JASON STARR - Panic Attack

But it amazed Adam that he’d reached this low point in his life. How had it happened? Just a couple of weeks ago things had been going so well for him. Okay, he and Dana had had some unresolved marital issues, but so did practically every other couple in the world, especially people who’d been married for longer than twenty years. And, yes, Marisssa had been going through her own age- appropriate problems, but for the most part they’d been a happy, together family up until the night that Marissa woke them up and told them that someone had broken into their house. That, in retrospect, had been the big turning point, the moment when everything had begun to go to hell.

Marissa, Adam thought. He had to tell her.

He took out his cell but couldn’t make the call. How do you tell your daughter that her mother’s been killed? Violently killed. Her life would never be the same; she’d have to go through years of therapy just to begin to deal with it, and he felt awful for compounding the hurt, giving her such a hard time with all of that tough love crap. It was clear to him now how inappropriately he’d been behaving toward her lately. He’d been displacing his emotions, punishing her rather than punishing himself. Why had it bothered him so much that she’d had a bong in the house when she barely smoked? Had that really been such a monumental issue? Adam actually regretted that he’d thrown the bong out the other day. He could’ve used a few hits himself right now. He wasn’t sure he could handle making the phone call and was going to ask a cop to make it for him, but then he forced himself to do it on his own. She deserved to hear the news from her father rather than a complete stranger. He couldn’t reach her and didn’t want to leave a message, so he ended the call and figured he’d try again in a little while. She was probably out with Xan. He was glad she had a boyfriend now, a good solid guy. She’d need him to help her get through this.

Adam walked slowly through the house, for some reason hearing in his mind the chorus of Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb.” Maybe he had chosen this song because the lyrics reminded him of his current state of mind, or perhaps it was because it reminded him of being a teenager, when he’d lived in this very house, in a much safer, more comfortable time in his life. Jesus Christ, could he stop being an analyst for one minute? Why did everything have to mean something else? Why couldn’t he just accept things for what they were? He peered into the kitchen, looking beyond the crime scene tape, and saw the investigators at work. Dana’s body was still there, on the floor, and a photographer was busy, taking pictures. Adam barely felt anything, and as he drifted semiaimlessly back toward the front of the house, he was aware that he was still in shock. He had counseled many patients during their grieving pro – cesses and was a proponent of Kubler- Ross’s five stages of grief. Still, it hadn’t even begun to set in, truly set in, that Dana had been murdered. Now her death was simply a concept. It was something he could say and think, but he was unable to actually feel it or comprehend the consequences.

In the living room, he lifted a venetian blind and peeked outside. He expected to see reporters, but he was astonished by how many there were. It was like a presidential news conference. One reporter spotted Adam and shouted, “There he is!” and there was a sudden frenzy of reporters talking at once, some yelling for Adam to come outside. Horrified, Adam dropped the blind and moved away from the window. Unlike after the robbery, he had no interest in attention from the media. He had no desire for fame; he hoped he never had to see his name in print in any publication ever again. But he knew they wouldn’t just leave him alone, and it didn’t matter if he made a statement or not. Their stories were probably already written. The wife of Adam Bloom, the crazed vigilante, had been found dead with a knife in her back in the middle of her kitchen floor. What more did they need to know?

Adam was suddenly dizzy again. As he made his way back through the house a cop asked, “You okay?” but Adam ignored him and sat at the dining room table. The Valium wasn’t working; he needed Xanax or Klonopin. He was through thinking that he was superhuman, that he could handle crises better than the average person. Just because he was a psychologist, because he was aware of his thought pro cesses, didn’t make him immune from normal human emotions. These last couple of weeks had humbled him, taught him that he was no better off than his most troubled patients. He was a weak, confused man, and he wasn’t going to make it through this nightmare without some serious drugs.

Marissa was with Xan in the movie theater on Third and Fifty- ninth, watching the new Matthew McConaughey comedy, when her phone vibrated. She saw dad on the display and rolled her eyes and turned off the phone. She figured he was just checking up on her, being Mr. Controlling again, trying to make her life as miserable as possible. She snuggled closer to Xan and resumed making out with him.

After the movie, Xan went to use the bathroom. Waiting for him in the lobby, Marissa checked her phone and saw her father had left two messages. She was starting to read texts her friends had sent her when her dad called again. She picked up and said, “I was just about to call you.”

“I have some awful news,” he said. She thought, What now? More about their freaking divorce? She didn’t understand why she had to be constantly dragged into the middle of her parents’ marital problems, why she had to be updated on every single development.

“Look, I really don’t want to get involved,” she said. “You two do whatever you want to do.”

She was about to end the call when her father said, “It’s about Mom.”

He was probably calling to tell her that her mom was moving out, or had already moved out. And of course he had to speak in that grave, serious tone, trying to scare her, acting like this was some kind of life- and- death situation. And to think, this was coming from a man who’d been telling her that she liked to cause drama.

“Yeah, I know it’s about Mom, and it’s really none of my business, Dad. Is that why you had to call me three times in the middle of a movie? Because Mom’s moving out? Couldn’t you’ve just waited to tell me at home, or not at all?”

“Mom’s dead,” her father said.

“What?” She thought she must’ve misheard him.

“She’s dead,” he repeated. “You have to come home right away, the police’re still here. Is Xan with you?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” She seriously didn’t get it. Dead? What the hell did that mean? Did he mean their marriage was dead?

“You have to come home, Marissa. Right away.”

Xan was back from the bathroom.

Marissa yelled into the phone, “Tell me what the hell is going on! Just tell me! Tell me!”

People were looking at her. A security guard in a red jacket tapped Marissa on the shoulder and said, “You’re gonna have to keep it down, ma’am.”

“She was stabbed,” her father said. “You have to come home. Have Xan take you. I don’t want you to be alone.”

In the cab to Forest Hills, Marissa was out of control, crying and screaming. She still didn’t believe any of this was actually happening. It had to be a misunderstanding- had her dad really said “dead”? Maybe he’d said some other word that sounded like “dead.” She always got shitty reception on her cell phone; yeah, it had to be something like that.

Thank God Xan was with her. He kept reassuring her, telling her “Everything’s gonna be okay” and “You’ll get through this no matter what, I promise.” He was so calm, so in control, so supportive; without him she would’ve completely lost it.