Relativity by Antonia Hayes

you can. In the nose, out the mouth. Let’s try counting backward from one hundred in threes. We can do it together. One hundred. Ninety-seven. Ninety-four.”
    â€œNinety-one,” said Claire, following the breathing pattern: inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, in the nose, out the mouth. “Eighty-eight. Eighty-five.”
    The nurse gave her an encouraging smile. “That’s right. Eighty-two.”
    Eventually, Claire caught her breath. The dizziness stopped and her panic began to shrink. But now she felt like she’d been hit over the head with a blunt object. “Sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”
    â€œYou’re exhausted,” said the nurse. “You need to sleep. Even for an hour. There’s a parents’ lounge just down the end of the hall.”
    â€œI need to stay here. What if he wakes up?”
    â€œThen we’ll come and get you,” the nurse said. “I promise. Rest up for him, you’ll be no help to your son tomorrow if you’re sleep-deprived.”
    Claire reluctantly agreed. She went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on her face. Her hair looked wild, her eyes bloodshot. Breathe normally, she said to her reflection in the mirror. Do not fall apart.
    But she couldn’t fall asleep. She rolled onto her back and stared at the patterns on the ceiling. Each time a car drove past outside, it distorted the light. Her heart beat loudly; she was sure other parents sleeping nearby could hear it pump and pound.
    Back here again. She couldn’t believe it. Lying on a narrow foldout bed with its familiar metal frame pressing into her back. It even smelled the same—industrial laundry powder, stale hospital food. But what Claire really couldn’t believe was that she was back in this place inside her head. The darkest place with the darkest thoughts and the darkest feelings; she thought she’d come so far. This was all her fault. She knew it was. She could’ve stopped Ethan being here again. She’d made so many mistakes, kept too many secrets.
    Claire pushed the memories aside but now everything was flooding back. She’d seen things she couldn’t forget. Years of nightmares, flashbacks, hauntings; there’d been so many sleepless, terror-filled nights. Friends had gently suggested she really ought to talk to somebody about it, get professional help. One psychologist had diagnosed her with post-traumatic stress disorder, but knowing the name for whatever was wrong didn’t heal Claire. Her trauma wasn’t easily extinguished; it quietly continued to blaze and flare. But looking after herself wasn’t a priority. She’d do that later. Ethan always came first. Claire learned to live with the lightning crashes of pain and panic, the sudden stun of suffocation. They were her penance for her mistakes.
    Another car drove past, white headlight streaks elongating on the ceiling before the sound of the engine rolled away. Her nightmare revisited, refracted from another angle, fractured by different light. Claire was drained. After her adrenaline-fueled high, she could feel her body crash. Shadows crept back again, the blacks and blues of pre-dawn like bruises left behind by night. Her heavy eyelids started to close.
    Î©
    A TALL DOCTOR entered the room. Something about him made Ethan think of a rainforest: trunks for limbs, a beard so thick maybe wildlife lived inside. Behind him was a nurse with straight black hair fixed into a neat ponytail. She smiled at the two children. Alison was still sitting on Ethan’s bed. Next to the giant doctor, the nurse seemed like a dwarf.
    â€œMorning, Alison,” the doctor said in a loud voice, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Remember what you’ve been told about leaving your bed; you’re not allowed to get in with other patients. But looks like you’ve made a friend.” He smiled. “How long has he been awake?”
    â€œOnly a few