Chapter Sixteen #2
Diane walks into the kitchen, Noah's mouth going a mile a minute as he tells her all about his art class today.
The rest of Atlas' things are in a box by the front door for her to take back to her house, packed up by me when we got back home. I only shed a couple of tears.
Progress.
"Hey, baby," I tell Noah, grabbing his sketchpad and handing it to him along with his apple juice. "Can you go into the living room and watch TV?"
"Okay, Mama," he says easily, grabbing his things and skipping out of the kitchen.
Once I hear the TV turn on and the familiar, soothing tenor of Bob Ross, I turn back to Diane. She looks tense, and I notice the circles under her eyes, exhaustion carved into her face.
"What happened?" I ask, my stomach dropping.
She glances back in the direction of the living room and sighs, placing her purse down on the counter.
"Emmett took Atlas out last night. They were gone for a couple of hours," Diane says, sliding onto the stool at the island. I gesture toward the coffee machine out of habit, and she shakes her head immediately. "No. Caffeine is the last thing I need right now."
I stay standing because I don't think I can sit still now, not with the anxiety buzzing under my skin.
"He said... well, Emmet said he wasn't making much sense," Diane continues, shaking her head slowly. "Atlas was angry at first, saying he needed to get back to you, to the boys. Emmett just hammered into him. He'd been steaming mad ever since I told him what you told me."
She exhales shakily, "But he said Atlas just... cracked. Frantic, erratic, babbling about nightmares and you and money..."
Nightmares. I think of Atlas’ nightmare, the confusing words he spoke during it, how he acted after. How he pulled me close and then pushed me away.
Diane rests her head in her hands, rubbing at her forehead. My mind splinters into a million directions, and the one it latches onto makes me gasp.
"It's not... it's not drugs, right? Or alcohol?"
Frantically, I pull out my phone to pull up our banking statements.
Oh, God. Atlas...
Has he been pulling out cash? Is that what the other job is for—to fund that? How the hell could I have missed that? Am I heartless, or did I just assume he was neglectful when instead he was actually suffering from addiction? What kind of wife does that make me—
"No," Diane says instantly, sharply, cutting off my panic before it can spiral further. "No, it's not drugs. It's not booze."
She leans forward, eyes intense. "Emmett said he seemed like he was having a... some kind of mental break."
"Mental," I repeat faintly, my entire body going ice cold.
"I think..." Diane says quietly, her eyes wide and shining with fear. "I think this is bigger than we thought, sweetheart."
My hand presses harder against my chest, rubbing over my heart where there's a deep, physical ache.
My Atlas. Suffering mentally.
Suddenly, everything makes sense—the absence, the pulling away, the short temper.
Guilt floods my body again.
Why did I not see? How could I not see? Am I stupid or willfully ignorant?
"Emmett brought him home. He's still locked up in himself, wouldn't say much to me," Diane continues, voice thick. "But we're going to bring him to a therapist. Silas saw a really good one after..."
She trails off, but I nod, understanding without needing the rest.
"Atlas agreed to go. We said it was the only way you would allow him to have a relationship with the kids. He... I think last night was necessary for Atlas. There's something going on. I don't..." Diane breaks off, covering her face with her hands. "How could I have missed it? I'm his mother..."
"Diane," I whisper, my voice cracking but needing to comfort her, to take the blame myself. "I existed in the same house, and I didn't even know. If anyone is to blame, it's me—"
"No!" Diane snaps fiercely, dropping her hands and pointing at me. "You take those words back, shove them down, and never think of them again. We told him that what he did—no matter the reasons—was wrong: neglecting you and his sons was cruel. He fucked up, and he knows it."
I shake my head, still shaken, baffled, and aching. "How could I not see?"
"Because you were running a household, Wendy. You were doing your job, you were being a mother to your sons. You tried to get him help.”
Her words make sense, but my brain doesn’t want to accept them. Instead it just wants to find someone to blame.
“I keep thinking that if he had shown up to couples therapy, maybe that therapist could have recognized something,” Diane shakes her head. “He told Emmett he purposefully missed it."
I nod in confirmation, remembering his words yesterday and how much it fucking hurt to hear them.
He chose not to come.
Because he was suffering, and I didn’t see.
"I feel like a failure."
