Chapter 18: Trixie

Trixie awoke first the next morning and watched James sleep next to her, peaceful and beautiful. She thought about all of the doubts she had and how he countered each one. She thought about how gentle he always was, how well he spoke to her and treated her. How much he fulfilled her, protected her, cared for her. How obviously he loved her. Like yesterday, in the shower...

Her body stiffened and James, half awake, sensed her tension. "What is it?" he asked.

"We're engaged," she started. "We'll be having a wedding. With friends. And...and family."

James sat up. "What brings this up? What's wrong?" Trixie looked past him to the table where her phone was yesterday. "I put it away," he said.

Trixie nodded. James walked to the desk across the room and pulled her phone out of the drawer. He returned to the bed and held her hand.

"We can just delete it," James started.

Trixie shook her head. "The "what if" is just as strong and the message itself," she explained.

"We'll listen together on speaker?" he offered. Trixie nodded. She unlocked the phone and handed it back to him. He pressed play and placed it down, scooping her into his lap and kissing her head.

"Beatrice," a voice barked, "I know you're not busy, you bum. Lazy good for nothing. There's an opening at White River where you can be a real sci-en-thith." The voice slurred and there was an audible sloshing sound before the voice continued, "It's been 12 weeks since I called you and you never came, you ungrateful brat. I brought you into this world and..." James hit delete before the voice could finish.

He looked down at the phone apologetically. "We'll get you a new one," he said moving the shattered device off the bed. "We'll change your number too."

Trixie gave her head a slight shake.

"Ok," James agreed, "No need to change all of your information for one person. We can talk to the carrier, make sure her number doesn't get through. I will not allow anyone to speak to you like that."

Trixie's body stiffened and her breaths came shorter and faster. She felt the room begin to spin as she began to tremble in his arms. Worthless. Lazy. Ungrateful. Unloveable. All of these well-used phrases plagued her thoughts, running on repeat.

James looked down at her helplessly. He was always the one being pulled out of this darkness- by Steve, by Shuri, by Trixie. He thought of what it was she did in the kitchen. Her breath quickened more as she spiraled into hyperventilation.

"Listen to my voice," he said gently, "Feel the...soft bed beneath you? See the...golden wall paper...across from you. Hear the...AC unit humming...and the traffic noise." He paused, but Trixie's breathing remained shallow.

James looked around and saw a pastry bag on the side table, still filled with chocolate croissants for a quiet breakfast in bed before they checked out of the room. He grabbed the bag and slid the pastry to the table, then shook the crumbs to the floor. "Breathe into this," he said, raising the bag to her face, "Deep breaths to make the bag nice and full." He held the bag near her chin. He hesitated, not sure if he should hold the bag against her skin and make her breathe into it, or keep it close and let her take it when she was ready. He only ever saw this done once, and wasn't sure whether or not it actually worked.

Trixie's shallow breathing stopped suddenly and erupted into a deep sob.

Worthless.

And another, wrenching her body forward.

Unloveable.

James dropped the bag to the floor, and reached out with his right hand and held her to his chest. Each wave of wracked her body and she thought she would break, but he still held her gently to him. Decades of being told she was a mistake roiled through her, imprinted into the core of her being by one of the people who was supposed to love her no matter what. Yet, this person chose to tear her down. Repeatedly. Daily. Year after year.

Her best wasn't good enough. Perfection wasn't good enough. She was trash. Worthless. Trixie tried to blame it on her alcoholism, tried to blame it solely on the liquor. Drinking made it worse, for sure, but the comments still came even when she was sober.

James continued to hold her, humming softly behind her some of the lyrics of Blue Skies, as the sobs became less violent and turned into whimpers. Exhausted, Trixie began to melt into James's body behind her. Trixie moved her hand until she felt his left hand balled into a tight fist at her side. As she touched it, he immediately unfurled his fingers and she slid her hand into his. He continued to hold her, and continued to hum to her, and just let her come to things on her own time.

Trixie's breathing finally steadied, and she tried to speak, but another sob threatened to well up from her belly again. James held her tighter against him and gently rubbed her arm with his right hand, continued holding her left hand in his, and kissed the top of her head. Her breathing steadied and deepened, and she had fallen back asleep. James reclined himself as much as he could, to allow her to get as comfortable as he could. She rested fitfully, whimpering every few minutes and he just held her closer.

After about half an hour, Trixie stirred and stretched, pulling herself off James and wordlessly moving to the bathroom. He stayed on the bed and watched her disappear past the door frame, carefully listening for any signs of distress. Trixie looked at herself in the mirror and shuddered. She had fought so hard to shake her demons. She hadn't had a panic attack like this in two years. It had been 12 weeks since she had heard from her mother. And the last time they had, she wasn't drunk so her words were manipulative and curt but not biting and hurtful. She had control that time.

"You're too small to change the world," and "You're too idealistic to ever be anything," were some of Mom's greatest hits. Trixie imagined that's what her mom would've said if James didn't delete the message. Mom never approved of her life choices, and once again New Jersey didn't feel far enough away from New Hampshire. She wasn't sure the Moon would be far enough away from New Hampshire.

Trixie shuddered again and raced to the toilet, retching what little she had in her stomach. James was suddenly behind her, rubbing her back. She closed the lid and flushed, then slumped to the floor. James handed her a wet washcloth, a dry hand towel, and a glass of water. Trixie wiped her face and tossed the wet towel in a corner, but didn't take the dry towel or the water. She went to stand, but was still shaking. James reached down and offered to help her up. She nodded slowly and he scooped her up and carried her back to the bed. He knelt at her side and kissed her hand. Trixie rolled away.

"Tell me what you need," he said softly, "Even if it's nothing. Even if it's time, or space..."

"I forgot how unloveable I am," she whispered.

"No," he said, his anger rising, "No. You are the kindest, most sincere, most caring, most lovable person I have ever met. I have met a lot of caring people. I have met a lot of sincere people in my 103 years in this life and you are the... I can't even put into words how remarkable you are." James's voice cracked, "Please, look at me."

Trixie slowly rolled over and met his eyes. She saw the incredible amount of pain in his eyes, her pain reflected back to her through him. "What you carry, I carry," he said, "Nothing alone."

Trixie nodded at him and he leaned down and kissed her forehead. She pushed over and gave him room to lay next to her. He gladly took the space and pulled her into him, holding onto her as though if he released she would float away. He called down to the front desk, extending their check out. Then they laid there, feeling each other's warmth and hearing each other's breathing, secure in each other.