Dirty Letters(2)

“Nothing. We just hit some traffic. My heart started to race, and I needed to take a detour.”

Only Doc would look relieved by what I’d just said. He released his death grip on the car and spoke in a calming voice. “Relax your grip on the wheel, Luca.”

I looked down. My knuckles were white, and the surrounding lengths of my fingers were bright red. I did as instructed, because while I might not trust the nutty doc to drive a car, he knew how to steer me away from panic attacks. Nodding, I said, “I tried a breathing technique. It obviously didn’t work.”

“Tell me what you’re doing right now.”

My eyes flashed to him and back to the road as I continued on the service road. “What I’m doing? I’m driving.”

“No. Tell me what you were just able to do when you felt the feeling of panic set in.”

“I got off at the exit?” I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

“That’s right. You steered the car from one road to another road, which made you feel safer. You can do that. And you can also pull over at any time and get out of the car if you feel like it.”

I nodded. Of course, he was right. But he wasn’t merely stating the obvious. He was reminding me that I was in control of the situation and had exerted that control when I felt I needed to. The biggest part of my anxiety disorder was the overwhelming fear of being trapped. It was why I didn’t do crowds, traffic, public transportation, or small spaces—yet I could be okay walking outside in a busy city. Exercising control to remove myself from the situation helped alleviate the anxiety.

“Take a nice deep breath, Luca.”

I inhaled through my nose and blew out a deep breath through my mouth. A chill hit my skin, which actually comforted me. My body became clammy when it headed into a panic attack; a coating of sweat often permeated my entire face with the rise of my body temperature. A chill meant my body was cooling back off.

“Tell me about that date you had Saturday night.”

I knew he was trying to distract me, to keep my mind focused on something other than the panic attack brewing, but I was okay with that. “He brought . . . his mother.”

Doc’s brows drew together. “His mother?”

“Yup. To a picnic lunch I’d made.” Picnic lunches at the park were my go-to first date regardless of the weather. They allowed me to avoid crowded restaurants, yet keep it casual. It was that or my place, and the last guy I’d invited over to my house for dinner assumed that meant I’d invited him for first-date sex.

“Why on earth would he bring his mother?”

I shrugged. “He said he’d mentioned our plans to her, and she had said she’d never been to that park.” This is what I got for being up front with men about my issues before we met—I got weirdos. But it wasn’t fair to hide the fact that I couldn’t go out on dates like a normal twenty-five-year-old woman. Not so shockingly, men tended to disappear fast when telling them about yourself and using words like agoraphobic and anxiety. Which in turn meant the remaining dating pool needed a bucket of chlorine.

Realizing our conversation had distracted me and helped quell the looming full-fledged panic attack I’d felt coming on, I said, “Thank you for that, by the way. I feel a lot better already. I’m just going to pull over in that empty parking lot up ahead and get out and do some stretches.”

Doc smiled, knowing yoga was one of my own self-calming techniques. “Atta girl.”

The rest of the trip was almost peaceful—sans a few extra detours and Doc talking to his lady friend on his cell with the volume turned up so loud that I heard her remind him to fill his Viagra prescription. I’d timed it so we’d arrive in Manhattan in the middle of the night to avoid as much traffic as possible, and we were lucky to nab a parking spot on the street, since a garage was out of the question for me. My trusty therapist was staying at a hotel, which was only half a block from my dad’s apartment.

“Doc. Wake up. We’re here.”

He woke looking confused, and I felt bad for having to interrupt his sleep at all. “What? Huh? Oh. Okay. Here. Yes. Okay.”

I walked him to his hotel and waited out front to make sure he checked in with no issues. “Thanks again for taking the ride with me, Doc. Give me a call if you feel up to breakfast in the morning. I know it’s late so, if not, maybe lunch.”

Doc patted my shoulder. “You call me if you need me. Anytime, Luca. And you did well today. Really well. I’m proud of you.” I knew he meant it.

Even though I’d been tired for the last few hours of the drive, when I let myself into Dad’s place, I was suddenly wide awake. It was the oddest feeling to walk into my father’s living space without him there. He’d been gone for a year now—although you wouldn’t know it from looking at his apartment. Mrs. Cascio, Dad’s neighbor, had been checking on the place every few days, bringing in the mail, and generally keeping the cobwebs at bay.

I walked around and opened all the windows, because fresh air always helped me feel less trapped. Dad’s bookshelves were still lined with framed photos, none of which had been updated in the five years since Mom died. I lifted a small silver double frame. The left side had a photo of me in my Girl Scouts uniform, and the right had one of me sitting on Dad’s lap while leaning forward and blowing out the candles on a birthday cake. I must’ve been six. A large ivory frame displayed my parents’ wedding photo. I traced my finger along the length of Mom’s veil. Everyone always told me I looked just like her, but growing up, I didn’t see the resemblance. Now, though, I was the spitting image of her. It was hard to believe they were both gone.