Chapter Seventeen
Atlas
November
My hands can't stop shaking the further we drive from my house—my home, my Wendy, my boys...
It doesn't make any sense.
I've spent the past year deliberately removing myself from them, distancing myself from my wife and sons, but now all I want to do is go home.
I want to hug my boys and tell them I'm sorry. I want to fall at my wife's feet and beg her forgiveness. I want to tell her that I love her, that I'm sorry, that I don't know why I've been feeling like this, and that I don't understand why I treated her the way I did.
I want to tell them that my entire world revolves around them.
I want to promise that I'll change, that I'll do better, but I don't even know if I can keep that promise.
I want to tell my wife that my love for her is stronger than my fear of losing her, but that would be a lie.
I want to rewind time and do everything right, but I think I'd just end up making the same mistakes all over again.
"What the hell is going on with you?" My father snaps from the driver's seat, white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
The words rumble from his chest like thunder, pushed out through gritted teeth. It's the same tone he used when we were kids and got in trouble.
It feels the same right now.
"Is this how I taught you to treat your family?" He continues, "To neglect them? Ignore them?"
"No," I force out, my throat tight.
"Then what the fuck were you thinking? A year. A whole goddamn year."
I shake my head, and my dad growls frustrated with me.
I'm frustrated with myself, too.
The tension in the truck grows thick until my dad pulls into the Durant Auto Body parking lot. He slams on the brakes, throws the truck into park, and turns toward me, eyes blazing.
"Get out."
I follow him around the back of the building, already knowing where he's taking me. There's a small warehouse tucked behind the shop, something he used for storage back when the place had only two bays and a desk.
Now that we have room, it's become a place for mechanics to smoke, make private phone calls, or scream after dealing with a nightmare client.
Years ago, we added a punching bag as a way to relieve some stress. The chain is rusted to hell, the bag practically falling apart at the seams, but it's still there, hanging from the ceiling.
My dad roughly unlocks the chain securing the warehouse door and gestures for me to get in. He flips on the light switch, illuminating the cold, empty room.
There are two old chairs in the corner with an overturned bucket we use as a small table, an ashtray on it.
My dad slams the door closed and points at the bag.
"Punch it," he growls.
I glance back and forth between him and the bag, fists clenching and unclenching at my sides, feeling my bones vibrate and like my skin is too tight and itchy.
"No."
"Punch it."
"No!"
"Punch. It."
"You know what? Fuck this!" I snarl, turning to walk toward the door. My mind goes haywire instantly. "I gotta get back to my wife—to my sons—I-I gotta fix this—"
"Atlas! Don't you walk away from me!"
Stopping mid-step, I turn and spit out, "Fuck you."
"Fuck me?" he barks, a harsh laugh ripping from his throat, holding his hands out. "Yeah, fuck me for raising a weak man who abandons his family!"
My anger flares violently, the words I've repeated to myself now coming from my father. I'm not seeing my dad in front of me; I see myself.
My weak, pathetic, useless self telling me the truth.
"Fuck you!"
"You angry, boy?" He sneers, pointing to the bag. "Show me. Fucking punch it!"
I sigh and throw a half-hearted punch.
His lip curls, and he crosses his arms. The anger is a thick blanket in this cold room, freezing and scalding all at once.
"What is going on, Atlas?"
I swallow hard, gritting my teeth against the words that threaten to explode out of me.
"Nothing."
"Wrong answer," he points at the bag. "Punch it."
Frustrated, I snarl and punch the bag harder, feeling the sting in my knuckles.
It hurts, but then there's... something underneath it.
A relief. A warmth, spreading from my chest outward. It feels good, and I want to grab it, hold onto it.
"Why did you leave your family?"
I shake my head.
"Punch it!"
I punch harder now, and then again.
The pain, the relief. It cycles again.
"Why, Atlas?"
Punch.
"Why, Atlas?"
Punch.
"You weak? Is that it?"
Punch. Punch. Punch.
"What kind of man abandons his family?"
Punch.
"His wife."
Punch.
"His boys."
Punch.
"What kind of man are you, Atlas?"
Wendy, in a hospital bed, dying from cancer.
"Shut up."
"What kind of husband treats his wife like that?"
Wendy, bleeding out from some wound, bright red blood seeping between my fingers.
"Shut. Up."
"What kind of father treats his sons like that?"
