were a surprising number of pedestrians out-and from the looks of them, mostly tourists. My lungs ached for a cigarette. I thought about walking over to a little shop I knew about midway down the block that sold cigarettes, but fought off the urge. Quitting had been an incredibly terrible experience. Now that I was off of them for good, I wasn’t going to put myself through that again. I felt better now that I wasn’t smoking. I didn’t get out of breath as quickly as I used to when I was doing my cardio at the gym, my lungs felt better, and I seemed to have more energy than I did when I smoked. Besides, the price kept going up, and it was ridiculous to spend that kind of money on something intangible that gave such little pleasure. I wondered if the desire to have a butt would ever go away once and for all.
Somehow, I doubted it. An addiction is an addiction. From what I heard, alcoholics never stopped wanting a drink, so why would nicotine be any different?
I just wanted to get home and be by myself, smoke some pot, open a bottle of wine, and decompress. I’d already had a couple of close calls with anxiety attacks, and I was in no mood to tempt fate. There’s nothing more horrible than those things, and I’d had enough of them to know that I was dangerously close to having one that no amount of calming exercises would head off. I’d much prefer to be in my house if it happened-and my Xanax stash was in the medicine cabinet. My heart rate had been getting steadily faster since I set foot in the precinct building, and the exercises my therapist had taught me to ward off the attacks were losing their effectiveness. I just stood there, leaning against the Mint’s fence, my eyes narrowed to slits, and tried to regulate my breathing. In and out, nice and slow and steady-I knew that as long as I had my breathing under control, my heart rate would gradually slow down and I’d be safe. The cab pulled up and honked, and I climbed into the back, giving the cabbie my address. As soon as I settled into the backseat and the cab pulled back out onto Decatur Street, I closed my eyes and imagined a quiet beach, with palm trees and white sand, gentle green waves lapping at the shore. I pulled out my phone. I’d turned the ringer off before meeting with Rosemary.
The little digital window informed me that I had two new voice-mail messages.
I checked the messages as we crossed Canal Street. The first one was from Paige.
I punched the seven key to delete it. I smiled to myself. I was definitely curious to hear her opinion of the Rosemary conversation. The Shirley Harris thing sounded good too-Paige’s voice had been in her high-pitched “I don’t know if I can keep from laughing” mode.
I couldn’t delete that one fast enough.
Oh yes, I was familiar with Veronica Vance, all right. Before the flood, I’d found her shrill and obviously affected Southern accent offensive-as offensive as her regular claims to be fair and unbiased. She was one of those horrible ‘journalists’ who never allowed her guests a chance to finish anything they were saying, cutting them off rudely, and while she claimed to be giving them an opportunity to tell their side of whatever story she was reporting on, she usually came across as a cross between an avenging harpy and a banshee. Every once in a while, I’d watched her show when I was bored and nothing else was on. But after the levees failed, when all the news networks were reporting on New Orleans 24/7-I’d grown to hate her with the burning intensity of the sun. The lies and inaccuracies that had flown out of her mouth, while she sat in her high and dry studio in Atlanta, wrapped in her usual cloak of sanctimonious superiority, made me burn with rage. She placed blame everywhere but where it belonged-with the Army Corps of Engineers and the White House. She blamed the mayor, the governor, the people who hadn’t evacuated-you name it, she blamed them.
To me, she was the epitome of everything that was wrong with the news media.
I wondered how she’d gotten my cell number. Undoubtedly, she had sources everywhere. I sighed and took no small pleasure in deleting the message. There was no way in hell I was going to call her back-let alone agree to an interview.
The car swung around the corner of Euterpe onto Camp Street and came to a dead stop. The traffic on Camp Street was intense-which was rare. I craned my neck forward to see what was going on, and my jaw dropped. I felt all the blood draining from my face.
The street in front of my house was clogged with news vans.
The sidewalk in front of my house was filled with photographers and cameramen.
“Stop here and wait a minute,” I said to the cab driver, my voice shaking.
My heart was beating so loud I could hear it in my ears.
My breath was coming fast.
Somehow, I managed to croak out Paige’s address to the driver. He pulled around the vans along the curb and headed up Camp Street.
I tried to measure my breathing as I scrolled through my stored numbers.
I found Paige’s number and hit call.
“Tourneur.”
“Paige, it’s Chanse.” I was beginning to hyperventilate. I tucked my head down and tried to control my breathing. “Please…I need…help.”
“Are you okay?” Her voice was alarmed. “Where are you?”
“There’s a-there’s a crowd of reporters in front of my house.” I forced myself to take long, slow, deep breaths. I was getting faint. There was a roaring in my ears, and my heart was pumping so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of my chest.
“Don’t answer the door, make sure the curtains are closed, and don’t answer the door whatever you do.” She instructed. “Those fucking vultures.”
“I’m…not…in…the…house…” I started gasping for air.
“Oh God, where are you right now?”
“On…my…way…to…your…house”
“You’re having an anxiety attack, aren’t you? Shit, fuck, SHIT! Hang on, how close are you?
“Corner…of…Melpomene…and Camp…” I swallowed. “I…think…I…can…make…it…”
“Buddy, are you all right?” the cabdriver asked as he turned up Melpomene.
“Hang in there, Chanse! I’ll be out front waiting for you.” Her voice was panicked. She hung up.
“I’m…fine…” I said to the cabdriver. “Just…drive…” I put my head down between my knees.
It wasn’t working.
My mind raced on. Horrible thoughts filled my mind, one after another, each one worse than the one before.
I hadn’t had an anxiety attack in months.
They’re terrifying, absolutely terrifying. There’s nothing worse than having your mind race out of control. What
