Composing Amelia (23 page)

She tried her best that day. And it seemed that Marcus was clueless about how much his plans for their future made her feel more hopeless, rather than hopeful. She knew he was just trying to show her that she could make a living as a musician in Wheatridge one way or another, but he’d say things like, “I looked into what substitute teachers make in this school district. You could sub for band, or orchestra, or general music classes and make a pretty decent amount of money,” or “The Blue Note offers lessons, too. We should see if they need a piano teacher” and all Amelia heard was “You’re never leaving here, so you might as well put down roots.” By the time they got home from the mall, she was lower than she’d felt since arriving in Nebraska, and the turn her thoughts had taken scared her more than they had that day she’d first felt vaguely suicidal on the way to
Pippin
. She was in a perfect Catch-22: Drown in LA or drown in Nebraska. Either way she was doomed.

The final nail in the coffin came when they arrived at the apartment. Amelia had planned on begging off for a nap the minute they walked in the door, but before she could open her mouth, Marcus said, “Hey, there’s something I want to show you.”

Amelia sat on the couch and rubbed a hand over her eyes as he disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, he held a piece of paper in his hand. “Now, I know it would take some saving, and we might not get enough in time. But I saw this place when I first moved here, and every time I look at the pictures I can practically see us in them.”

He handed her the flyer. Pictures of a bare dining room space, of a modern kitchen flanked by 1930s woodwork, of a front room lit with large windows and graced by a shining petite baby grand slowly sank in. A house. He’d found them a house. He wanted to buy a house.

“The piano comes with the place. Isn’t that incredible? Hardwood floors, tons of upgrades but all this gorgeous structural stuff—wouldn’t it be amazing? Can’t you just picture us there, in front of that beautiful fireplace, maybe a kid sliding around in socks—”

“A kid?” Her tone was sharper than she’d meant for it to be, but the rising panic in her chest shut down the filter between her head and her mouth.

“I—yeah, well, eventually, I mean. Like I said, this place might sell before—”

“I’m not moving here for good, Marcus. We discussed this. I’m just here until I’ve got this—this ‘depression,’ or whatever it is, figured out, and then I’m going back.”

“I know, but—”

“No buts, Marcus. You act like it’s … like it’s decided that I’m staying but I’m not, I …” Her hand clutched her chest as it squeezed the air from her lungs. “I don’t want to … Oh God, I can’t breathe.”

Her body began to shake. She gasped for breath. Her hands clawed at her chest, as though she could dig a hole to her airway. The room began to go fuzzy. Marcus dropped to her side and gripped her knees with his hands. “Amelia, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t—I don’t—”

Marcus tried gently to take her hands, but she yanked them away, not able to stand the feeling of being restrained. “I think you’re having a panic attack,” he said, a note of authority in his voice but his face belying his concern. “You need to try to calm down. Here—try to breathe as slowly as you can.”

She gulped for breath, and suddenly Marcus stood and ran into the bedroom, then came back out holding her iPod and fumbling with her earbuds. “Wear these and we’ll put on some relaxing music. Maybe that will help.” He handed her the earbuds and she pressed them to her ears, unable to steady her hands enough to insert them properly. Marcus scrolled through her playlists and selected Bedtime, the list she’d made last month. Pachabel’s
Canon
began to play, and Amelia shut her eyes and tried to let the music soothe her. Marcus sat beside her as she continued to breathe as slowly as she could.

Things were not improving, but suddenly Amelia didn’t care. If she gave herself over to it, maybe it would overtake her. Could a person die from a panic attack?
That’d be nice.

She stopped the slow breathing and dropped the earbuds. Marcus picked them up, but she pushed his hands away as he tried to give them back. She began to pant, and her chest spasmed tighter. Despite her terror, the thought that this might provide a way out was enough motivation to keep her going.

“Amelia, what are you doing?” Marcus grabbed her shoulders but she jerked herself away. “Amelia—”

“Leave me alone.” She gasped out the words as she tried to stand and get away from him, but her legs were too shaky to support her. She turned her back to him and closed her eyes.
Just take me. Please, let this be the end.

It didn’t work. Within ten minutes the crushing weight on her chest had subsided and her breathing had evened out. Marcus helped her to the bed and she lay unmoving, utterly spent, as tears gathered in her eyes.

Marcus pulled the duvet to her shoulders. “Get some rest. I’ll start calling doctors.” He kissed her cheek and closed the door behind him.

The doctor’s waiting room needed serious redecorating. Amelia didn’t have the best eye for design, but she knew outdated when she saw it. It didn’t surprise her, though—somehow it made sense for the small-town setting.

She held a four-month-old copy of
People
magazine on her lap but didn’t care enough to actually open it. Instead she stared at the framed Norman Rockwell print, faded from years spent across from the window, and tried to let her mind go blank. Since yesterday’s panic attack she’d been nervous about a repeat, and her scattered, racing thoughts surely weren’t helping matters. She meditated on the tranquil scene in the picture to no avail. She shifted her gaze to the white wall beside it, hoping it would fill her mind, but that didn’t work either.

Her phone buzzed in the seat beside her. She glanced at the screen and saw Jill’s name. Amelia hit a button to send the call to voice mail. Jill had called twice and emailed a handful of times, but Amelia hadn’t felt like talking. She didn’t have the energy right now to maintain that relationship. She was too busy trying to figure out how she was going to live in Wheatridge without losing her mind.

“Amelia?” A middle-aged woman in turquoise scrubs called for her from a door that led to the back of the office. “Please follow me.”