Wendy, crying out in pain, gasping that she's scared, that she doesn't want to die.
"Shut up!"
Punch. Punch. Punch. Punch. Kick.
"Tell me what's going on!"
"She's going to die!"
I punch and punch and punch and punch the bag until my knuckles are shredded, each punch emphasizing a word.
With a loud, angry roar and a furious kick with all my strength, the bag snaps off the chain and collapses to the ground.
And I collapse with it.
"She's going to die!" I scream until my throat is raw. "She's going to die, she's going to die, she's going to die—and I can't stop it!"
The words pour out of me. I can't stop them, I can't hold it in anymore. They just keep coming and coming and coming.
My father looks at me, horror etched across his face. "Atlas..."
"She's going to die, Dad," I sob, watching my blood drip to the floor, dots of red spotting the concrete. Red. Wendy. Her hair, her lips.
I always associate that color with her, with warmth, with love.
"And I can't do anything to stop it! My head—my fucking head won't shut up, and these goddamn nightmares won't stop!"
I clutch at my head, gripping my hair and pulling.
"Atlas," my dad moves toward me, wrapping his big arms around me, but I fight him because I feel as though I'm half-beast right now.
My dad's always been as immovable as a mountain.
As a kid, I always thought nothing could ever hurt us because my dad was there; he would protect us from any monster.
I wanted to be that for Wendy and our boys, but I just became the monster that hurts them.
"I have to make enough money so she'll be okay—so they'll be okay," I choke out. "They don't need me. But I need them. I need her! And one day she won't be here and the boys—"
"Atlas, my boy, it's okay—"
"I need her," my voice breaks, sobbing uncontrollably now. "I need her, I need her, I need her..."
"Son, hey, hey, hey—" my dad holds me, gently rocking me side to side.
All the fight, all the anger, all the fear drains out of me as he holds me. That relief kicks through my body like a drug, flooding my veins. I feel dizzy, my feet stumble, but my dad holds me up.
"I got you, son, I got you. I'm here... your Daddy's here. It's okay..."
"Dad, I messed up..." I sob, gripping onto him like he's the only thing anchoring me to earth. Wendy's hurt face, Noah's uncertainty, and Liam's resentment play on a loop in my brain. "I hurt Wendy, my baby... I hurt my boys—my family—"
"Shh, now, it's alright, Atlas, it's going to be alright. I got you, son, I got you..."
I fall apart in my father's arms, holding onto him desperately, remembering how I held Wendy through her falling apart earlier.
Wendy. Liam. Noah.
Memories flash across my eyes, our lives together, all the good times.
Carrying Liam on my shoulders on a hike, Wendy lounging at the lake with a sleeping Noah on her chest, sitting at the overlook and kissing my girl.
Our wedding, our son's births, playing basketball with Liam, hanging up a painting Noah made for me in my office, making love to my wife and telling her she's my whole world.
My wife, my kids, my life.
The memories ease my pounding heart back to a normal rhythm, slow my breathing, and calm my body. I don't know how long I stay in my father's arms, but I feel drained by the time I come to.
"I love you, son," my father tells me, hands on my face, making sure I'm looking into his eyes. "You hear? I love you."
I nod.
"We're going to fix this," he says, nodding his head with a tight smile. "And we're going to do it together, okay?"
I nod.
"Your Mama and me," he affirms, "We're going to take care of you. We're gonna take care of this. I'm sorry, son, I'm sor—"
"No," I breathe, frantically shaking my head. "No, don't apologize. Please, don't..."
"We should have caught this. We should have seen this. We were just so focused on Silas and the girls," the mention of my brother makes me flinch, but my dad doesn't catch it. I'm not ready to talk about that yet.
I don't even think the words would be able to escape my mouth.
"We need to get you help," my dad says gently. "Will you do that?"
"Dad, I don't..." I start, because instinct and fear is telling me to push away, to run, to create distance.
"Atlas," he stresses, not allowing me to deflect anymore. "You are a father. You are a husband. But, you can't be either if you don't get help. Do you understand me?"
He's right. I can't go on like this.
How the hell am I going to get back my wife, my sons, like this? I wouldn't even want them around me right now.
God, the thought of scaring Wendy and my boys by witnessing what I just did makes my chest tighten.
I glance down at my hands, my knuckles shredded and bleeding. I'm sure I look feral right now, my hair wild, breathing heavily, a thirty-two-year-old man collapsed into his father's arms like a child.
