Chapter Eighteen
Wendy
December
"Well, I'll be... if it ain't my Wendy darlin'."
Smiling from where I'm crouched stocking bags of dried fruit, I turn to Mr. Jefferson.
He's standing in the aisle, one hand on his half-full cart, the other resting on his hip like he just can't believe he's seeing me here at Mabel's… the same place he's been seeing me regularly and my place of work for the past two months.
I laugh and stand, my knees and back popping. I get in the zone sometimes when I'm stocking and organizing and don't realize just how long I've been stuck in a position until I stand and my body disagrees.
Brushing my hands on my jeans, I place my hands on my hips.
"Well, Mr. Jefferson, fancy seeing you here... in the store I work at... at the same time you come in every week on Sunday."
He grins, "Keeping track, huh, sugar?"
"Morris, if you don't stop flirtin' with my employees," Mabel calls from the end of the aisle, clipboard in hand, glasses halfway down her nose.
"Hush, Mabel, cut this old man some slack," he says, holding a hand over his chest. "This could be my last Christmas, an' all."
"You been sayin' that for the last fifteen Christmases, and yet here you are," Mabel snarks, gesturing at him. "Lookin' pleased as a pig in shit."
"Don't make it not true," Mr. Jefferson protests. "Could be any of our last Christmases."
"Mhm..." Mabel hums, unimpressed, before turning back to me with a smile. "Wendy, finish up that box and then you can head home. I know those boys must be driving Taylor crazy."
I grin because her assessment is most likely true. For the last month, if Diane and Emmett aren't watching the boys on Sundays when I'm working, then Aunt Taylor is.
Today, she took them to the mall so they could see Santa and get a picture with him for me.
Liam doesn't believe in Santa Claus anymore, and I think Noah is just entertaining me, but still, I'm happy to have another picture with Santa before they get too old and too cool for it.
"Thanks, Mabel," I nod as she heads on her way. I turn back to Mr. Jefferson, who's placing a can of mixed nuts in his cart.
"How's that husband of yours doin'?"
I pause.
Thoughts of Atlas are bittersweet.
I haven't seen him since the day he left our house last month, but I get regular updates from Diane.
After his first appointment with a therapist, they recommended that Atlas be checked into a mental health rehabilitation facility for a month. A detox, of sorts.
His mental health had deteriorated that much.
My heart broke when she told me. I burst into tears, aching for my husband, wanting to hold him. It's a powerless feeling when the man you love so much is fighting something as vicious and cruel as his own mind and thoughts.
I've felt so ignorant, despite the words from Diane, Emmett, and Taylor that this isn't my fault. That nothing I could have done could have changed this.
They still don't know when this even started or what it even is. Atlas has been tight lipped about it when they talk on the phone.
But, they said that he sounds better and is speaking more.
The guilt is relentless. I'm so used to being the fixer, the problem solver, but... I don't think I could fix what's going on with my husband. That hurts in a way that I can't even name.
I miss him so much.
But I'm also still so hurt by him.
It's confusing to exist in this gray area.
Atlas is being discharged next week, just in time for Christmas. Then he'll continue working with a therapist to help heal whatever is tormenting him inside his mind.
Before he left, he responded to the separation through a lawyer his parents found for him with a simple note: "Whatever my wife needs or wants, give it to her."
The court has already established a child support payment system that deposits funds into an account for the boys. Even though he isn't working right now, Atlas saved enough from working with Trace that the boys have everything they need.
Emmett says, with his therapist's approval, Atlas will return to work when he's home. He wants the distraction, and returning to routine will be good for him—as long as he continues attending every appointment on time.
At the same time that I ache for Atlas, there's a sense of relief and a feeling of lightness that I experience, growing day by day.
I feel as though I'm experiencing a whole new version of myself.
Looking back, I realize that I went from being a teenager and living at home while dating Atlas, to being a pregnant teenager living with Atlas in his parents' house, to living in an apartment with Atlas and Liam, to living in this house with my whole family.
