10. Jackson
TEN
Jackson
I’ve been holding Blakely in my hands for the past ten minutes. Her skin is soft underneath my palms, her trembling jaw vibrates through my fingertips until I feel her unease like it’s a tangible thing, sinking into my bones and locking me into place.
I don’t know what it is she’s going through, but I know panic attacks when I see them. Most of my childhood was spent helping my father navigate through his when he’d wake up in a cold sweat, having post-traumatic stress attacks from his time overseas.
My dad always needed a focus object. Something to keep him anchored, so he wouldn’t get lost in the darkest parts of his mind. So his memories wouldn’t overtake his reality.
And maybe it’s the way Blakely latched on to me the second I arrived. Or maybe it’s seeing the same haunted look in her eyes that kept me awake so many nights with him. But there’s something that has me holding steady and keeping her in my grasp. Something that sucks me in like quicksand, telling me to stay.
So I don’t move from my spot.
Not when that bitch of a manager screeches in my ear, and not when every other person who didn’t give a fuck that Blakely was breaking down leaves. I hear them moving, hear their whispered complaints and groans of disapproval…but still, I stay.
Letting her focus on me so she doesn’t focus on the chaos.
It’s not until every last person is gone, our syncopated breathing matching the heavy beats of our hearts, that I let her go.
She tenses the second my fingers leave her face.
My hands fly back to her jaw, bringing those wild eyes to stare into mine. “Tell me what you need. Do you need your meds?”
Her head shakes back and forth, the movements small, short, and frantic. Like she’s trying to control the tremors that so obviously ooze from her nerves.
Those pouty lips part, but instead of speaking out loud, she mouths silent words, and when I look closer, I realize they’re numbers. One, two, three.
She’s been doing that since I walked in, and it hits me that this is her coping mechanism, which means this is something that happens often enough where she has methods to try and maintain control. My heart sinks at the thought.
“You can get through this,” I say. Just like I used to with my dad.
Her eyes squeeze shut, nostrils flaring as she breathes in deep.
“Good. Concentrate on your breathing. Stay in the present.”
I’m not sure that what I’m saying applies to the current situation, but I’m going off what I know, hoping the sentiment behind the words is enough to help keep her centered.
Her fists clench at her sides, knuckles turning white from the force.
“I need…I need to go change,” she finally stutters out.
I step forward. “Okay. Do you want me to come with you?”
She nods sharply, her face scrunched. “Yes, I…” She opens her eyes and exhales a shaky breath, taking a step back, leaving my palms to grasp the air. Her fingers stop digging into her hands long enough to run through the strands of her hair. “Yes.”
“Okay.”
She nods again, her shoulders relaxing the slightest amount, and the pounding in my chest eases along with them. But then a clock from somewhere down the hall chimes nine times, and like a light switch, her eyes squeeze tight once again.
My stomach jumps, her anxiety reaching out and tightening the knot in my gut.
I won’t lie, I’m nervous. Scared that the small tricks I remember—the things my dad’s therapist taught me—won’t be enough. That I won’t be able to help her through whatever the hell this is.
But I have to try. I won’t be able to walk away from this situation. Whether she breaks apart or gains control, I’ll be here to mend the frays. Someone needs to be.
“I need to get out of this room.” Her voice is stronger than it was before, but I can practically taste the tension off her words. Still, she doesn’t move. Instead, her chest heaves, rising and falling faster with every second, and I can see the war being waged in her brain, that she wants to go yet is frozen from hysteria.
So I do the only thing I know, without a fucking clue whether it will help.
I tell her what I used to tell my father.
And even though my nerves shift higher with every clench of her fist, I keep my voice steady. Strong. Controlled. “It’s not the place that’s bothering you, Blakely. It’s the thoughts.”
The words fly out of my mouth, whizzing by her ears, and for a moment I’m convinced they’ve missed her completely. But eventually, she nods. And then she starts to mouth the words. Over and over, her fists once again white-knuckling against her sides.
Relief pours through my veins that she heard me, that it seems to be making at least a little bit of difference. My fingers reach up, twisting the chain on my necklace, giving her space and praying like hell she knows herself enough to know what she needs.
But I see her.
My eyes are my weapon as I slice her surface, searching for what she hides down deep, desperate to meet the real Blakely. To learn who she is by watching how she acts in the fragile moments.
Guilt weaves through my chest when I realize that until recently, I’ve spent all my time so worried about keeping her at a distance that I’ve never cared enough to actually look. I thought I had her pegged from the second I met her, convinced I didn’t like what I saw.
Nausea rolls in my gut. That’s not me. That’s not who I strive to be as a person. I’ll stay and help her through her panic, and I’ll keep coming back to make sure she’s seen . Not because I’m craving spending time with her and not because I feel responsible, but because I know what it’s like to be lost in your head, to feel so alone while you’re spinning at its mercy. I know what it’s like to spiral so fast and so deep you fear you’ll never see straight again. I know the pain of hiding your grief and doing it so well, so convincingly, that no one realizes they should be looking to see if it’s there.
That was my reality with every one of my dad’s deployments. My mom hiding her tears, thinking I couldn’t hear through our thin walls at night, and me, hiding my terror at the thought of him never coming home.
That was me suffering with every round of his chemo. Through the good days and the bad. The times he was thankful for life, and the times he begged for death.
That was me drowning from the emptiness he left behind. From not being there in his final moments. For allowing God to take him away when I still desperately needed him here.
So I’ll stay in my spot.
And I’ll keep coming back, so she isn’t alone. The lighthouse to her darkness, guiding her through the shallow waters.