"Let's go home," my Dad says, but that only brings about the reality.
My home is Wendy.
My home is gone.
I lit the match and walked away. I let her burn and kept myself just warm enough with distance, but didn't risk jumping into the fire to help.
Wendy's face from earlier flashes across my eyes, her confusion, her hurt, her devastation.
Clarity hits me like a lightning strike.
What's worse? The nightmares—my created illusions in my head—or the reality of the devastation that I've caused her.
What's worse? Living without her forever, or living with her and enjoying the time I have with her, with my boys.
What's worse? Missing her while she's still alive and breathing and knowing I can't touch her, or missing her while she's dead, and knowing that I enjoyed every second I had with her.
"Oh God," I say, clutching at my hand, the flexing of my knuckles finally kicking in my pain receptors.
Fuck, that hurts.
"Come on, son," my dad says, pressing a kiss to my head and gently rubbing my back. "Let's get you cleaned up. You need rest. And tomorrow... we'll start fixing this."
I nod as my dad keeps one arm wrapped around my shoulders and leads us back to the car. I don't even know where to start to unpack this, to fix this, but... I'm not alone.
My dad's arm tightens around me. Wendy's smiling face and Noah and Liam's laughter wrap around me like an embrace.
I'm not alone.
◆◆◆
I wake slowly, head pounding and feeling groggy like I have a hangover.
I'm in my childhood bedroom, the one that became me and Wendy's room after she moved in, pregnant with Liam.
I still remember those days, both of us squeezed onto this queen mattress, Liam's bassinet by her side of the bed, watching her breastfeed in awe...
The room is slightly different now, with new sheets and bedding, all of my knick-knacks and pictures at my house.
That reminder makes a sharp pain appear behind my eyes. Not my house anymore. The memories of yesterday make me nauseous. I flex my hand into a fist, then hiss as the skin pulls.
Coming home last night is a blur; my mom was concerned, speaking softly to my dad while she bandaged up my broken knuckles. Blood seeps through, the red stark against the white.
My dad had practically carried me to bed, and I'm still in my overalls from the shop, my boots tossed on the floor.
Sitting up, I wince at the pounding in my head and rub my temples, trying to breathe through the nausea and pain.
My mom cracks open the door and walks in when she sees me awake.
"How do you feel?"
"Like shit," I rasp, my throat feeling raw.
She nods, carrying over her first aid kit. Silently, she works to remove my old bandages, apply ointment to my open knuckles, and apply fresh bandages.
"I have gloves you can wear while you shower. They're in the bathroom. Do you want coffee?"
I nod.
"Clean up and come down, I'll have breakfast too," she looks at me for a long moment, before pressing a kiss to my head. "I love you, Atlas."
My nose stings as I reply, "I love you too, Mom."
She smiles softly and gently taps my cheek before standing up and walking out the door.
Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting at the kitchen island, eating bacon and eggs and drinking coffee in silence, while my mom peers at me over her own cup.
"Where's Dad?"
"At the shop. He's... moving your appointments. You're taking off these next few weeks."
I open my mouth to refuse, to say that I'm fine, that I need to work, but her expression makes me snap my mouth closed. It's the expression that says, 'argue with me, I dare you.'
And I know better.
I nod, and she gives me a small smile.
"We talked to Silas," she says, making me freeze. My fork clatters against the plate, my hand shaking. I quickly put it down and grab my coffee, taking a big gulp of it to clear my airway.
My mom studies me, her eyes still on the plate, on the fork. "He's recommending a therapist who helped him. He's an old friend of a friend in the military. You have an appointment tomorrow."
Resist. My mind instantly wants to resist, to fight, to dig my heels into the ground and refuse to go. To flee, to get in my truck and drive away. To disappear because that feels safe.
"You will go, Atlas," my mom says, her voice fierce, her face pinched. "If you want any hope of being a father to your children. You broke something in them. Those boys look at you like they have no idea who you are. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw it last night."
My eyes squeeze shut, a tear falling down my cheek.
"If you want any hope of fixing this, you need to go."
I nod.
"We will all be with you every step of the way, but you need to do this yourself. You need to heal yourself. Do you understand?"
I look up at my Mama's face and her expression wounds me. She looks so sad, so hopeful, so weary.
I think of her and my father.
I think of my brother.
I think of my sons.
And I think of my wife.
"I'll go."