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  “But we always take our vacation together! What am I going to do here at home alone?”

  Esteban shrugged. “Rest, like he said. What happened to you today must have been exhaustion. You’ve been working way too hard recently. If you’re not better by Friday, we’ll go to the doctor.”

  Brianda spent the week cleaning out closets, going over paperwork, organizing kitchen utensils, updating her address book, and reading. But instead of subsiding, her anxiety increased to the point where she started to wish she didn’t have to leave the apartment ever again. Her phone was her only link to the outside world. Thanks to e-mail and text messages, she could present a picture of normalcy to her friends and colleagues. The reality, though, was that the streets below her terrace seemed like a hostile universe, and the very thought of returning to work made her chest tighten. She felt her whole self emptying out, a big hole growing inside her. Even in the peace of her own home, she was periodically rocked by vertigo as if she were peering over a cliff. When it got really bad, the only thing she wanted was to crawl into bed, but she feared her recurring dream too much to sleep.

  Seeing Brianda withdraw more every day, Esteban dragged her to his family’s doctor who was also a friend—too close a friend in Brianda’s opinion. He’d known Esteban’s father since childhood, and Esteban’s mother and sisters had gone to him for years.

  “I just don’t see why it has to be him,” she protested yet again in the waiting room, clutching her medical records from a recent physical.

  “Roberto is an excellent doctor,” Esteban assured her. “And if he can’t help you, he’ll know who to refer us to.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “What are you so worried about?”

  “I’m embarrassed! I don’t want your family to find out about my problems.”

  “Brianda, Roberto is a professional. He’s very discreet.”

  Was that impatience in his eyes? Brianda couldn’t help feeling guilty that, in some way, she was letting down her boyfriend, the man who might be her future husband. At this point in her life, she should be healthy, successful, excited for the future they were making together. Instead, her eyes filled with tears, and she squeezed Esteban’s hand hard, wanting to promise she’d be strong enough to face whatever was happening, that it was just a momentary lapse.

  A few minutes later, the door opened, and a white-haired nurse showed them into an office ringed with bookshelves. A bearded man of about sixty was writing some notes at a walnut desk. He got to his feet and greeted them warmly. After some courteous small talk about Esteban’s family, Roberto said, “Well, if you’re ready, we’ll start now.”

  Esteban looked at Brianda. “Do you want me to stay?” he asked.

  Brianda didn’t know what to say. Esteban had been witness to many of her symptoms, but he didn’t know everything. If she said no, she was afraid that he would take it as a sign of mistrust. Roberto came to her rescue.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, Esteban, I’d like to talk to Brianda alone. Please wait outside.”

  Roberto began by asking general questions about her life and her work. Then he reviewed the results from her physical and concluded that everything was as it should be. Brianda let herself relax and be guided by his friendly and firm questions, trying to be as precise as possible in her answers. She told him about her nightmares, the sensation of unreality, the tingling in her arms, the shivers and racing heart and tightness in her chest. And in the end, she shared the thing she’d been most ashamed to admit.

  “I’m afraid to leave the house. I’ve never been easily frightened, but now it’s like I’m scared of everything. Worst of all is that I feel …”—she fiddled with her hands nervously—“a terrible and deep fear of dying.”

  She had finally said it.

  And Roberto hadn’t batted an eye.

  She felt a wave of relief. “I’m fine one minute and then the next I get dizzy and feel like I’m going to faint, or die. And I get really scared. I don’t know how to explain it exactly. At first the fear paralyzes me, but then I need to escape.” She dropped her head into her hands and began sobbing. “What’s happening to me? A few months ago I was ready to take on the world, and now … everything is a struggle … it’s like I can’t … like I don’t have the strength …”

  Roberto moved closer and held out a box of tissues.

  “Brianda, what’s happening to you is not unusual.”

  She stopped wiping away her tears and looked up at him.

  “Everything seems to indicate that you are suffering from anxiety attacks.”

