

  I crawl into the car.

  As soon as Giorgio closes the door, I burst into tears again. I can’t help it. I’m raw and tired, and even rehearsal today was an emotional tirade—we ran the most heart-wrenching song of the production about a hundred times. I may have escaped into July for a few hours, but July went through hell today. Needless to say, I wholly identified with my character—a wanderer without a home base, without parents to rely on when the going gets rough.

  “Maddy.”

  I look up. “Dad.”

  He’s sitting across from me. Within reach.

  And for the first time in a long time, I see him the way I used to, when I was a little girl. Something stirs in my heart. I feel as if I’ve been holding back, afraid to reach for him for years, but suddenly, the barrier between us has melted away.

  His brows slant downward. He looks sad, as if he feels just as worn out as I do with the cold war we’ve been fighting. Slowly, hesitantly, he raises a hand for a high five and sort of shrugs, as if he doesn’t know what else to do.

  I look at his hand, then back to his face.

  The periphery starts to darken and close in on me, as if I’m being swallowed by a black hole.

  He starts to lower his hand and look away—please, no . . . look at me—and at the last minute before darkness encapsulates me, I catapult into his arms.

  He startles, but quickly wraps one arm around me, then the other. “Madelaine.”

  I inhale all his scents—the cologne, the lingering aroma of fabric softener in his shirt—and try to remember if he ever held me like this when I was little. I don’t know.

  “Are you okay? Madelaine?” He takes my chin in his hand. “Honey, calm down.”

  As if I can do that on cue.

  He’s talking, but I can’t concentrate on what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter. It’s not as if my father knows how to be a calming influence these days.

  An image pops into my head: Mom’s feet in pointe shoes, dancing under the table.

  And suddenly, my lungs inflate, and the black mist closing in on me turns to charcoal, then gray, then to a silvery glitter that quickly dissipates when I meet my father’s gaze.

  “Madelaine?”

  “I’m okay.” But the shazams of panic still beat in my ears like a bass drum. I wipe a tear from my cheek, concentrate on my breathing, and blurt out everything. Finding the origami book and the paper at Ted’s place, about his creepy hand over his heart and the I love the hell out of both of you. About the guy I all-out fell for online being none other than Ted. God, it’s so gross.

  Dad’s brow is knit, and he’s staring me down. I brace myself for his anger, his disgust, his disappointment that a daughter of his could be so incredibly stupid.

  He bites on his lip. “You know this isn’t your fault, right?”

  Oh.

  “This is—” He shakes his head. “He’s going to pay for this.”

  The darkness starts to close in again. “Dad. Mom doesn’t know yet. And I don’t know how to tell her . . .” How to tell her Your pseudo-boyfriend pretended to be a guy my age. He’s been luring me into a relationship with origami moons printed with poems.

  “Don’t worry. We’re on our way to the hospital. You can talk to her now. Nana’s there too, right? Okay. You’re okay now,” Dad says. “Things are going to be better.”

  He calls Nana and asks her to meet us in the hospital lobby.

  When we get there, Dad helps me get out of the car and walk through the sliding doors on my trembling legs. I practically collapse into Nana’s arms.

  “What’s going on?” It sounds as if my grandmother is under water.

  Nana strokes the hair from my face. “What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “I’m okay.” At least I think I am. I want to be. Dad just said I was, so I must be.

  “She’s having a panic attack, Adie,” Dad says. He looks ashen, beaten, worn. “She’s been through something. She needs help.”

  I start to shake my head, but I can’t bring myself to form the words on the tip of my tongue. I’m fine.

  I struggle to pull in a deep breath, but it feels as if the world is spinning, and I can’t stop it.

  Chapter 45

  “Madelynn?”

  When the static in my ears fades. A bright light practically blinds me. I flinch, and the physician crouching next to me lowers the penlight.

  “There we go,” says the doctor, smiling. “How about you sit up for me, Madelynn—slowly. Good.”

  Dad is crouching next to the doctor, and Nana is pacing just beyond them.

  In a flash, it all comes back to me: Dylan Thomas, the moons, Ted. My breath catches in my throat again.

  I don’t remember fainting, but I guess if you’re going to black out, a hospital is a prime place to do so. Plenty of people to take care of you there.

  “Do you have a history of anxiety?” the doctor asks.

  “No,” I say, as Nana says, “Yes.”

  “No?” the doctor asks for confirmation.

  “Undiagnosed,” Nana says. “But I’ve suspected for some time.”

  “I mean . . .” I swallow hard. “I panic sometimes, but—”

  “Cloudy vision?” The doctor asks. “Shortness of breath, shakiness, rapid heartbeat?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “How often would you say that happens?”

