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a point where I could face them again.
    He’s probably right.

8
Martin

T HE P RESENT
    The panic attack I had last night at dinner really shook me up. It was awful. I thought I was dying, I really did. You know the feeling you get when your hand gets caught in the cookie jar? Or when the teacher suddenly announces that you’re wanted down at the principal’s office? Or the sudden realization that something terrible is about to happen and it scares the shit out of you?
    That’s what it felt like, only magnified about twenty times. It brings on a crushing urge to start crying for no reason at all.
    So I’m concerned about it, but I also feel embarrassed and humiliated. I can’t imagine what Maggie thinks of me now.
    She was very good to me, though. The fact that she’s a doctor helped. She was very kind at the restaurant and talked me down. The date ended with a small kiss, so I guess that’s a good sign. I do like her and think she’s gorgeous. I hope I’m not going to be sheepish around her from now on.
    As I entered Woodlands today, I thought about what Maggie had said—that I should see a shrink. I sure don’t want to. The idea of taking antidepressants is depressing, and I don’t mean that to be funny. But it’s true, I need to do something. I have trouble sleeping; my mind races and I imagine all kinds of horrible fictional scenarios as I toss and turn. If I manage to fall asleep, I have nightmares and wake up disturbed and anxious. It’s so weird because whatever’swrong with me started only recently and has gotten worse very quickly.
    Nevertheless, I put on my happy face when I walked into Mom’s room. She sat in front of her portable television watching a soap opera. That rocking chair I got her has seen some good use. She displays complete contentment as she sits in that thing, just like Mrs. Whistler in the painting.
    â€œHi, Mom!”
    She looked up and smiled. The elusive twinkle in her eyes made a brief appearance. Something, somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind, an electric pulse stimulated a nerve that told her that I was someone she cared about. Would she remember the exact relationship today?
    I leaned over and gave her a hug and kissed her cheek. “Can you say hello to your son, Mom?”
    â€œHello,” she said. She actually kissed me on the cheek in return. That was rare.
    I sat on the edge of her bed, near the rocker. “What are you watching?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know.” She turned back to the TV, the smile remaining on her face.
    â€œAre you following the story?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œAre you following the story on the TV?”
    â€œOh, I don’t know.”
    We went through our ritualistic same-old, same-old conversation. What did she have for breakfast? Had she been for a walk yet? How was she feeling? I got the usual generic answers and we slipped into the predictable clueless silence that invariably takes over when I visit. It’s almost as if I’ve run out of the small talk I can have with my mother. I can’t discuss anything of importance because she wouldn’t know what I’m going on about. If I try, she acts like she understands, nods her head, and says, “Oh?” or “Is that so?” or “I’msorry to hear that” or any number of other conditioned responses.
    So I watched the soap opera with her and my mind wandered. My thoughts went back to the restaurant and the panic attack. My eyes darted to the dresser, where several framed photographs sat. Gina’s senior picture. One of me and Mom. My high school graduation pic. Me and Gina. Mom when she was young.
    Mom when she was young…
    The Black Stiletto.
    My mom was the Black Stiletto.
    The sudden rush of adrenaline jolted me and I almost grunted. A wave of anxiety rolled over me, and I knew I had to get out of that room. I couldn’t let Mom see me have a panic attack.
    But