  “Anxiety attacks? But I’ve always been a really easygoing person.”

  Roberto smiled. “You’d be surprised how many people suffer from anxiety.”

  “But I don’t have any health problems. You see that in my medical records. And no money or family problems.”

  “The causes of anxiety disorder are many and varied. It can be hereditary, or caused by personal loss, by unexpected changes, substance abuse …” To each of the items on the list, Brianda answered by shaking her head. “A traumatic episode can also produce panic attacks.”

  Brianda racked her brain, going over her childhood and teenage years, her time in college, her first boyfriend, first job, her habits and daily routine. She had lived a completely uneventful life, and, until a few weeks ago, she had felt confident about reaching every goal she set for herself. There was just no reasonable explanation.

  “Are you worried about anything?” the doctor asked. “This fear you describe is like a warning about something you feel as a threat.”

  She shook her head again.

  “And everything is OK with Esteban?” Roberto pressed. “Life as a couple, the loss of freedom, and aging can prove stressful for many people.”

  Brianda felt herself getting annoyed. Of course Esteban wasn’t the problem. This was supposed to be a medical exam, not a psych evaluation! She wasn’t some tragic movie character with secret childhood trauma. All her friends and family were in perfect health, physically and mentally. And so was she.

  She had to get out of this office immediately.

  “Hmm,” Brianda lied. “Maybe you’re right about stress. I’ve had a lot to do at work over the last year, and they keep expecting more and more, you know, because of the economy. Maybe it’s been getting to me …”

  Roberto nodded and smiled knowingly, clearly pleased with his diagnosis. He encouraged her to read about the causes and symptoms of anxiety and prescribed a low-dose sedative in case of another attack.

  Brianda took the prescription, forcing herself to smile in thanks. The paper burned in her hand. She couldn’t bear the idea of having to take pills and wondered if it might have something to do with her age after all, the fact that she was approaching thirty-seven. Just recently, she’d been a happy, ambitious young woman, and now, without warning, she was being told she had to drug herself to leave the house.

  As she walked home with Esteban, the sadness didn’t loosen its grip. The doctor had said what was happening to her was common. She looked around and wondered how many of the people they passed might be on medication for anxiety. If she could just talk to one of them, she would ask what to do. She wanted to know if people talked about it openly, if she should tell her family and friends, if they would understand or if they’d just pity her.

  A toddler collided with her knees, plopped on his bottom, and looked up at Brianda with a confused expression, as if deciding whether or not to cry. His mother took him in her arms, and he began to howl, clinging to her neck like he’d just survived a great tragedy.

  Brianda envied the look of surrender on the child’s face. Hopefully, she would always have a safe place to hide, a pillar to hold her up, a clear path through uncertainty.

  Esteban laughed. “Did you see that? If his mother hadn’t picked him up, I bet he wouldn’t have cried.”

  Brianda squeezed his hand. She hoped nothing would ever separate them, that they would stay like this forever, holding hands through
the good and the bad. She remembered his words leaving the doctor’s. He’d said they would get through this together. He would help her recover her joy and her courage.

  He was her refuge, her support, her beacon.

  2.

  Brianda took a deep breath and dialed. She’d decided to tell her mother. After all, Laura was bound to notice Brianda was taking vacation time that didn’t coincide with Esteban’s. They talked at least once a week, usually on Fridays. And it was Friday.

  She counted six rings before Laura picked up. After their usual hellos, Brianda told her mother she was having panic attacks brought on by anxiety.

  There was a brief silence, and then Laura gave her high-pitched reply. “What panic attacks and what anxiety? You are a very strong woman. Who told you such nonsense?”

  Brianda wasn’t surprised. She knew her mother was cautious about raising family problems with outsiders, but it irritated her when her mother initially resisted facing up to them even in private.

  “I went to see Esteban’s family doctor.”

  Silence. Brianda used the pause to briefly catch her mother up on what had been happening.

