My body went numb. I completely understood in this moment why my mom had crumpled to the floor as if her bones could no longer support her. Mine felt as if they’d cracked beneath the weight of his words.
The younger officer glanced at his partner, and when the man gave him a slight nod, he cleared his throat and tried to explain. “As far as we can tell, he was on his way home for the day. He stopped at a mini-mart in the area to pick up a bottle of wine. While he was in the back of the store, a man we’ve since learned is a local gang member stormed in with a gun and tried to rob the place.”
The officer paused for a moment and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “This is where the details get sketchy, but it looks as though the robber tried to take a young girl hostage, and your dad tried to stop him. The scumbag shot your dad three times in the chest.”
My mind imagined the scene as he explained it, but my brain got hung up on specific details, specific words. It was as though I couldn’t possibly be expected to process all of this information without having my questions answered.
“How do you know he was getting wine?” I asked in a voice I almost didn’t recognize as the two cops stared at me. “You said he stopped for wine. How do you know he was getting wine?”
“He put the bottle down on the floor when the robbery started. He was the only person in the back of the store.”
That made sense. More questions. In the midst of my absolute heartbreak and horror, I was consumed with the need to have answers. “What happened to the girl?”
“Your dad saved her life. Who knows what that guy would have done if he’d gotten her outside with him. A lot of gang members have to do crazy things during their initiation. Kidnapping can be one of them.”
“Where’s the robber now? Did you catch him?”
The younger cop avoided my eyes as the older one maintained hard contact. “He got away. But we’ll get him, Cammie. We’ll find this asshole. I promise you.”
“Thanks.” It was a stupid thing to say. Thanks? Who the fuck cared about thanks at a time like this?
“The station will be in touch. We’re so sorry for your loss. He was a good cop,” the younger officer said, his tone sincere.
“And a great man. I’ve known your dad for years,” the older one added.
Glancing down at my mom, I noticed she hadn’t moved from her fetal position on the floor of our foyer. Her body shook violently as she rocked back and forth. I wanted to fall apart myself, but how could I come undone when my mom was completely unraveled?
“Thanks for telling us,” I said, then closed the door, uncaring if I was rude to them, but I couldn’t care less at this point. I needed to get my mom off the floor.
“Mom. Mom, let’s get up. Please get up.”
I’d locked my arms under hers as I tried to lift her, but she wouldn’t budge and I hadn’t been strong enough. By the time I’d finally gone to bed that night, she was still in the exact same place, in the same position as right after she’d gotten the news.
• • •
“Okay,” Dr. Patel said, nodding with understanding. “Well, that’s most likely where the panic attack stemmed from.”
“Was I dying?” I asked, because it sure as hell seemed like it. “It felt like I was having a heart attack.”
She patted my arm and smiled at me. “That’s completely normal. Most patients who have them report those very feelings and emotions.”
The doctor’s voice and words were meant to soothe me, I knew that, but they did little to calm me. I didn’t want to have panic attacks every time I worried about Dalton.
Kristy stood up from the visitor’s chair and stepped toward the bed. “So, what do we do going forward? She can’t go through that again.”
Dr. Patel pulled a pad and a pen from the pocket of her white coat, scribbling away as she said, “I’ll give you a prescription for something that you can take if you feel an attack coming on. I don’t think you need to take this long term, or on days when you’re feeling perfectly fine.”
I nodded in complete agreement. The last thing I wanted was to get addicted to any kind of prescription medication. I didn’t use recreational drugs, and on the rare occasion that I drank, it was only a glass or two of wine. The idea of having to take something every day to ward off potential anxiety attacks scared me.
“So, are the symptoms always the same?” I asked. “I mean, how will I know when it’s happening again?” The thought of going through another attack like this made me shudder.
“You’ll know. You’ll recognize the feelings.” Dr. Patel seemed confident in her assessment. “And as soon as they start, just take one of these and everything will start to level off again. But if this doesn’t help”—she waved the prescription pad in the air—“or your attacks get worse, I want you to call me.”
“Okay. Thank you,” I said as I took the prescription from the doctor’s hand and silently hoped I’d never have to call her again.
Where the Hell Is He
Cammie
I was released from the hospital that evening when my vitals had returned to normal and I felt confident enough to go. That whole experience had been terrifying for me.
After Kristy drove me home, walked me inside, and tucked me into bed with the TV on, she made a couple of phone calls and worked out getting my car back to the condo complex. She also had my prescription filled. She was an angel disguised as a sassy legal-interning devil.