Forty-One—Bo
S
uccessfully living with anxiety takes extreme planning, maintaining routine, limiting human interaction, creating order. And, of course, avoiding known triggers. I try to plan for contingencies so that when something unexpected shows up on my road I won’t forget where I’m going. Even so, contingencies can be very disruptive. There’s therapy, but I don’t really like therapy. It just takes too long to grow a therapeutic alliance into helpfulness, and it seems a waste of my highly inflexible time, especially when a new clinician is seldom interested in anything but stamping a diagnosis on me and reinventing the wheel. They hate to admit it, but at the end of the day, all that’s really left for me to do is exactly what I’m already doing, so I don’t see the point. I do keep my semi-annual appointment with Dr. Delveccio whether I need to or not. He refills my prescription for the only medication that has ever helped—the Xanax I try not to take but refill every month so I won’t run out.
The short of it is that as long as I adhere to the things that work for me, I function just fine. It’s when something new is introduced that I get thrown. Ivy Talbot is a good example of something new, but I think I’ve adjusted to her quite admirably—until now. She’s taking up space in my head formerly devoted to issues of organization, ritual, and the peace that comes with freshly vacuumed carpet and a glistening toilet. I’m not stupid; the highly evolved portion of my brain knows how vulnerable she is. But the less evolved portion of me simply can’t stop thinking about her. And what on earth was she doing looking so good today. What is happening? What is wrong with me? Stop it, Bo! “Just freaking stop it!” I said out loud.
I groaned. I was painfully behind schedule trying to finish the bead-braided arm clasp I’d been commissioned to create for a layout in Modern Bride —another excellent opportunity for me. But I could not concentrate. How could a girl going through so much garbage look so good?
Again, Bo. Stop it!
For the next hour, I battled my belligerent focus, but I could not bring it into submission, and I was getting nowhere with my project. I decided to take a break and go for a run, which was not ideal since it would require a re-shower, followed by a thorough cleaning of the shower, a change of clothes, and laundering the ones I’d had on. But it would be worth it to clear my head. I’d be two-and-a-half hours behind if I hurried, but I’d complete the clasp if it took me all night. So, I ran. I ran at a punishing speed that made my heart an anvil in my chest. It was cleansing and exhilarating and like a vacation from myself. And I probably would have kept going for ten miles, except my phone rang. Again. I’d ignored it the first time and again a few minutes later. But by the third time, it seemed clear someone seriously wanted my attention.
“Hello!” I panted. I’d stopped and leaned over, trying to catch my breath.
“Benjamin?”
“Hello.”
“Benjamin, its Geneva Talbot.”
“Geneva? Hey,” I said, gasping.
“Benjamin,” her voice broke. “I have some very bad news.”
My pounding heart tripped over itself. “What? Is it Camille? The girls? What’s wrong?”
“No, no. It’s Bree. It’s my Bree.” Geneva’s voice faltered, and then there was a moment of silence.
“Geneva! Did I lose you? ”
“There’s been an accident, Bo,” she said in a trembly voice. “A terrible accident and she’s…”
“What? Is…is she okay?” I coughed.
It took her a long time to answer, and then she rather squeaked. “I don’t think so, no.”
I swallowed as I sank onto the curb. “What happened? Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t…all they’ve told me is she was coming back from lunch, and there was a robbery—not at her place but a few shops down—and the police had roped off access. They made her wait on the sidewalk, I don’t know, they wanted to make sure it was safe, is what they told me. She was just standing there, Bo. Just standing there, and out of nowhere a car came speeding down the walkway trying to get away from the police. They ran her down, Bo. They just ran right over my daughter. And now…”
“Good Lord, Geneva. I’m so sorry. Have you seen her?”
The old woman’s voice quavered. “She’s…she’s in surgery, but…”
“What can I do? Geneva, what do you need?”
Ivy’s grandmother reined in her emotion. “The doctor just came out and…Bo, Ivy needs to come home. I need you to tell her what’s happened, and then you need to get her on a plane. Today. As soon as you can. Can you do that for me, sug? I don’t know how much time there is, and I can’t tell her that over the phone, Benjamin. I just can’t. So, I’m depending on you.”
“Oh…O…Okay, okay, Geneva. I…I can do…I’ll call the airline right now,” I said, shaking.
“Thank you, Benjamin. And when you tell her…hugs and hankies, sug. Hugs and hankies.”
“Right. Right.” I hung up feeling like the earth was giving way beneath me. My heart was racing, but it was no longer because of my run. How could this happen? How could I tell Ivy what her own grandmother couldn’t? My cell rang again. “Bo,” Camille said when I answered.
“Cam! ”
“Have you talked to Geneva?” she asked breathlessly.
“I just hung up. How bad is it? How bad really?”
“It’s bad, Bo,” my sister said. “Bree has a crushed pelvis and collapsed lungs, massive internal injuries. The doctor said they are doing what they can to stop the bleeding, but…it’s not good.”
“Good Lord. Are you okay?” I said.
“I was right there, Bo,” Camille said softly. “I was right next to her. She’d asked me to help her unload a shipment this afternoon, so I left the girls with Geneva. But when I got there, it was a crime scene. The police were everywhere, and then all of a sudden this car…” Camille let out a shaky breath. “I still can’t believe it. I’m not hurt, but I’m not okay either.”
“Cam…”
My sister started to weep. “I’ll be fine! But Bree… It’s so awful. And poor Geneva. Bo, that woman is the kindest woman I’ve ever known. I can’t believe this is happening.”