This week sucked.

Fear gripped me often, nightmares infiltrated my sleep, and my appetite dwindled.

But today is Saturday.

So today is a good day.

Anything is better than the hell I suffered being back at the office. The rumor mill ran rampant at The Stone Agency, and work was so stressful, it was no feat at all to get Sydney to go out. She didn’t judge me on the copious amounts of alcohol I drank to help put me to bed. Work has been stressful for her too, so she happily drinks alongside me.

After waking up at Austin’s apartment and doing the walk of shame last week, I tried to convince Sydney to find another bar to go to, but she said I needed to man up and get over it. That once I ripped the Band-Aid off and act normally, it would no longer be weird and that’s exactly what I did. Austin was cool about me sneaking off. He even bought us a round of shots to make light of the situation.

After freshening up, my phone starts to ring. It’s my mom. I can’t deal with her now. I send her to voice mail, and then throw on nicer clothes. After I’m dressed, I make my way down the street to my favorite diner. With my concussion and then having to go back to work, I had completely skipped my weekly ritual. I’m hoping this little sense of normalcy will help aid me in allowing my life to return to ordinary.

Paradise Diner is famous for their amazingly delicious chocolate chip waffles with extra yummy homemade whipped cream. Well, maybe not world famous, but in Murray Hill it was the only place to go.

Just as I make it to the familiar door, my phone vibrates in my pocket and an unknown number appears on the screen. I shudder inwardly when I wonder who it could be, especially on a Saturday morning. It’s never a good thing when an unknown number calls me.

“Hello.”

“This is Sinai-Grace. Is this Eve Hamilton?” My quickening pulse pounds in my ears.

“Yes, it is. What’s going on? Is it my mother?” Please say she’s okay. Please.

“Your mother was brought in today from an adverse reaction to one of her medications.” Guilt sweeps through me, filling my veins with despair. That’s why she called. She called me and I sent her to voicemail.

“I’ll be right there.” I hang up the phone. I don’t even ask where she is, which room number. Is she even in a room? I just run. I run as fast as I can to help my mom.

Dashing in the entrance of the hospital thirty minutes later, I head straight to the information desk.

“My mother was brought in today,” I huff out on labored breath.

“Name?” The attendant doesn’t even look up as she addresses me, her expression one of indifference.

“Laura Hamilton.” Her fingers type away at the computer in front of me, and with each tap of the keyboard, the raw and primitive grief I had suppressed overwhelms me and makes it hard to stand.

“She’s just now being moved into a room,” she answers, and I so desperately want to beg her to hurry and tell me the room number. Every second that goes by is a second I’m losing before I can make sure she’s okay.

I’m frantic and desperate by the time the receptionist tells me where I can find her. Turning on my heel, I race down the corridor, then take the elevator up. My footsteps thunder down the hall until I find my mother’s room. When I finally step inside, my legs give way.

She’s lying frail in the bed. Her skin is hollow, and her once dewy glow now looks dull and gray. I sit beside her bed and hold her tiny hand in mine. It’s all bone. Everything inside me freezes for a second. My mind and body are numb. Time stops as I watch her breathe. I silently thank God I didn’t lose her too. Lose her the way I lost my father. The way I lost Richard.

She’s all I have left. She can’t leave me.

Tears well in my eyes. It’s too much. This feeling is too much.

My back tightens, my muscles cord and a soft hum sounds in my ear. The impending doom is all around me.

I can see it. It’s lurching its ugly head, ready to strike. Air. I need air.

The need to turn and run is all-encompassing, it sweeps over me, carrying my feet out the door and into the hallway. In my haste, I collide into something, causing a strangled gasp to escape as I drop to the floor. It feels as though I’m floating underwater, trying to break through the surface.

White knuckles, uneven breathing, suffocating.

Like a thick fog on a rainy day, it hovers above me, blinding me. It darkens the path in front of me until I can no longer see.

I’m rooted in place, stuck.

Each pull of oxygen burns, and my breathing comes out in ragged bursts.