I never really had time to be alone.
On days when I don't have work, and the boys are in school, I come back from school drop-off, finish my normal morning chores, and then... I have all of this time for myself. I'm not doing laundry or cooking or cleaning up after four people anymore, only three.
I've always taken over all of the house labor, ever since the boys were babies. I only gave the boys smaller chores of carrying their hampers to the laundry room, or taking their scattered shoes and toys back up to their rooms.
There was this belief lodged in my chest: Atlas makes the money, I manage the home, I clean our house, and raise our boys.
I can't ask anyone else to help me, because what if they come back and ask me why I can't do it?
I don't do anything; I don't make any money. Why am I asking other people to do my job for me?
But now... I do make money. Mabel even boosted my hourly rate once I started doing the books in the back for her.
Now I feel a sense of providing financially. It makes me feel important and worthy.
And I’ve realized that I also need to teach my boys responsibility: that it's not just up to the women to do the housework.
They live in this house too, and they need to help maintain it.
Together, we created a chore chart, equitable to what they're capable of. Both share the responsibility for organizing the living room and their shared bathroom.
Liam takes care of the garbage and folds his own laundry. Noah is in charge of keeping his bedroom in order, making his bed every morning, and cleaning up his art supplies.
The boys now share the dishes and load the dishwasher, since I'm the one who cooks the meals. They share sweeping and vacuuming, alternating days, and we've reached an efficient system quickly.
I've stressed to them that we all put forth what we can and work together to keep our home in order.
While they moaned and groaned at first, the responsibility has been good for them. It gives them a sense of pride when Noah comes running to me to come look at his neat bedroom, or even when Liam tells me he folded and put away his laundry.
With this extra time while they're at school I find out who Wendy is again.
Wendy, who used to love crocheting in high school. I bought brand-new hooks with my own money, butter-yellow yarn, and made Noah a lumpy, crooked scarf.
It's uneven and imperfect from being out of practice, but he loves it anyway.
Wendy, who forgot that she loved dancing. Taylor and I had a sleepover for the first time since we were teenagers, while the boys stayed at their grandparents'. We wore sheet masks, drank too much wine, painted our toes, and watched Jersey Shore.
We blasted music we hadn't heard since high school, and danced through the house like girls again.
Wendy, who loved watching trashy reality television.
After having kids, I never had the time to just sit and watch.
When I did have time, either the boys wanted to watch their shows, Atlas was watching a game, or I told myself I should do something more productive.
There was always something to cook, or clean, or fold.
Now, the chores are split with the boys, and I have time to just sit and watch and enjoy without guilt.
I like this version of me I'm creating. I like that I feel lighter each day, that I can smile easier, that I laugh louder, that I don't hesitate—that much—before making plans with Taylor.
And yet, every night, when I lie down in my bed, I reach toward Atlas' side.
Not having the heart to change his pillowcase just yet, I bury my face in it, hoping to smell his shampoo.
It's gone now, faded to nothing.
I even bought his soap from the store the other day and I use it on the days I feel lonely. It doesn't smell exactly the same; the woodsy scent is slightly off without the distinct natural scent of my Atlas, but... it's better than nothing.
I miss him. I love him. And I hope he gets better.
When he comes home, I hope he can be a better father to our sons.
I hope our sons can forgive him and want a relationship with him.
I hope... well, I don't know what I hope for us anymore, but I have hope. I have faith in Atlas, and I think that's good enough for now...
"Atlas is doing well," I finally answer Mr. Jefferson.
"And the boys?"
"Great, as always," I say, smiling easily now—talking about my boys always does that.
"Good, good," he nods, satisfied. "And, most importantly, you?"
I pause, considering his question, before I smile wide.
"I'm great. Truly."
He nods approvingly, a smile on his face. "Good. Now, let me get on the road. Got dinner at Maggie's tonight."
"Ooh—Chicken Pot Pie?"
"You already know," he chuckles, rubbing his stomach.