"You're a mother," she says plainly. "It's funny—if you feel like a failure, that usually means you're doing great. If you feel like you're doing everything right, that's when you need to reexamine."
She softens, smiling at me. "And you, Wendy, are a fantastic mother. Those boys adore you. You love them, and they love you. You're protecting them right now. You are doing everything right."
"I can tell myself that over and over again," I whisper, "but..."
"But the maternal guilt is still there."
I nod.
"Our lawyer knows a family law attorney," Diane says with a tired sigh. "We're setting up a meeting this week to respond to the separation. Atlas is taking the next two weeks off from the garage. He needs a break before he breaks completely."
I wince, feeling so uncertain.
"Should I pause the—"
"No," Diane says, shaking her head. Her dark eyes blaze, "No, you keep the separation. He was not a good husband or father this last year. Whatever is going on with him mentally might explain to us why, but it doesn't erase the damage. And there is a-fucking-lot of it."
Diane tilts her head as she studies me and asks gently, "Do you think that there is a chance for you to get back together?"
I don’t think, because my mind will twist itself into knots if I think too hard right now, so I just answer from my gut.
"Right now? No," I admit, shaking my head.
My throat feels tight as I continue. "He really hurt me, Mom.
A year. A whole year of anxiety, fear that I was doing everything wrong, on top of taking care of the boys by myself, and fielding their questions about their father until they just stopped asking.
He neglected us, he ignored us, he chose. .. he chose this."
She nods, understanding.
"But..." I shrug helplessly, smiling sadly through the pain. "I love him. I love him so much it hurts. Maybe... but I don't know. I feel like I've lost so much this last year, not only my husband, but myself. I don't... I don't know who I am."
Tears burn behind my eyes, my voice shaking, climbing higher with every word.
"And I thought one thing about Atlas, and now I find out it's another, and I feel so sad for him that he was struggling.
.. but I'm also so mad at him because why did he pull away from me when I could have helped him?
! I would have understood! I would have held him through it, I would have loved him through it. .."
I laugh bitterly, clutching at my head, running my hands through my hair, and pulling.
"And then I think that I did something that kept him from talking to me, and—God, my mind is so tangled right now," my voice breaks, and I hitch a sob, "I love him, and I hate him.
I want to kiss him, and I want to push him away like he did to me.
I want to shake him and scream why?! Why couldn't you just talk to me?
! Why punish your sons?! And I want to hold him and never let go and tell him that I'll protect him from anything, but he just needs to talk to me. .."
Diane pushes off from her chair and wraps me in her arms as I break into sobs, holding me through this.
Noah peeks his head around the corner, and I try to hide my face, so it looks like I'm just hugging Grandmom, not unraveling into her embrace.
"Noah, sweetheart," Diane says, her voice sweet and gentle, "why don't you go outside with your brother for a bit?"
"Is Mama okay?"
His concerned little face makes more tears spring to my eyes, but I try to quickly wipe them away and paint on a smile.
He walks over and wraps his small arms around my waist, and I clutch him, my baby anchoring me to the ground.
"I'm okay, baby," I tell him softly, rubbing his back. "I'm just having some big feelings right now."
"You always say it's okay for boys to cry, Mama," he says seriously, tilting his head up to look at me. "You always say that."
"I do."
"It's okay for Mamas to cry too," he says, squeezing me tighter.
A couple of my tears fall into his ginger hair, and I lean down to press a kiss to his forehead.
"You're the best," I whisper. "You know that?"
"Heavy," he says solemnly, quoting his new hero—Marty McFly. I laugh and kiss his head once more.
I laugh softly and kiss his head again. "I love you."
"I love you too," he says, smiling wider now.
"Can you go outside with your brother?"
"Can I bring my sketchbook?"
"Of course," I say gently. "How are you gonna draw me an autumn lanscrape without it?"
"Landscape, Mama," he corrects smugly.
"That's right," I nod, patting him toward the door. "Put your sweatshirt on. It's getting cold."
"Okay!" He calls, and moments later, I hear the front door close.
I take a few deep breaths, steadying myself, before turning back to Diane.
"You and those boys keep on keeping on," Diane says decisively, nodding once. "You follow through with this year. Atlas needs to heal—and he's the one who needs to do the work."