I toss and turn fitfully until Jamie returns from his meeting with his mother. I worry that she has found me out. It would not be strange for them to kick me out. After all, who wants a girl who is mentally ill as their wife, as mother to their children, as queen? My brain cannot seem to stop coming up with various scenarios that I could ruin or complicate. I latch onto a vision of a miniature me trying to drag her mother, me, out of bed. She cries and says, Mama, please. I try so hard to force myself out of bed, as shame washes over me. All I can do is lay there, paralyzed by exhaustion and terrorized by anxiety, while the little girl tugs on my sleeve continuously.
I try to force the image out of my brain by closing my eyes, but the girl awaits me there, also. That is where Jamie finds me, laying in bed staring at the ceiling, a worried look on my face.
"Ellie," he prods gently, "how do you feel?"
I jolt upright, not having realized that he was standing there. "How long have you been standing there?"
"You are avoiding my question," Jamie says but relents somewhat upon seeing my exhausted face, "Only a few moments. But how are you, Ellie?"
"Starving," I say to distract him from the matter at hand. I am not hungry at all, but I know that it will make me feel better. This way, I can distract him and feel a little better before I actually have to answer his question. I just do not feel like it, yet.
Jamie raises his left eyebrow at me, but lets my deflection slide, for now. "Can you walk?"
"Yes, of course I can…" I roll my eyes at him.
"Ellie. I'm serious. Don't deflect. How do you feel about walking?"
"I think I can walk. I'm really very tired, but I'm always tired. My father never let me spend the day in bed like this. Terribly lazy, he always said…" I bumble on.
Jamie looks at me, sadly. "I'm only asking because I think it might be good for you to be up for even twenty minutes, but only if you can handle it. I don't want to push you to do anything you are not ready for, okay?"
"I think I can handle twenty minutes," I say quietly to him. Jamie helps me out of bed, cautiously. I stand up on shaky legs.
As he ushers me to the kitchens, he quietly tells me a story about his childhood. "When I was about seven, I would guess, my mother took us sledding. We would go to the top of this terribly high hill and get a running start, before we headed down the hill. This time, though, I got to go down the hill without assistance, as I had in years past. I had so much fun, but at some point, on the way down, I landed on my arm and broke it. I did not have to practice cursive for a week. It was the best week of my life." He laughed quietly. I try to manage a smile, but I'm certain that it looks more like a grimace. He smiles back at me.
Eventually, we reach the kitchens. Jamie finds me a chair and I slump down into it, my exhaustion palpable. I sit there for a moment, breathing deeply. Once I feel a little better, I glance at Jamie, wishing that I could read his thoughts. If I hated myself this much, then surely, he must hate me even more. How could he not hate me, I thought to myself. I liked Jamie, I had hoped we could be friends or, in an alternate universe, more than friends. I wring my hands, wondering when he will stop speaking to me. My sisters hated me for being like this. Amy used to use the term, "mentally unstable," as a weapon. She knew exactly how to get to me. My mother hurt me in a different way. She was witness to all of it, but she denied that it was really happening. Maybe it was easier for her, but this choice hurt me badly. She said my father was only strict and Amy was only joking, of course. How long would it be before Jamie felt the same way? I would not let that happen, I decided. He would not see me like this, ever again. I handled it on my own before, so I could certainly handle it now. It would be just fine. I would handle it. I could handle it. I should handle it.
Suddenly, my vision clouds and I cannot breathe. I keep wringing my hands, but my thoughts focus only on breathing. My chest tightens and I gasp for breath. Jamie's hand grabs mine to calm me. I focus on breathing and the pressure of his hand, but after a while I am struggling to keep my eyes open.
"Ellie, look at me. Ellie, Ellie, focus on me. You can do it. Open your eyes, come on." I focus on Jamie and eventually pull myself out of the panic attack, with his help. "Do you want to talk about it," he asks me.
I shake my head. "Not yet, Jamie. Maybe not ever. These are not the kind of thoughts that you share with an acquaintance."
"While I disagree that we are only acquaintances, you do not have to talk about it. I hope you will when you are ready. It's healing, I think." Jamie stands up to get the grilled cheeses that he was making. "Eat this, please, it will definitely help."
I'm not hungry, but I force myself to munch on it, while Jamie keeps regaling me with childhood stories.
Suddenly, I hear thundering footsteps and Prince Beckett enters the empty kitchens. "Lady Elinore, how interesting." His voice has a forced sense of calm, but his body gives him away. He is seething.