Let the Tornado Come: A Memoir by Rita Zoey Chin Read Free Book Online Page A

been a stripper, a junkie, the kind of girl who would never be welcome in an elite place like this. I might have also mentioned that I’d put myself through college and grad school summa cum laude, that I’d taught college students how to write, and that I did these things after dropping out of junior high in the eighth grade. I could have said that in my short life, I had teetered at the abyss of death more than once. But a charming doctor’s wife wouldn’t tell him any of that.
    And that’s how I lost my moment: by staring at my water glass, mute. I knew then that not only had I failed myself but I was failing Larry, too. I wanted to be the supportive wife he deserved, a first lady of sorts, one who would make Elaine think, Everything’s going to be great because Larry has this strong woman beside him . But instead, I was the girl who kept fidgeting in her chair on the brink of a panic attack, then excusing myself to the restroom, where I hyperventilated into my hands and wished for a sudden exit, like a school
fire drill.
    To my good fortune, no one asked me another question all night. And then, finally, the dinner was over. Our standing up from the table marked the liveliest any of us had been all evening as we bid our farewells and Larry and I broke out into the open sounds of the city at night, where the streetlights stood as if their only role was to be beautiful .

SIX

    I f I could have gotten one glimpse of my future life when my struggle with panic started, this is the hour I think I would choose: 9:00 P.M. on New Year’s Eve, 2009—more than two years after my first panic attack. I’m in a barn, in a horse stall, watching a man knead his hands into my horse, Claret. Sal’s hands are large and rugged—one finger is slightly deformed where he had the tip reattached after a horse bit it off—and they move with an unquestionable intelligence as they work Claret’s muscles. Sal’s agreed to come on a holiday evening, while Larry waits at home for his midnight kiss, because he understands horses, and the people who love them, and he knows I would rather be here than at a party or watching Dick Clark on TV. I know so little about horses compared to most horse people, those who have been around horses all their lives, those who grew up speaking the unique language of horses, but I do know that Claret has been in pain, and I want him to feel better.
    Outside the stall window, the night is luminous, ablaze in white.There are several inches of snow on the ground, and it’s a soft snow, the kind that parts around your feet as you sift through it. As Sal leans into Claret and we all exhale white smoke into the cold, I wonder if people go sledding at night. Surely they must, but who are they? Where do they go? And why aren’t I one of them? I have never thought about this before, but suddenly it seems so obvious to me that I want to be someone who goes sledding at night—that girl who zips up her puffy jacket and pulls down her wool hat with the single pom-pom on top, and takes off down the hill. They say that every day is a day to claim our lives, and tonight, on New Year’s Eve, I’m claiming night sledding. As long as we are alive, there is always the chance to begin again. Begin again beginagainbeginagainbeginagain . How easily the mind repeats this mantra.
    I say nothing of this to Sal, who is mostly quiet, except when he occasionally comments on a particularly tight spot of Claret’s body. “He’s really reactive here,” he says, pressing so hard that his hand disappears between the base of Claret’s neck and his shoulder blade. Claret rears up in pain, and I step back, out of the way. But Sal doesn’t release the pressure, no matter how hard Claret tries to twist away, and then suddenly something gives, and Claret’s neck softens and his eyes soften and he starts making the slow chewing sounds horses make when they’re relaxed. And Sal keeps his hand there, now palpating a little, while Claret