Chapter Twenty-One
Atlas
November
It's called Story Grove Mental Health Rehabilitation.
It's about an hour from Mercy Ridge—from my wife, from my boys. Might as well be on the other side of the universe with how much space I've placed between us this past year.
After I finally told Dr. Wilson about that night, about the nightmares, about the thoughts in my head, he recommended that I needed more intensive care.
Fuck, I can't believe how badly my mind has decided to fuck up my near perfect life.
I had the plan of going to the first appointment, getting help, getting back on track, getting my wife back, seeing my kids, and undoing all of my fuckups from this past year.
Instead, I'm further away from them and won't be able to see them for at least a month.
My mom asked me if she should ask if Wendy would come visit and bring the boys. I said no. I don't want them to see me in here like this. I know I shouldn’t be ashamed, but saying it and hearing it enough doesn’t change how I feel.
And I am ashamed.
I did respond to her petition for separation. Probably the first unselfish act I've done in the last year—whatever she wants. I’d lay the world at her feet if she asked me.
Twelve months. I have twelve months until Wendy can divorce me. It's like a ticking clock in the back of my head, the timeline of how long I have until my life truly ends.
Now, I sit in front of Dr. Mason, my therapist during my stay.
He looks young, maybe Silas’ age, with kind eyes like Dr. Wilson, like it's a therapist's requirement or something. Although he tells me he's a little different from Dr. Wilson, as he's a real head shrinker—a psychiatrist.
He wears a gold wedding band on his finger proudly, and there's a picture on his desk of him holding another man, both in suits and locked in a romantic embrace, his husband.
The sight, like the pictures in Dr. Wilson's office, is a nice reminder of why I'm here, why I'm sleeping on an uncomfortable twin mattress, and why I attend group therapy and art therapy, and any other therapy they think is good for me.
Wendy. Liam. Noah.
I arrived about a week ago. When I told my parents about Dr. Wilson's recommendation, they made magic happen fast. They wanted me to get in ASAP, so I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to Wendy and the boys.
I figure they probably didn't want to see me anyway, and the sooner I get in and get better, the sooner I can see them.
I didn't want to see them when I'm still... like this.
Dr. Mason can finally give me a diagnosis.
"You went through something incredibly traumatic, Atlas," he says, his eyes serious but soft. "From Dr. Wilson's notes, from what you've shared with me, I can confidently diagnose you with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."
PTSD. Word association always puts that next to combat veterans, to survivors of mass shootings and near-death experiences.
To diagnose me with it feels almost fraudulent.
"I just don't really understand why. Why am I feeling like this? Why wasn't it instantly after Si—" I cut myself off, before clearing my throat and forcing out through gritted teeth, "After... Silas tried to shoot himself."
Dr. Mason scratches something in his notebook, and there's a small, pleased smile on his lips.
That gives me the strength to continue.
"I thought I was fine. I was telling people—my wife, my parents—that I was fine, because I thought I was..."
"The human mind is quite powerful... but it can also be our worst enemy.
Your nervous system didn't forget. I don't even think you gave yourself any time to process it," Dr. Mason says, tapping his chest over his heart.
"So all this trauma and fear and terror were just sitting in your body, in your mind, curdling. A slow poison."
"I mean, it was Silas who tried to kill himself, so I just thought—"
"Because it wasn't you. It wasn't a priority," he finishes.
I nod.
"You stopped your brother from trying to kill himself.
You saved his life. Your mind can tell you that it wasn't you, but your nervous system doesn't forget that terror.
And then the thoughts that spiralled from that.
You saw your brother lose the love of his life, empathizing with him, while also grieving your sister, and then dealing with the fear of your own wife's mortality. "
As he speaks, I realize how empty I feel... no, not empty.
Drained. Of energy. Of fight. Of fear.
Underneath it all is relief, blooming slowly but surely.
"Why did you never talk to your wife about that night, Atlas?"
"I don't know..." I shrug, clenching my fists. "I guess I just thought I gave her what she needed to know—the important parts. Silas was drunk. I stayed with him to make sure he was okay. I also... I didn't know if Silas even wanted anybody to know about that night.”
Dr. Mason nods. “You never talked to your brother either?”
I shake my head. “No. We haven’t talked that much. He’s been busy getting his life back together, taking care of his girls. When I saw him last, he was smiling. I was happy that he was happy, but then I would go home and go to sleep and..."
