Chapter 37 Steven
Chapter thirty-seven
Steven
Everyone knows that phrase… a picture is worth a thousand words.
It used to drive me crazy. It always felt ridiculous to think a blurry Polaroid could say anything more than what someone was doing or wearing.
But now, staring at this worn photo of my dad holding the twins in the hospital, I’m begging for those words.
Even just a hundred words. Anything that might bring it all back to me.
“Did you ever go to sleep?” Shayna yawns as she shuffles into the kitchen, wearing a bright-yellow bathrobe and her typical I hate mornings scowl. Without warning, she flips on the overhead kitchen light, blasting my retinas.
“Yeah, sure.” I don’t look up, squinting to focus on the photo. I drag my thumb along its soft, frayed edge. It’s well loved. Dad probably held it in his wallet for far too long.
“You’re going to drive yourself crazy,” she murmurs, pouring two cups of coffee and sliding one toward me.
“I’m already going crazy. May as well do my homework.”
She snorts. “You’re not in high school anymore, Steven.”
I shrug, trying to ignore the aching pulse that’s settling in the center of my head.
“You won’t make any progress on no sleep.” She eyes my hands as they press into the tender spot at my temples. “I’m serious,” she adds. “You’re going to make everything worse if you force this.”
I scoff. “I’ve already done that, so what could this hurt?”
“What are you talking about?”
I glare at her, irritated by her confusion, but she only waits.
“My wife left, Shayna.” My voice rises, but she doesn’t even flinch. “How much worse could it get?”
“Steven, she went home,” she says gently. “You both agreed her leaving for a bit was best, so you could be here with Mom. She’s giving you space. That’s not the same thing.”
“I think she was already going to leave me,” I whisper so quietly it could’ve been in my head. Like, if no one really hears it, it won’t be true.
“What?” Shayna blinks then sets her coffee down and crosses her arms. “Well… What’d you do to make her want to leave you?”
I gape at her. “Why do we automatically assume this is my fault?”
She arches a brow, lips twitching like she’s holding back a smile. I have no idea what’s funny. Instead of answering, she takes a long, obnoxiously loud sip of her coffee, letting the silence do the talking.
Groaning into my hands does nothing for my mood. Neither does scrubbing at my prickly jaw or bloodshot eyes. But I do it anyway. Again and again.
“You’re going to rub your face off.”
“Do you have anything productive to say right now?”
“Rawr,” she teases, curling her fingers like claws and hissing for dramatic effect. As irritating as she is, it’s still a relief to know she hasn’t changed. She’s a cumbersome kind of comfort.
I finally give up on the photo album, snap it shut, and shove it to the far end of the table before slumping back in my chair. The pulse in my skull swells into a full ache, crawling over my head, down my neck, and settling heavy in my shoulders.
Shayna sighs, her eyes soft with so much pity it makes my stomach twist. I don’t need her pity. I need her help.
She must sense this, because her expression shifts. Gently, she straightens the album and taps her red manicured nails against the embossed leather.
“What’s the last thing you remember?” she asks.
I grumble, worn down from giving the same explanation all week. Still, I say, “I vaguely remember meeting Emma. And I’ve had moments where things feel familiar, but I can’t actually see them. It’s just…a gut feeling.”
I tell her about the Spider-Man toy. The kitchen. The way I know where everything is without thinking, like my body remembers even if my brain doesn’t. About sensing Emma’s anxiety before she ever says a word.
She listens intently, nodding and humming the way a doctor does when you tell them your symptoms.
“Do you remember anything about work?”
I blink at her, a sudden pressure crashing into my chest, like I might fold in on myself. She notices immediately, the hitch in my breath, the frantic tap of my fingers.
“I see.” She twists her mouth, choosing her next words carefully. “What are you so afraid of right now?”
A sharp laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it.
Then I just stare at her. “Isn’t it obvious?
I’m afraid of never getting them back.” I jab a finger at my head, pointing at the useless brain sitting in there.
“I’m afraid I’ll always be the husband and father who can’t remember half his kids’ lives. ”
“Dramatic. But go on.”
“I’m afraid…” I inhale slowly. “That I’ll end up the same guy I was before. And she’ll leave me anyway.”
“And that’s why you’re avoiding your other memories.” It’s not a question. “You’re afraid to remember things about your work, about medicine, because that’s the thing that consumed you so completely it took you away from your family.”