  “Um . . . I . . . a couple times a week, maybe?” Or more. Several times a day, when I’m stressed. I’ve always known that doesn’t happen to everyone. Not to Hayley, not to my castmates. Which is exactly why I don’t talk about it, why I try not to make a big deal of it.

  “That’s anxiety.” The doctor looks over his shoulder at Dad—“It’s treatable”—then back to me. “Would you like to talk to someone about it?”

  I start to shake my head. God, no. The last thing I need is for someone to officially label me as screwed up, let alone someone digging into my psyche to determine why.

  But I look to Nana, to Dad, both
of whom are nodding. Amazing: they agree on something for once.

  “Maybe.” I start to get to my feet.

  “I think it’s a good idea,” Dad says. “You’ve been dealing with a lot. And I had no idea the—the anxiety attacks were this bad for you, that they happened this often. That’s not your fault either. It’s not a weakness. You know that, right?”

  I shrug helplessly. I feel weak. I feel dumb.

  “You don’t have to brave this alone,” Nana says. “I think it’ll help you to talk.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  Chapter 46

  My first therapy session is scheduled for tomorrow. Now that I have a semi-weekly appointment on my docket—in addition to rehearsals, voice lessons, dance class, and a strict cardio routine—my schedule is going to be even more packed. I’m dreading it, but I also know the panic isn’t going to simply go away. Too much has happened. I need to find a way to cope.

  With Ted. With Mom’s cancer. With Dad’s secret second family.

  And the first step is to tell Nana what’s been going on with Ted.

  Dad insists on sticking around until I get through the whole story.

  By the time I mention Vinny’s nosing through the box of origami paper, Nana is gripping my hand, eyes wide.

  “That rat bastard,” Nana says when I’m finished.

  “I blocked Ted on everything, so I don’t expect to hear from him directly. But I’m scared, Nana. I’m scared that I’ll have to see him again. Or that he’ll use Vinny to get another girl to trust him, or . . .”

  “Oh, honey, of course you’re scared. You have every right to be. I can’t believe he would do this to you—”

  “But what if I’m wrong, and he didn’t do this? What if there’s another explanation? Accusing him of something like that . . . it would ruin any chance Mom has if she wants him back.”

  “The last thing your mother needs is a man like that!” Nana clears her throat. “And you’re not wrong. All the pieces fit.”

  “I’d like to file a police report,” Dad offers.

  I stare at him. “Will he get arrested?”

  “If we’re pressing charges, then yes.”

  “Hold your horses, Jesse,” says Nana. “Let me talk to Ella first. I’ll text you.”

  “I appreciate it, Adie.” Dad looks at me. “Want me to take you home, kiddo?”

  I do, but I don’t know if I’m ready to leave my mother’s side. “I’ll stay here for now,” I say. It feels good to put her first for once. Dad can wait. I know he’s never tried it before, but he can do it.

  ***

  A few hours later, Mom is awake. I’m sitting on her bed, with Nana Adie in the chair right next to me. Even though I’ve told the story to Dad and Nana already, the words stick in my throat now. So I fish a moon out of my backpack and hand it to her.

  She unfolds the moon. Her eyes grow large and well with tears. “I don’t understand,” Mom says.

  “I kept finding these,” I try to explain. “At school. At my favorite seat at the Factory. Even on the front step.”

  “Madelaine.” Mom irons the paper with her hands. “Someone left you these moons?”

  “The words were just amazing. And the guy who wrote them started talking to me online. I only found out today that it was—”

  “Lainey,” Mom says, “these words are mine. From poems I wrote, private poems. I should’ve said something when I first heard your song, but I was fuzzy-headed from the treatment and wasn’t quite sure how to explain it. I don’t understand how someone else could’ve—”

  “It was Ted,” Nana says.

  “He had origami paper and instruction books in his house,” I try to explain. “And he’s one of the few people who would know when I was at all those places.”

  Mom goes back to staring at the paper. “Ted must’ve stolen the poetry from me. Copied it from my notebooks, back when we were together.”

  It’s starting to sink in now. Ted wasn’t the author of the words that touched me so deeply. My mother was.

  It doesn’t change anything that happened with Dylan Thomas, but it means something: Mom and I can finish the song. We’d always wanted to work together, and without either of us knowing it, we did.

  “Well, plagiarism is the least of his faults,” says Nana crisply. “Following Lainey around, leaving these moons for her to find—it’s inappropriate. It’s disturbing. Jesse’s ready to press charges, but I don’t know if we’d have grounds . . .”

  “I’ll send him a message,” Mom says firmly. “I’ll ask him not to contact any of us again. If he doesn’t respect those boundaries, we’ll look at our legal options.”

  I let out a long, shaky breath.

  Mom’s tearing up again. “I’m sorry, Lainey. I’m sorry I brought him into your life.”