  “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I was ashamed.”

  Another silence.

  “I’ll call you back, Brianda.”

  This abrupt good-bye could only mean one thing. Brianda pictured her tall, dark-haired, elegant mother relaying everything to her father, Daniel. First she’d be distressed and ask herself why this was happening to her daughter; then she’d scan her memory and recall some similar case among her acquaintances; then she would talk through every possible way of helping her daughter. In the end, she would apply her favorite maxim that desperate times call for desperate measures. Neither Brianda nor her older brother, Andres, had inherited their mother’s frenetic energy.

  Brianda smiled thinking about her brother, who lived in Burgos. They were only two years apart, and they got along well and called each other often, but since his twins were born three years ago, he’d only come to Madrid for Christmas and their parents’ birthdays. Maybe she should have called him before their mother, but he had enough to deal with right now. She realized, with amazement, how well her brother had adapted to his new life. Andres, who used to be game for every trip, activity, and party, had become a serious and responsible adult who divided his life between work and family and didn’t have time for anything else. Maybe the source of her anxiety lay in the fear that the same might happen to her.

  The phone rang. It was her mother.

  “I talked to Aunt Isolina and she’d be delighted to have you in Tiles for a bit. I think a change of scenery is just what you need.” Laura’s upbeat tone turned serious, indicating there was one problem to resolve for the marvelous idea to be perfect. “If Esteban thinks it’s all right, of course …” The brightness returned. “Oh, I’m sure he will; he’s a darling.”

  Brianda was in a daze after she hung up. She’d said she would think about visiting her aunt, which to her mother meant a definite yes. For a moment Brianda felt like a child, and she was annoyed with herself for letting her mother run her life. She could imagine her parents deciding that she just needed some country air, as if she were a feeble nineteenth-century damsel with bad nerves. And by sending her away, her mother guaranteed that Brianda’s illness would stay a secret. She hadn’t even asked if Brianda wanted to go away. And to Tiles, of all places—just thinking about her mother’s childhood village gave her the creeps.

  Esteban’s smiling face appeared on her cell phone screen.

  He was calling to invite her out to dinner with their best friends, who had left their five-year-old son with his grandmother. His voice sounded tempting and kind when he said he didn’t want to pressure her, and he assured her they could go to a restaurant near home and leave whenever she wished. Brianda decided to make an effort for him.

  While she got ready, her mind kept traveling to a distant valley in northeastern Spain. Her earliest memories of visiting Tiles, when her grandparents were still alive, were happy ones. She remembered the smell of recently harvested wheat under the hot sun, the earthen feel of an old pot, the cows and sheep on the paths, the quiet, everyone’s tanned skin. She and Andres used to look forward to summers in Tiles because they meant freedom. There were no rules, no schedules or responsibilities. They’d sleep in, have a late breakfast while being doted on by Aunt Isolina, play in the fields, feed animals on the neighboring farms, dance at the festivals where trays of sweets covered the tables, and listen to the old folks’ stories before passing out on wooden benches in front of the fire.

  But something changed.

  It was after their grandparents died and Aunt Isolina married Uncle Colau. The trips became sporadic and then ended completely. Aunt Isolina occasionally would come to Madrid on her own or they’d meet her at the beach, and there were frequent phone calls. Brianda tried to remember why she didn’t get upset when the trips stopped. She recalled fragments of her parents’ conversations about Uncle Colau, about Isolina’s mistake, about run-down, old Anels House.