Amelia obeyed and sat on the paper-covered exam bed, and the nurse took her vitals as she chatted amiably. “Dr. Robinson will be in to see you soon,” she said after filling out the chart. “It’s cold out there—can I get you some tea?”

That was an unexpectedly nice touch. “Thanks,” Amelia said. “That would be nice.” The nurse returned with the tea, and moments later the petite Dr. Robinson appeared. “I’m Dr. Robinson. Nice to meet you, Amelia,” she said in a quick clip as she shook her hand. “Welcome to the practice. I see on your forms you had a panic attack yesterday—is that why you came in?”

Amelia scratched a thumbnail against the Styrofoam cup. “Partly, yes. My husband thinks I’m depressed, too.”

Dr. Robinson’s mouth quirked a small smile. “Do
you?”

Amelia shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe. I was a lot worse, and then I started getting better. But then … Well, something’s not right, I know that much.”

Dr. Robinson scanned Amelia’s chart again. “You checked off recent weight loss. Was that intentional?”

“No. It just … happened. Well, maybe not ‘just.’” Amelia gave the doctor an apologetic look. “I lost my appetite so I just stopped eating.”

“Ah, I see. That is a sign of depression.” She scribbled something on the chart. “Let’s see … insomnia, inability to enjoy life, weight loss, panic attack … It does sound like depression to me. There are plenty of ways for us to treat it, luckily. Let’s go through this depression inventory real quick and see what we find.” She ran through a list of questions, almost all of which drew a yes from Amelia.

“Depression indeed,” the doctor said as she flipped to the second page of the chart and made notes. Then she went back to the first page of the chart and frowned. “Is this right? Your last period was in November?”

Amelia nodded. “I have ridiculously long and irregular cycles.”

“Are they always this long?”

Amelia felt a flutter in her chest. “Um … no. I guess not. Not usually.”

“And you’re sure you’re not pregnant?”

Amelia shook her head. “Uhh, nope. Not possible. When I was twenty I was diagnosed as being chronically anovulatory.”

Dr. Robinson tapped her pen to her lips. “Okay. And you noted on your intake form that your most recent illness had been the flu?”

“Seemed like it, yeah. Tons of nausea, threw up a few times a week. Lasted for … I don’t know, almost six weeks?”

Dr. Robinson gave Amelia a curious look. “All right then. We’re going to do some routine blood work, just to make sure your thyroid is functioning properly—when it’s off it can cause the symptoms you’re dealing with, and even cause depression—but I’m also going to have you humor me and take a pregnancy test.”

Amelia’s mouth went dry. “Why?”

“Because not all antidepressants are safe in pregnancy, and we don’t want to take any chances.”

“But I can’t be.”

Dr. Robinson studied her with eyebrows raised. “Have you had sex since November?”

“Well—yes.”

“Then there’s always a chance; I don’t care what diagnosis you’ve been given. Stranger things have happened.” She closed the chart and pocketed her pen. “I’ll have Linda come in and do your blood work in a minute, and she’ll also bring in a pregnancy test. Bathroom’s down the hall to the left.”

Dr. Robinson shut the door, leaving Amelia to absorb information that felt like a mental hand grenade.

Linda came in with a wheeled cart carrying the blood work vials and tools. Amelia saw the pregnancy test beside them. “Can I do that first?” she said, pointing to it. She had to settle the issue, before she let herself get worked up.

Linda handed it to her. “Take off the cap; pee on the end. It’ll take about three minutes to register. You can leave the test for me if you’d rather not sit there and stare at it.”

“Are you kidding?” Amelia slid off the exam bed and picked up the test. “I’m not leaving the bathroom until I’ve seen the results.”

Linda smiled. “Good luck—whatever you’re hoping for.”

Amelia ripped off the paper wrapper as she walked down the hall. She shut the bathroom door and examined the test, which showed two symbols beside the result window. A minus sign indicated she wasn’t pregnant. A plus sign meant she was.

She took the test, set it on the counter, then righted her clothes.
Don’t look,
she told herself.
At least count to a hundred first. Slowly.
Linda had said three minutes.

She couldn’t help it. She looked.

Plus sign.

C
HAPTER 8

Easter morning brought a veritable heat wave that Marcus hoped would brighten Amelia’s spirits. Clouds had hidden the sun since she’d arrived, and he could see the toll it was taking. She’d gotten worse since her panic attack that past Tuesday. The doctor had prescribed an antidepressant, but had said it might take a few weeks to see any benefits. Marcus hoped it kicked in sooner than that, for both their sakes.

Maybe getting out in the sunshine would help,
he thought as he showered and shaved. Maybe they could go for a walk that afternoon. Ed and Lucy had invited them to dinner, but Marcus knew Amelia wouldn’t be up for getting together with strangers, and they had no big plans for a holiday meal. Maybe they could grill burgers in the courtyard.

He checked his watch as he dressed. They had to leave in less than an hour, and Amelia was still sleeping. He hated to wake her, but he also didn’t want to be late on one of the two Sundays of the year that were sure to draw holiday-only attenders. He straightened his tie and went back to the bedroom to wake her.

“Hey, babe,” he said, gently shaking her shoulder. “We need to leave at—hey, what’s wrong?”

She wasn’t sleeping. She was curled into her pillow and crying without a sound. He sat on the bed beside her and handed her a tissue from the box on the bedside table. “Is it just, you know, the new usual, or is something else wrong?”