The Bookish Life of Nina Hill - Abbi Waxman Page 0,81
started crying.
“I can take Nina,” said Tom. He stepped forward, but Nina shook her head. He stopped and frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“I need to leave right now. I’ll text you later, OK?” She was overwhelmed with nausea, starting to lose feeling in her hands.
“I can take you home, Nina.” Tom looked almost angrily at Archie.
“It’s fine,” said Archie, firmly. “We’re family.”
“Wait . . .” said Nina, her head starting to swim. The bookstore was going to close. She would lose her apartment. Polly was staring at her. Tom was staring at her. There were people all around who needed things from her, who expected things of her, things she almost certainly couldn’t give. She reached out blindly, and it was Tom who stepped forward in time to catch her as she crumpled to the ground.
Twenty-three
In which Nina lets herself down.
Nina sat on the floor of the bathroom and laid her head against the side of the bathtub. The back of her neck was sweaty; her palms slipped on the tile floor. She hadn’t thrown up, but when Tom had carried her through the door, she’d whispered that he should put her in the bathroom. There was nothing she wanted more than to be alone, but he was moving around in the apartment, doing things. She needed him to leave; she needed to pull her apartment around her shoulders like the cloak of invisibility.
She hated herself. At least today she knew why she was losing her mind; other days her anxiety would suddenly flower inside her, set off by a word. A look. A song on the radio she didn’t even remember hearing before. Her anxiety lurked inside like a parasite that occasionally threatened to kill its host; sometimes she could hear it breathing.
Of course, being scared of having a panic attack meant she was permanently on edge, which increased the chance she would have one, so she would berate herself for getting anxious . . . and so it goes, as Vonnegut would say.
She stood and ran cold water on the inside of her wrists, then threw more water on her face and rubbed it with a towel. Time to face the music.
Tom was sitting in her comfy chair, waiting for her. He’d closed the curtains, turned on the little bedside light, made the bed, and turned it down. A cup of tea sat on her bedside table, still steaming a little. It was everything she would have done for herself, and she was touched. She still needed to be alone, but she was touched.
“I didn’t know if you wanted tea, but I made it anyway.”
Nina nodded. She always felt so drained after an episode like this one, so emotionally hungover, every nerve in her body desperate to shut down and reboot later, when hopefully the storm would have passed.
“Thanks,” she said. “I feel better now.”
“I can stay,” Tom said.
“No, I’m OK.”
“But I’m happy to.”
“Thanks, but I’m fine. Honestly.”
“Are you sure? You can go to bed; I could read to you.” He stayed in the chair, even though he wanted very badly to go to her, to put his arms around her and hold her until she relaxed. As it was, she was standing in the bathroom doorway slightly crouched, looking wary and pale.
Nina smiled despite the twist in her gut. He didn’t get it. “That’s nice of you, but I need to sleep.”
He frowned. “So go to sleep. I won’t wake you up. I just want to make sure you’re OK.”
Nina took a breath, praying the panic would stay away for a few seconds more. “Please leave, Tom. I need you to go away.”
It hung in the air, the simple request.
He was confused. “I really like you, Nina. I care about you.”
“Tom, this isn’t about you. This is about me. I get anxiety; I told you. When I get overwhelmed like this, I need to be left alone to recover.”
“I want to help.”
Nina started to get a little ticked off. “Tom, you’re not listening to me. In order to feel better, I need to be alone. For as long as possible.”
He looked at her. “Like . . .”
Nina decided to risk leaving the bathroom doorway. She sat on the edge of her bed and picked up her tea. It was good, sweet and hot.
“Thank you for all this, for bringing me home and making the tea and everything.”
Tom crossed his legs. “You’re not answering my question.”