Hate You Not

The kids squeal happily, and I help Margot out of the car on my side.

The inside of the Floatin’ Bean looks like a barn, but with racks and shelves filled with strange things like cans of peanuts, dark brown walnuts in gift bags with silky red bows, a whole, big case of fudge, a jukebox with stickers slapped on every inch of it, and three mounted deer heads whose antlers are laced with blinking Christmas lights.

The jukebox is playing twangy country music, which doesn’t surprise me. What does is the reaction of the cashier to June. When she first sees our party of four, her heavily-made-up eyes widen. Then she bolts around the counter, smushes boob-to-boob with June, and hugs her like they’re long lost sisters. Then a second later, I hear a sound that can only mean that one of them is crying.

Shit. Should I distract the kids? I look around and realize they’ve gone over to the jukebox, so I join them there. I don’t know how much time June needs, but I don’t want to be around for that stuff.

Naturally, the moment I glance over my shoulder to see if they’re still doing the waterworks, June is wiping her eyes. Her gaze fixes on my face. I try to smile, but I think it’s a grimace. The woman beside her doesn’t notice. She must be old enough to be June’s mother, though I know she can’t be. She wipes her eyes, too, smearing mascara all over her face, and then gives me a quivering, red-lipped smile and starts toward me.

Hell, no. I can feel it coming, can sense it in her long strides and that focused look on her face. Yep—she goes in for it: the hug.

I grit my teeth and try to stand still and just breathe. That’s when I smell it. I haven’t smelled it in so long, but there it is. It fills my nose and then my head, and then I have to get away from it. I have to get away from her, from how it feels to have her hugging me and smelling like…that.

I can’t breathe, can’t think, can only move. And then I’m outside, and it’s windy and the air is too cold, and I’m fumbling for the car keys and I’m striding to the car. I’m getting in the car. I want to drive. I really want to drive away, but I can’t, so I lay my chair back and put one shaking hand on my chest. I try to feel my diaphragm moving below my palm. Just feel it. And nothing else. There’s nothing else.

My heart is racing, though. It’s hard to breathe. I run through my mental checklist. What color is the car? The ceiling’s black…maybe more charcoal. The dashboard is black. The seats are tan. I look at the buttons on the dashboard, and the text and numbers on them is white. I look at the miles-per-hour gauge. It goes to 160. That’s higher than average but not so high for a car like this.

It’s okay. If you start breathing too fast, just observe what’s around you.

I remind myself that my reaction is just physical. I’ve never really talked to anyone about it, but I read all the books. It’s all about breathing if this stuff happens.

I do that for a while, and then I sit back up and spot June and the kids at a picnic table under a big tree, right beside the playground. Thinking of walking up to them makes me feel so fucking cringey, but I have to do it.

I don’t have a plan until I’m right there by the table. Then I give June a little nod and say, “Sorry, got a phone call.”

“Did you?” She frowns down at her float.

The kids jump up right then and run off toward the playground.

“Yeah,” I say sharply. “I did.”

“Well that was rude.” She looks up at me, and her face is guarded. “Sadie thought she scared you off or hurt your feelings.”

“Hurt my feelings? How would she do that?” I ask in a tone that says the idea is ridiculous.

“Offended you, is what I mean.”

“All she did was hug me.”

“Maybe you don’t like hugs. I think she thought it might be something like that. There’s a little boy in Heat Springs who has autism. He doesn’t like hugs. Overwhelms him.”

“Yeah well, I’m not a little kid. And I don’t have autism. I’ll have to use that next time I’m somewhere and want to leave, though.”

Disgust twists her face. “Yeah, Burke. You do that. Pretend that you have autism. That’s real mature.”

Then she stalks off toward the playground. She won’t look at me for the rest of the outing, not even when I get up on the jungle gym and start playing Wild Attack Ape with the kids. Just as I’m feeling almost like myself again, she whistles between her fingers from where she’s sitting on a wooden bench and the kids run to her.