  As Brianda headed out to meet Esteban and their friends, unsettling memories bubbled up with stark clarity. She hadn’t thought about her mother’s village for ages, but now she was inundated by scenes from the last time she’d been in the house, how she’d left hoping her parents would never make her go back. She must have been around eleven or twelve. The cooing of the pigeons on the roof had become oppressive, the howl of the storms unbearable, the creaking of the wood threatening, the presence of Colau …

  She remembered a tall, strong man, with an unfriendly face and a bitter character. Always wary. Always alert. With the curiosity typical of a child, she had gone into his office one afternoon looking for treasures. She remembered the overstuffed shelves, the dark paintings on the walls, the dim light from the thick-shaded lamps, the upholstered armchairs, the mess on the table, and that precious little red velvet box with a brass ball catch. A box like that just had to hold something wonderful, and she was eager to look inside. But Colau had appeared out of nowhere, snatching it from her. She remembered the rage in his voice, the fury in his eyes, the violence of his hands.

  That was twenty-five years ago. If her mother hadn’t suggested that she go to Tiles, the images would probably have remained buried in her mind.

  Esteban came over as soon as he saw her. He kissed her on the lips, whispered a compliment about her dress, and led her by the hand to the table. The candles in a heavy silver candelabra lent the scene a soft warmth.

  Brianda greeted her friends, sat down, and promised herself she’d try to enjoy the evening. Memories belonged to the past. But a new thought refused to loosen its grip: her childhood fears rested in a certain man. Her current fears had no form.

  Silvia and Ricardo made a strange couple. He was a serious, polite forensic scientist, and she was petite, blonde, and lighthearted. Silvia never stopped laughing and talking, especially about her interior design business. The men had known each other since school, and luckily for everyone, Brianda got along well with Silvia. In fact, she regarded her as her best friend, which was saying something, given that Brianda wasn’t the most open or sociable person.

  When they finished eating, they relocated to the restaurant’s bar for a drink. It was filled with comfortable armchairs, low lighting, and piano music. At the back, there was a small dance floor and a pool table. When Esteban and Ricardo realized no one was playing, they shot their partners a pleading look, then ran to the table like teenagers.

  Brianda and Silvia made themselves comfortable. Brianda’s first thought was to have a gin and tonic, but she remembered the pills she was taking.

  “Just tonic?” said Silvia. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  “God, no. It’s just that I had a fair amount of wine with dinner, so I’d better slow down.” In fact, she’d barely drunk anything, but she figured her friend hadn’t noticed. She didn’t want to mention th
e pills.

  “Maybe the next round,” said Silvia. She paused before adding, “Esteban mentioned you weren’t feeling great.”

  “It’s nothing. Just tired, I’m sure.”

  “Hmm. I’ve noticed too. It’s OK; there are times in life when stress just gets to you, y’know? I haven’t been feeling so good either lately. The business is going from bad to worse. I had to fire a shop assistant who’s been with me almost since I opened.”

  “I’m so sorry. That sounds awful.”

  “It was. And Ricardo and I had been thinking about … well … expanding our family … but now I have so much more work that I just don’t know anymore.”

  “At least Ricardo’s job is safe, right?”

  “Yeah, but his salary’s been cut. No one’s escaped the recession. Besides, I don’t want to be financially dependent on Ricardo or anybody else.”

  Brianda frowned. She’d never thought of her situation in such clear terms. On one occasion, when she had joked with Esteban about how many children they would have, he had mentioned the possibility that she might have to give up her job, but Brianda hadn’t taken him seriously. She’d worked so hard to finish her engineering degree and find a good job—a goal that had been drilled into her from an early age—and be economically independent. It had never crossed her mind to devote herself exclusively to raising a family. A tightness began to grip her chest. That was how it began. Soon the palpitations would start, the cold sweat. She fought to concentrate on the music, on her surroundings, on the clothes people were wearing—anything that would distract her and help head off the attack.

  As she looked around the room, a shiver ran down her spine. It was like someone was watching her. At that moment, the waiter arrived with their drinks.

  “Are you OK?” Silvia asked, passing her the tonic water. “I bet they could still add a splash of gin if you need it.”

  “No, it’s just that I was only this minute thinking about what you said. This thing that’s happening to me is affecting my work. It’s so hard to concentrate. I have to beat this.”