Let the Tornado Come: A Memoir (18 page)

“
D
ance with me.” Larry and I were getting ready for bed, and I’d put some music on. “C’mon,” I said, extending my hand and swaying my hips.

Larry stood as if he were waiting to jaywalk across a busy street, unsure about whether he should move, so I took the towel from his hands and drew it around his waist, then pulled him toward me. “C’mon.”

As Prince sang sultrily about pink cashmere, I let the towel drop and, with my arms wrapped around him, pulled him the rest of the way toward me. But as I tried to entice Larry into my rhythm, his hips stayed locked, and something in his eyes was tremulous: it was the unmistakable look of fear.

“It’s okay,” I said, releasing him. “We don’t have to dance.”

And I stepped back, and neither of us moved for several long seconds, while Prince wailed passionately and the towel lay strewn, a gash of white, on the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Larry once told me about an experience he’d had as a boy on the playground, shortly after he came to the States from Taiwan. With his clean white shoes, he climbed the ladder to the slide again and again so that the slick metal could send him flying. He was having fun, enjoying those few seconds when he let go of his body and let the force of gravity carry him, until a group of kids surrounded him before he could climb back up another time. They were speaking to him, at first one at a time, then all at once, their voices climbing over one another in their bulbous and unfamiliar language. Larry couldn’t tell from their eyes or their postures what they wanted, what they were trying to convey, so he repeated over and over the only sentence he knew:
I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know
. Then he ran away from them.

Sometimes I wondered if that’s how he felt around me. I wondered if my language, particularly the language of my body, was foreign to him—if my passion was as intimidating, as demanding, as a group of hungry children.

W
hen it was finally time to see the therapist who’d appeared on
Oprah
—let’s call him Opther—I was pretty disenchanted with therapists. This one was an inscrutable, mild-mannered man somewhere in his fifties. He had pale, receding hair and large eighties-style glasses. I had to take a winding country road to get there. It was dark already.

Panic drove with me but stayed in the backseat, pecking at me every now and then.
I have no time for you right now,
I told it
. I’m trying to get somewhere
. And like me, it was waiting to see what would come next.

Opther invited me to sit on a couch, where he sat across from me in a chair, behind which was a massage table. I gave him the five-minute rundown of my recent history with panic disorder, followed by the five-minute I-still-think-I-may-have-a-heart-disorder disclaimer, followed by the five-minute snapshot of my childhood. And I concluded with
a five-minute explanation of my marriage: “It’s like we’re both stuck. I used to be the one to come with the stick and yank him from the quicksand, but now we’re both sinking. And we rarely have sex.”

“Well, you have a lot of reasons to be anxious,” Opther said. “And a lack of sexual connection is certainly one. Freud spoke about the link between sex and anxiety.”

“What sexual link
didn’t
Freud speak about?” I said jokingly, but Opther didn’t laugh.

“Your anxiety has been with you a long time,” he said. “You’ve been on high alert since you were a kid. You learned that being in a relaxed state isn’t safe, because you had to keep your guard up. Look at your breathing now, for instance. It’s shallow. Anxious people aren’t deep breathers.”

I tried to take a deep breath, but he was right: it was all caught up in my throat. Noticing this made me more anxious.

“My approach to anxiety is to remind the body what it’s like to be in a relaxed state—to teach the body that it’s not only safe, but a natural state of being. Look at a baby—you throw it up in the air, and it giggles with joy without a thought of falling, but over time our environment degrades that trust. And we have to teach the body to regain it.”

I liked Opther. “How do we do that?” I asked.

“We start with breathing. Now remember, that primal part of your brain—”

“The amygdala?”

“Yes, the amygdala. It’s been in overdrive for a while now, and that’s probably altered the way your brain perceives ordinary stimuli, which is why everything seems dangerous. With a hyperactive amygdala, the world is a terrifying place.”

“So I’m not crazy for being scared of the shower?”

“Not at all. In fact, claustrophobia, as well as agoraphobia, is common for people with panic disorder. Checkout lines, exercise,
hypoglycemia
—these can all be pretty scary things.”

“Yes, yes—I’m afraid of all of them!”

Opther smiled. “In the world of anxiety, you’re actually pretty
normal.
”

“Do you think medication is the only way to fix my brain?”

“No. Definitely not.”

“But if my brain chemistry has changed, what if I can never get it back to how it was before? What if I’m stuck like this forever?” I could feel the panic starting. “I failed CBT, you know.”

“That’s why we’re going to remind your body to relax.” He nodded his head, so I nodded mine, too. “Nobody ever has to be stuck this way.”

Opther had me lie on my back on his table. It wobbled when I got on, and I was worried it would break and spill me to the floor.

“Are you okay with touch?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, lying very still, unsure what to expect.

He placed his hand on my abdomen. His touch was warm, and I could feel it generating energy there. “Now I want you to breathe into my hand.”