Her words punch me straight in the throat. Slow, painful, but precise enough that I rub my neck just to remind myself I’m still breathing.
“You’re avoiding something that could help you, Steven.” Her tone is careful but unyielding, straight to the point with no room for padding my ego. Shayna has never been the type to soften the truth just to make me feel better. It’s honesty or nothing with her.
“You’re avoiding…” She leans forward onto her elbows, leveling me with a look. “Because you’re scared of what it’ll reveal.”
The unnerving truth lands hot and heavy, swelling in my throat.
Footsteps creak on the stairs as a light is flipped on, followed by the echo of Dad’s morning yawn.
Shayna glances at the sound and sighs. “Look, I can’t force you to do anything. But I really think you need to re-evaluate how you’re approaching all of this. You might be surprised at what it unlocks.”
“Right,” I grumble.
“You’ll get there.”
Right. I don’t tell her that I don’t believe her. I don’t tell her that if I remember work, I might not be strong enough to choose better, prioritize better, become the man I’m supposed to be. A better man. Because if I can’t do that, I won’t be able to fix anything.
She nudges my coffee closer then disappears upstairs as Dad wanders in. He’s humming a tune I don’t recognize, shimmying around the kitchen like the party from last night never ended.
“Someone’s in a good mood,” I say, finally taking a drink, reveling in the swirl of chocolate and dark roast as I down half the cup.
“Just happy,” Dad says, pausing long enough to give me finger guns, then he goes right back to dancing.
“I’m gonna take a shower.” I haul myself out of the chair, and a rigid ache settles in my bones as I do. “When did I get old?” I groan.
Dad chuckles as he pours himself a cup of coffee. “It happened in a blink.”
I don’t miss the nostalgic glimmer that moves through his eyes, that quiet knowing that time is slipping by. I felt it the other day when Josie rolled onto her stomach for the first time, a hollow ache hitting me when I realized my baby is growing right in front of me.
“Take a nap, will ya?” Dad says, eyeing me rub at my lower back.
“You’re a bossy bunch around here.”
“You’ll thank us one day.” He chuckles when I wave him off and head for the stairs. “Hey, um…” He hesitates, and I pause on the stairs. His eyes are pinched shut, like asking me for a favor physically pains him. “Can you still take your mother to her hair appointment?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’m happy to. Don’t worry.”
He exhales, a weight lifting off him, and a rush of warmth floods me at the thought of doing him a favor and of stealing a little time with my mom. I can’t help the laugh that slips out as he twirls back to his private dance floor.
I almost fall asleep in the shower, slipping twice and knocking my head against the tile. But not hard enough to get my memories back apparently. The intrusive temptation to throw myself against the wall hits fast and leaves just as quickly, but the fact that it appeared at all is alarming.
“I need sleep,” I mutter to my fogged-up reflection.
I still don’t recognize the man staring back, not even after three weeks.
And the grays at my temples and the wrinkles around my eyes aren’t the issue.
It’s the dimness in my stare, the downturn of my mouth, the look of a man worn all the way down.
I can’t pin all of this on Emma and the kids.
I know I did this to myself. I’ve apparently worked myself into the ground and dragged everyone down with me.
So yeah, I’m terrified to remember anything about work, terrified to hold that knowledge again.
A knowledge that is so addictive and consuming I lose sight of everything else.
It’s what led me here and cost me years of my life.
“Where are we going?” Mom asks from the passenger seat. It’s the third time since we left the house five minutes ago. Her frail hands clutch the seatbelt so tightly her knuckles are white.
“To get your hair done,” I say, wiggling my eyebrows.
“Oh, yay.” She beams, relaxing back into the seat, but a moment later, her eyes cloud with confusion again.
“Are you excited to get your hair done?” I offer gently.
“Oh, yes,” she replies, her smile brightening again.
This cycle continues for the entire drive to the salon. When I help her into the chair, a gnawing ache digs into my chest. I guess I hoped she’d be more lucid today.
Her appointment is less than twenty minutes—a quick wash and curl. Something about short outings like this are good for her. It keeps her routine and sense of self intact.
“How do I look?” she asks as the drape comes off.
“Radiant,” I tell her, slipping the stylist an extra tip for having to repeat her cat’s name ten times.
Our wide smiles carry us down the sidewalk, and any trace of exhaustion I was feeling earlier melts away. Mom points out little boutiques, grins wildly when we pass a baby in a stroller, and does an awkward shuffle dance when she hears music spill out of a cafe.