Page 15 of Cut Off from Sky and Earth

Fifteen

Emily

The hangover is no surprise, but I mentally kick myself anyway.

I know better. The physical symptoms will dog me most of the day, but the worst will be the dreaded hangxiety.

I know all about the post-drinking chemical changes—the decrease in GABA and corresponding uptick in glutamate in the brain and the spike in cortisol levels—that can make anyone feel anxious the morning after over-imbibing.

But I’m not anyone. I have generalized anxiety and a panic disorder.

And I’m taking SSRI medication. I shouldn’t really be drinking at all, and I definitely shouldn’t be polishing off a bottle of wine solo.

“Should’ve thought of that last night,” I croak aloud. My voice is hoarse and thick.

Although, to be fair, accessing rational thought would have been a challenge last night, given that I was teetering on the edge of a full-blown panic attack.

Beating myself up about it now isn’t going to help.

A cup of coffee and a painkiller might, though.

So I throw off the heavy quilt and swing my legs over the edge until my feet connect with the bare floor.

The cold seeps through my socks as I sway to standing.

The room spins, and I grab the headboard to steady myself.

Coffee and some dry toast or crackers to settle my stomach, I amend. And two painkillers.

I reach for my heavy cardigan and gingerly ease my arms into it without moving my neck or head.

Then I take some slow breaths to stave off the nausea the motion causes and shuffle toward the door.

As I pass the window, I pause to glance outside, but there’s nothing to see.

Only a wall of black. It’s the deep darkness of night in the country with no illumination from streetlights, neighbors, or passing cars.

I suppose the stars might provide some light, but I can’t see them—or the moon.

I can’t even make out the faint outline of Alex’s farmhouse or the shadows of the dense trees I know are out there.

I pull my sweater tighter around my torso and am about to walk on when I catch a flash of light out of the corner of my eye.

I whip my head back toward the window and instantly regret the sudden movement.

But my queasiness takes a back to seat to the fear surging through me as I press my forehead against the cold pane of glass.

The bright ray of light is unmistakable.

It can only be a flashlight’s beam. As if to prove the point, the beam sweeps in a wide arc, lighting up the copse of trees to the left.

Someone’s out there, and, judging by their position, they’re looking at the cabin, watching me.

I stare through the window until my eyes burn, straining and failing to make out some detail—anything at all—about the watcher.

It’s probably Alex, I tell myself with no conviction whatsoever. Why would she be awake and prowling around her farm in the dark at this hour?

The flashlight clicks off, and the clearing plunges back into darkness.

My pulse pounds against my throat. I close my eyes and do a breathing exercise, the one that most reliably calms me down—breathe in for a four count, pause, then out for a seven count, pause, then repeat.

After six or seven cycles, my heart rate is close to normal.

As a bonus, all the oxygen helps my throbbing headache.

My skull still feels like it’s being squeezed in a vise, but the intensity has subsided some.

I’m steady enough to make my way into the tiny bathroom, where I shake two ibuprofen from the travel-size tube and dry swallow them along with my Lexapro. Then I grip the railing and head down the steep narrow stairs taking careful, mincing steps.

I grab my mason jar of cold brew from the small refrigerator and find a package of saltine crackers that Tristan sent along to go with his homemade carrot-ginger soup.

I stand at the butcher block island while I nibble the crackers and sip the coffee slowly, not wanting to overtax my stomach.

I can’t allow the light I saw outside derail me.

I already wasted last night by obsessing and worrying. I need to write.

I block out all thoughts of dangers lurking in the dark, memories of death and fear, and my anxiety about meeting my deadline. All I can control is whether I put my butt in a chair and my fingers on the keyboard. So I do.

I skip my morning writing rituals. No meditation, no candle, no free writing in my journal about the work. I just fire up my laptop, open the manuscript file, and write.

After a hundred halting words, I start to find my rhythm.

The words flow as I lose myself in my story.

My sour stomach, steady headache, and fatigue from a crappy night’s sleep fall away.

Time passes without my noticing as my fingers fly over the keys.

The scene between Maleen and Ruth unfolds in my mind like a movie I’m watching and I type as quickly as I can, as if I’m taking dictation from my imagination. I suppose I am.