I tried to breathe deeply, but the air didn’t make it past my top rib.

“Just take your time,” he said. “Breathe into my hand.”

I tried again, but no dice. How hard it was to simply breathe.

He presided over me like a wizard, his hand sure. “You’re safe now. You can relax.”

Eventually the breathing came deeper, and I could feel my lungs expanding. At the same time, a terror skittered through me. “I’m scared,” I said. And the urgency of my voice scared me more.

“What are you scared of?”

“I’m scared my lungs will explode if I keep breathing like this.”

“Impossible. Remember, your body has forgotten what this feels like, so it’ll feel strange at first.”

“But I really think my lungs might pop.”

“No. Your body needs to remember this, so just try to go with it. This is your life force. Let the air come in.”

I opened my eyes and gave him the imperative of my gaze. “Do you promise I’m safe?”

He placed his other hand over my sternum. “I promise.”

His touch felt like a sun-bright stream. It was moving through me, this soft force. And he kept his hands on me, and the table wobbled a little as I breathed, but I kept breathing, thinking how funny it was that he would have a wobbly table for us anxious types, but I could hear his voice saying I was safe, and it felt like a cocoon around me, and then suddenly I was crying, and he was telling me it was good to cry, and I couldn’t believe how many tears there were, how fast and silently they came. And he stood there, and he kept his hands on me, and turned me into a stream.

I
’m going on a date. This tall blond named Bruce saw me hanging around outside the 7-Eleven and asked me if I wanted to go see a movie, so of course I said yes. Dates are something that pretty girls in novels have, but not me. They’re the same girls who get walked to the front doors of their houses on lush summer nights and who smell like flowers and shampoo and who get kissed by wide-eyed football players beneath their porch lights. They’re the same girls who wear pink puffy ski jackets and drink hot chocolate by fireplaces in ski lodges. They have sweet sixteen parties and straight teeth and confidence. They have homes.

Bruce has very long arms. He wears his Converse sneakers loosely tied and his hair long in the back and spiked on top. I don’t mind that he doesn’t get us any popcorn or candy, or even that he’s chosen the last row. I’m still happy to be sitting in the theater, waiting for the rumble of the big screen:
Back to the Future
, starring Michael J. Fox, the kind of
guy who would definitely walk a date to her door. But when the theater goes dark and the previews start, Bruce wants to make out. I let him fish his tongue around in my mouth for a few minutes, but when the previews end, I turn back to the screen. Bruce grabs the back of my head and pulls it toward him again.

I resist. “Can’t we watch the movie?”

“Yeah,” he says, “sure.” But a minute later, he grabs my hand and puts it on his cock, which he’s popped out through the fly of his pants. “Go ahead and suck it,” he whispers, trying to push my head down.

“I want to watch the movie,” I whisper, pulling away.

“Just suck it first.”

I look out at the rows of dark heads, all poised forward. Nobody else is pushing anyone else’s head down. Shame sears my throat. “I just wanted to watch the movie,” I say, my voice louder than I expect. Then I get up and leave.

Near the popcorn, I hear a voice behind my shoulder. “Are you all right?” The voice is sweet, like a child’s.

I turn to see a couple standing arm in arm. “We saw you in there with that guy,” the woman says. Her eyes are pale blue, concerned.

“I’m okay. He was just a jerk.”

“Where do you live?” the woman asks. “Do you need a ride?”

I look down at my jeans. I’ve been wearing them for weeks, and there’s a blotch of pizza sauce on my right thigh. “I’m kind of between places right now.”

She gives me a long, considered look, and for a moment I think she sees me—I mean, really sees me. “Bader,” she gives her boyfriend’s arm a little tug, “I think she should come with us.”

His eyes are playful, his smile sweet. They are both like children. And I am going home with them.

The first thing Giselle does when we get to the apartment is heat up a can of New England clam chowder. She sits and watches me for a few minutes until Bader puts on music and starts twirling her around the living room to Madonna’s “Lucky Star.”

G
iselle moved here from France three years ago and works as a translator for a company with letters for a name; Bader is here from Kuwait on a six-month visa, along with several of his friends who all live in the same apartment complex. Some of them work as firefighters, but many, including Bader, are looking for jobs. Bader’s apartment is a one-bedroom, so I sleep on the sofa. Giselle spends weekends there, and then she and Bader are always giggling. Neither of them asks me about my life, and Bader never asks me for money or how long I plan on staying. I feel like a stray dog, and I want to nuzzle them both.

At dinner all the friends come over, and we sit around newspaper on the floor and dip pita into hummus and baba ghanoush and couscous. The collection of hands meeting in the center, sharing, is like a heart beating, and sometimes I let myself believe we are one big family. We drink wine and vodka and tequila. Tequila sunrises are Bader’s favorite, so I learn to make them for him. The best part is watching the grenadine sink to the bottom.