  “It’s okay. You didn’t know.”

  “It’s not okay. It’s not.”

  “I was the one who was stupid enough to think Dylan Thomas was harmless, even when he was leaving stuff for me at school and at home . . .”

  “You’re not stupid,” Nana says firmly. “Neither of you is to blame for this. Ted is responsible for his actions. Not you two.”

  “But I’m responsible for my actions,” I say as my throat starts to close up. “And my actions were dumb.” But I remember that even my dad, who’s never afraid to be critical, told me this wasn’t my fault.

  Nana looks like she wants to hug me, but for now she just holds my hand. “If you’re not making mistakes,” Nana says, “you’re not trying. Hang in there. We’ll get through this.”

  Chapter 47

  Sunday, July 16

  I hug McKenna and Brendon once we’re out of rehearsal.

  “Coffee soon?” McKenna asks.

  “Love to,” I say. “Text me.”

  “Madelaine?” Brendon, hands in his pockets, head hanging slightly, chews on his lip for a second. “Is everything okay?”

  They’ve been sort of tiptoeing around me all day, since I was a godawful mess at rehearsal yesterday, and unavailable for comment all night. But I don’t want to get into it.

  The truth is that nothing is okay at the moment. My dreams of attending the academy next year are circling the drain. My mother is really sick, my father is avoiding me, I’ve lost a friend and a father figure in one fell swoop, and I’ll never see my dog again. I shrug. “It has to be, right?”

  He cracks a smile.

  “Keep on, sister,” McKenna says. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  On the L, on the way to my therapy session, I open the text thread from my father. His last message came in last night: Let me know when you’re ready to talk again.

  I text my sister.

  Me: I need Dad to come through for tuition for next year

  Me: so I’m going to have to play his game.

  Hayley: I thought Ted was paying your tuition???

  Me: Not after yesterday.

  Hayley: WHAT HAPPENED YESTERDAY?

  Me: Long story.

  I shudder with the thought of it. I’ll explain it to her later, in person.

  Me: I’m going to have to apologize to Dad for things I’m not sorry for.

  Me: If I expect to go to the academy next year, I have to play by Dad’s rules.

  Me: I understand now how this world works.

  Me: And it sucks.

  I open my diary app and jot down how I’m feeling: bitter, cheated, but strong. Like Mom, a survivor. Ready to do what I have to do.

  Hayley: Do you want to go see him?

  Me: Because that went so well last time you suggested it.

  Hayley: Maybe we can all meet in the city for lunch or coffee.

  Hayley: I’ll go with you.

  Hayley: Strength in numbers.

  Hayley: If we want to overcome this, we have to start somewhere.

  Hayley: He’s had enough time to think about things.

  Hayley: Maybe he’ll surprise us and have an actual conversation.
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  Me: I’ll let you know how it goes after we talk.

  Hayley: Love you BFFLS.

  Me: Love you too BFFBS.

  I swipe over to my dad’s thread again.

  Me: I need to talk to you.

  I take a deep breath and send the message off.

  ***

  The therapist is fine. She treats me like an adult, like we have a professional relationship. Only now does it occur to me that if Nana guessed I had anxiety, and Dad recognized it the first time he saw me have a panic attack, Ted—a psychiatrist—must have figured it out. Yet instead of encouraging me to try therapy, to get help from someone who wasn’t part of my personal life, he used my fears to his advantage. To get me to trust him. To get me to rely on him.

  Suddenly I’m very, very tired.

  I’ll wait until I get to the hospital to sleep. I’ll cuddle up with my mother, and for a few minutes, everything will be all right.

  ***

  Something feels different. I notice it the second I step out of the elevator at the hospital.

  Maybe the scent in the air is stronger than usual. A combination of that antiseptic hospital smell and flowers. It smells like a funeral.

  My phone chimes.

  Dad: Come to the hospital.

  Oh no.

  There’s only one reason he would be at the hospital: it’s time to let Mom go.

  No, no, no, no, no!

  I’m sprinting through the halls toward my mother’s room. My eyes are burning with tears. I round the corner and come to an abrupt halt outside her door. I’m afraid of what I’ll see when I step inside.

  Holding my breath, I enter the room.

  The drape conceals her bed, but I see my father is there, sitting at her bedside, his fingers tented under his chin.

  My knees are shaking. I take another step. And . . .

  I hear her laugh.

  “Mom!”

  My father spins toward me, but I don’t acknowledge him. I dart around him for a glimpse of my mom.

  She’s on her feet. In street clothing. She’s packing her things. She still looks frail—sunken cheeks, dark rings under her eyes, a scarf wrapped around her balding head—but her smile brightens the room. “I’m coming home, baby girl.”