Faster, faster, faster until I fear I might hyperventilate.

Everything is closing in.

The walls around me, the clothes on my back, everything is tightening to the point of pain. My chest constricts, as a radiating tingle shoots down my left arm.

Where am I?

What’s happening to me?

My heart.

Am I having a heart attack?

I’m dying.

“Are you okay?” A voice carries over through my haze. My eyes blink rapidly. “I’m going to need you to inhale, in through the nose . . . one, two, three. Very good, now out through the mouth exhale . . . one, two three.”

I breathe in and out.

His voice is steady as he speaks.

“Inhale. One, two, three. Exhale . . .”

My hands shake, and sweat coats my skin. His deep voice continues to soothe me. It lifts me from the darkness and into the light. As reality sets in, I realize I’m in the hospital, kneeling in the hallway outside my mother’s room. Peering down, I notice my hands are still shaking. Residual tremors from the attack.

“Is she okay?” another voice asks.

“She will be,” the deep voice declares. It’s absolute and I believe him.

In, out, in, out.

Still in a daze, I can feel the hand pulling me up, touching my back, guiding me.

“Just breathe. You can do it. Only a few more steps.” His soothing voice instructs, calming me down. Making me follow his lead. When we reach our destination, a seat is pulled out and I’m ushered to sit down.

I lift my head and my heart stops then lurches in my chest.

Standing in front of me is the psychologist from the hospital—from this hospital. The doctor with eyes so blue, it feels you could get lost in them if you stare too long. Transfixed, I pull in a straggled breath and will myself to calm in front of him. My face turns down and away from his scrutiny. Why did it have to be him to find me? A burning sensation spreads against my cheeks. I wish I could disappear. I can’t look at him. I need to leave.

“Look at me.” With slow movements, I lift my chin up. There is no judgment in his eyes, only concern. Air enters my body as I calm and take him in. I let out another breath.

“Dr. Montgomery,” I whisper, more to myself than to him.

He hears me, though, and gives me a nod as his trained eye continues to assess me. I wonder if he remembers who I am. If he remembers that he treated me, or if this look of concern is natural for him due to his profession.

“Yes?” He takes a seat across from me. A small line is present between his brows, making me wish I could hear his thoughts right now, because the way he stares at me is unnerving.

“Do you remember me? I’m—”

“I remember you.” He cuts me off with a firm voice, but I hear a slight hesitation. The expression on his face is one of general concern and it appears he is battling how to respond to me. “Are you feeling better? Are you all right?” His voice softens.

“I’m okay.” I lurch forward. “My mother? Where’s my mother?”

“She’s fine. Still sleeping.” With a strangled breath, I finally take in my surroundings. We’re sitting in a small room. A fluorescent light flickers above me, making my eyes squint. It’s plainly decorated, and appears to be a vacant patient room.

“Why am I here?”

“You were having a panic attack in the middle of the hallway, so I thought it would be prudent to move you somewhere more comfortable and private.”

A silence stretches between us. He looks deep in thought and I can’t help but wonder what he’s thinking about. His eyes are soft. There’s something caring inside them, comforting. As if he can feel my pain and there is sympathy living inside the ocean of blue that shines brightly against the early morning light.

With an exhale, he averts his gaze and lets out a breath. His posture becomes more distant, more formal. I bite down on my lip. It feels like an eternity waiting for him to speak.

“Have you had more episodes since you left the hospital?” A burning flush spreads against my cheeks as I tuck my chin down. I feel so small right now. “There’s no need to be ashamed.” There’s softness in his voice that makes the tension building inside me begin to dissipate. “If you don’t mind me asking, have you started seeing a therapist?”

“No,” I mutter under my breath. He looks as though he wants to say something, scold me for taking such little care of myself, but he refrains.

“Do you still have my card?”

“Yes,” I squeak.

“Use it, Eve.”

When I finally am able to get up and walk away, all I can do is shake my head. I don’t have words to voice how I feel right now. This man has rendered me speechless.