"Get home safe, Mr. Jefferson. It's still a little icy out there."
Mr. Jefferson scoffs as he walks away, pushing his car toward the cashier.
"Please, when I was your age, I used to have to drive in snow six feet high. I even had to walk barefoot in the snow to school, uphill. Both ways."
I laugh, shaking my head as his voice fades. Crouching again, I open another box and start placing bags on the shelves when a soft, hesitant voice speaks behind me.
"Excuse me? I'm so sorry."
Turning, I see a beautiful blonde woman that I don't think I recognize. She's got long, honey-colored hair, bright blue eyes, and freckles dotted across a heart-shaped face.
She's wearing light blue scrubs under her puffy winter jacket and holding up a bag of dried blueberries, a hopeful look on her face.
"Do you happen to have strawberry in that box? My daughter only likes the dried strawberries. She said the texture is more pleasing than the blueberry, even though she likes actual blueberries more than strawberries."
"Oh," I say, smiling as I pull out a bag—and then another when she gestures for two.
"Thank you," she exhales, placing both in her basket. "You're a lifesaver."
"No problem," I smile, standing back up and tilting my head. "I don't think I've seen you around before."
"Oh, right—hi, I'm Bonnie," she smiles, holding her hand out for me to shake. "Bonnie Buchanan."
"I'm Wendy Durant," I smile, shaking her hand.
Her eyes light up. "Durant? Oh—you're Liam's mom!"
I blink, "Yes...?"
"I'm Birdie's mom!"
I smile instantly.
Birdie Buchanan, the adorable girl I met last month at Liam's first basketball game. I should have known; she looks so much like her mother.
Same honey colored hair, same freckles, same soft smile, especially when she was speaking with my son. The dopey smile on my son's face said it all.
He was right that Birdie can't really hold eye contact, but she was so sweet and soft-spoken when a beaming Liam introduced us. She smiled and took a deep breath, like she was gathering bravery, before holding her hand out for me to shake.
Birdie sat next to me through the game, completely enraptured. She wore pink noise-canceling headphones over her ears because of the scoreboard buzzer, though she still flinched every time it sounded.
She didn't speak to me much, but answered any question I asked her when she took off the headphones at halftime. I learned that her birthday is in September. It's just her and her mom. They moved from Washington. She loves watching basketball and likes to shoot hoops, but doesn't like playing it.
After the game, when I asked her if she needed a ride home, she politely declined, saying her mother would pick her up. I stepped back to give her and Liam some privacy while they said goodbye.
That silly smile on his face stayed on my son’s face all night, especially since he had a triple-double, which Birdie complimented him on.
"Oh, it's so nice to meet you! I met Birdie at Liam's basketball game. She's such a sweetheart."
"Thank you," Bonnie’s smile widens and her voice sounds almost relieved. "I'm so glad she's making friends. She just can't stop talking about Liam."
"Well, the feeling is very mutual. I feel like every other word out of his mouth nowadays is Birdie. I just love her name, by the way."
"Thank you. She was born Bridgette, but my Nana always called her Birdie. Now she only responds to Birdie."
"Well, it's adorable."
"I know Birdie is invited to Liam's birthday party, so I was planning on talking to you there, but I just... I wanted to thank you. I just about fell out of my chair when Birdie said she wanted to go to the game on Friday to watch her friends play."
"Oh..." I say, my heart aching as I remember our conversation at the diner.
"Birdie has trouble making friends sometimes.
She has autism, and most people don't understand it.
Or don't even try to, really. Her experience at her last school was.
.." she trails off, shaking her head with a distant but pained look on her face.
"But Liam and his friends have been... so wonderful for her.
So, thank you for raising a really great kid. "
I smile, but the words she says next make it drop slightly.
"You and your husband must be so proud."
Oh, Atlas... I wish you could hear this.
I wish I could tell you this.
I wish you knew how much your son is just like you.
"We are," I murmur with a smile on my face.