Without Giselle, I am the only girl. And these men have huge dark eyes and thick lashes and smooth skin and full lips and sleek black hair. I don’t have to sleep with any of them, but sometimes I do, mostly with Bader. I like the billowy sounds he makes and the gentle way he kisses. I like the way he holds me afterward. I like the way he shuffles around in his pajamas and slippers. He feels like love.

Giselle feels like love, too. Being with her is like splashing around in a swimming pool. She is fun and sunny and also a bit jumpy. Her auburn hair always looks tousled, and she’s always ready to laugh. The strange thing about her is that she never takes off her shoes. She says it’s because her feet are too small, and she has to wear children’s shoes, and because of this, all I want is to see her feet.

“C’mon, please,” I beg. “I bet your feet are so cute.”

“Nobody sees these feet. In fact, I was born with shoes on.” When she smiles, her chin crinkles.

“What about Bader? I’m sure
he’s
seen them.”

“Ah, the thing about certainty,” she says, tapping the side of her cheek, “is that it’s the great illusion.”

“But—”

She leans close and whispers into my ear, “Socks.” Then she tickles my ribs, and we both fall to the floor laughing.

But she never lets me see her feet.

S
ergio is also French. He’s a squat, round-bellied man who flings his stubby hands around when he speaks. His peachy brown hair puffs out around his head to match his thick handlebar mustache. I like how he speaks, how he often ends sentences with
yes
. “It’s a lovely day, yes?” “You are hungry, yes?” I meet him during an afternoon walk through the neighborhood. A school bus has just unloaded a group of kids who walk slightly slumped under the weight of their backpacks. They must be my age, fourteen. As they disperse and start walking home, I wonder what they’re thinking about, what they’re carrying home from school, what books, what notes, what daydreams, and as they make their slow parade down the street, I realize I will never be one of them.

And then there’s Sergio, also walking. He offers me a hundred dollars, so I sleep with him. When we’re finished, he pulls his pants off the floor, removes his wallet, and gives me five twenties, which I stash in the front zipper of my purse for safekeeping. He strolls naked into the kitchen and offers me a drink while I put my clothes back on. There is a kindness about him—in the simple gesture of offering me a drink
after
sex—that I appreciate. I have orange juice.

B
ader and two of his friends, Abdullah and Siraj, are taking me to a D.C. nightclub called Numbers. We sing loudly with the radio as we speed down the highway with the windows down, and I
think
Yes, this is life, this is my life
. When we get to the club, they go in first, then sneak me in a side door. It’s my first time in a nightclub. The music thumps through me and the barstool I’m sitting on. Bader orders me amaretto on the rocks—“You’ll like it,” he says, “it’s sweet”—and I drink it through a skinny straw, watching the people on the dance floor move together, one dynamic entity.

The DJ is playing a funked-up version of Duran Duran’s “The Wild Boys,” and the drums are big, and I want to dance. Bader takes my hand, and we snake our way onto the dance floor. Strobe lights dart through space, staggering time—a hundred mini-snapshots of Bader’s face, each one slightly varied from the last: a slight tilt to the head, angle of the chin, spread in the arms. Beautiful Bader. There are so many people, and soon I am dancing with them, too, and then Abdullah joins us, and I am diving in with all my body to the flashing, beating night.

W
hen it’s over, I can’t find Bader or the others. The club is thinning out, and I keep making tracks around it, looking in every dark corner for a familiar face. I call into the men’s bathroom for Bader, but no one answers.

A beefy bouncer lumbers over to me. “Time to go home, sweetie. C’mon back tomorrow, okay?”

“I can’t find my friends.”

“Well if you go on home, I bet they’ll turn up.”

I step out of the club feeling lost. How could they have left me here alone? The streets are already desolate, the sky starless. There is nothing else to do but start walking.

“Roxanne!” a voice rings out. I turn to see two dark figures down an alleyway, hunched below a burnt-out streetlight.

“Bader?” I call.

But he doesn’t answer. I walk toward the men, and as I get closer I see a third body, lying on the ground.

“Bader?” I try again, more urgently. I start running. I see one of
Bader’s shoes turned sideways in the street. And then I see Bader, lying on the sidewalk with Abdullah and Siraj kneeling over him. His blood is spreading over the cool concrete. His throat is cut.

I drop to my knees. An ambulance howls ominously. I pray the way the sisters taught me:
Please, God, let him live. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
We are all reaching for Bader; we are wearing Bader’s blood. The fear in his eyes is our fear.

T
he hospital gives us five minutes with Bader. They are filling him back up with blood. Sutures line his neck; they remind me of the Scarecrow from
The Wizard of Oz
. Even his eyelashes, sealed shut, look like stitches. His face has turned gray and nearly doubled in size, as if the tubes are inflating him somehow. I’m afraid to get close, so I stand at the foot of his bed and imagine my whisper as a soft wave touching him:
I love you
.