chapter 9

BONNY BLANKENSHIP

 

 

 

The tropical storm warning had been on every TV station, but then the weather had inched its way north. Still the rain fell and gathered itself too quickly to be absorbed by the roadway’s drains and the earth’s soil. The roads were shallow rivers, but my SUV cut through the water as surely as a boat. The windshield wipers slapped frantically. Palmetto trees bent toward the ground while branches broke loose and skittered along Highway 17 like something alive and running. The bridges over the marshland blurred into the landscape, and it felt like I was part of it all—the wind, the rain and the rising tide.

I turned off the radio and allowed rainfall to be the music. My heart rate slowed as I drew closer and closer to Watersend. I would absorb myself in painting and furniture and fixtures. I’d spend time with Lainey and Piper. I’d disappear into the remaking of a house while I waited to discover how to remake my life, while I waited for clarity, for the call from Emory (they were waiting on the verdict and holding the job for me, they’d told me) or for a solution to problems that seemed insurmountable.

The panic had grown worse since Mr. Rohr’s death. Every time the phone rang, every time the e-mail dinged, heat flashed through me like electricity. I’d learned to breathe, to move my attention to something else. The thought of being in the river house saved me from descending into the labyrinth of that horrible night where there was nothing but dead ends, and my fatal mistake waited like the mythical Minotaur around every corner.

I’d made a notebook with a list of things that needed to be fixed or painted or caulked or replaced in the house. And with each duty crossed off, I knew I would feel a little more in control, a little more like life could be handled even when of course it couldn’t.

Ten miles from Watersend, an ambulance roared behind me with its lights flashing. With the siren’s wail, the world shriveled to the size of my car, the red lights bouncing off the side mirrors and streaking into my backseat through the rear window. The ambulance was in my car, in my throat, in my head. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t drive. I forgot what to do. A great horn blew and a calm voice inside of me whispered, Pull over. Now.

I jerked the car to the side of the road and slammed on my brakes. The wheels skidded into the soft mud of the road’s shoulder and my head lurched forward. The ambulance passed, but the sound and the fear remained, echoing like a war cry inside my chest. My heart beat high and into my throat. I couldn’t take a full breath, and my head floated. Gasping for air, I opened the car door. I bent over my knees.

Deep breaths. I’d learned this. Breathe in for four. Hold for two. Out for six. Slow. Slow. Wrap my arms around myself. Mantra: All is well. I am safe.

Even as I knew what was happening—a panic attack—I couldn’t make it disappear. Knowing what it is doesn’t cure it. Slowly, and I didn’t know how long it took, I gained some control of my breathing and my heart. I closed the car door, leaned my head on the car’s headrest and allowed the tears to rise. This had to stop. I would never be able to be a doctor again, no matter the verdict, if I couldn’t stand the sight or sound of an ambulance or phone or bell.

My mouth felt parched, but the water bottle next to me had been drained miles back. I was only a few miles away from the place where I could sit on the dock and watch the river, find my breath again.

Pulling into town, I drove to the Watersend sign, weathered and wooden with carved letters that stated, Welcome to Watersend, South Carolina, and parked. The ubiquitous South Carolina flag symbol—a palmetto tree and a crescent moon—was carved into the wood, dark blue and fading in places.

I stepped out of the car and walked to the sign. The unrelenting rain smattered against my glasses, so the world showed dimpled and misty. Rain pecked at my bare skin and slithered down my shirt. I touched the sign in the same ritual my parents had done when they left each summer, believing it meant they would be back soon. An omen. A touchstone. The wood was warm and wet, softened by years of sun and weather and generations of families stopping their cars at the bend in the road to rub their hands across its edge.

With that touch, I was thirteen years old again, on the cusp of all the good things in the world, all the possibility and wonder and million chances for happiness. Blue Popsicle juice stained my cheeks and sand was crusted on my hands and the soles of my feet. My skin was prickly and tender with sunburn while I sat around a bonfire and whispered secrets with my Summer Sister, Lainey.