"Have a nightmare of your wife dying, unable to stop it."
I nod.
"What caused you to want to come here to seek help?"
"My wife is separating from me."
Dr. Mason's lips twitch.
"What?"
"It took you losing your wife to address your fear of losing your wife," his hand made a so-so motion. "Not in the way you were scared to, but still..."
I huff a humorless laugh. "Yeah, I guess so."
"How did you feel when you found out about her wanting to separate from you?"
I think back to that horrible day, being served, reading those words, and feeling as though I was abruptly yanked out of a deep dream..
"It was like... waking from a daze," I shake my head, recalling the fear of reading the words on that document. "Holding those papers in my hand. Realizing how badly I fucked everything up."
"But now you're here. Getting help."
I shrug, helpless.
"What if it's too late?"
Dr. Mason gives me a small smile.
"What if it's not?"
◆◆◆
After a week, it's easy to get into a routine here.
The nightmares have been stagnant, neither decreasing nor increasing. I don't sleep well when Wendy isn't in bed. I never have, always needing to hear her breathing, her soft, sleepy noises, needing to breathe in the smell of that lotion she puts on before bed.
I used to wake from the nightmares, see her next to me, and feel a bit better that she was alive. I couldn't allow myself to get too close, but I could see her breathing, and that was enough.
When she was awake, I distanced myself, which Dr. Mason said was because of my PTSD.
Like how I associated PTSD with veterans, my mind associated proximity to Wendy with nightmares, with fear, with loss. My mind obeyed, even though my body—my fucking soul—needs her.
It's strange, all these conflicting feelings forming a mess in my body, warring against each other until I exploded.
At least that's how I explained it to Dr. Mason, who confirmed that other patients of his with my diagnosis experience much of the same.
My nightmares seem to have gotten worse.
I wake up sweating, unable to catch my breath, unable to fully pull myself from the nightmare.
I still see Wendy, in an awful car accident. They called me at work. I didn't get to the hospital in time. She died and I wasn't there.
Nurse Mina opens my door and turns on my lights, the normal routine.
"Time to get up, Atlas," she smiles, but it vanishes when she finally sees me, shaking and sweating in bed. "Atlas?"
"I need—" I gasp, stumbling to my feet. "I need a phone! I need to call my wife! She was in a car accident—is she okay?"
"Atlas, you are safe, you're at Story Grove—"
"My wife! I need to talk to my wife!"
"Atlas, you had a nightmare. It's okay," Mina speaks soothingly to me, hands on my shoulders and keeping me on the bed. She turns and yells something, and then the door opens again.
More people come into my room—none of them Wendy.
Where is she?! Where is my wife?!
My heart is thumping violently with one name.
Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy...
"Atlas. You are not in danger. Your wife is not in danger. You are at Story Grove. You had a nightmare."
I can't hear her, I can't see her, all I know is that my wife is in danger and I need to get to her before it's too late. I'm fighting as hard as I can to get to Wendy.
"Get Dr. Mason here—call him—tell him to come in. Now!"
Time bends when you're panicked, like you’ve stepped through a wormhole. It's simultaneously moving too fast and too slow.
The people, the nurses I see in the pink scrubs, the orderlies in their navy scrubs, all try to calm me down, but I just want to get to my wife.
I need my wife. I need to save her.
"Please, please let me get to my wife, please—" I plead, and then all of a sudden, Dr. Mason walks into the room.
His face looks bleary, eyes puffy like he just woke up; his clothes look haphazardly pulled on, his shirt untucked and buttoned unevenly.
"She's—something has happened, Doc, I can feel—"
"Atlas, listen to me—" Dr. Mason cuts in, his voice firm. "Let's work through this. Where are you?"
I blink, glancing around the room, feeling disoriented. "I—what? I—uh, Story Grove—I need to—"
"Why are you at Story Grove?"
"To get help, but—"
"Why do you need help?"
Why is he asking me these questions?
Frustration boils over, and I answer without thinking.
"Because I fucking panic from the..."
It's like a switch is turned on in my brain.
"...the nightmares."
Nightmare. Just a nightmare.
Dr. Mason nods.
"Nightmares of what?"
I flinch. "My wife dying."
"What would happen if your wife were hurt?"
"What?"
Dr. Mason repeats patiently. "What would happen if your wife were hurt?"
I blink, trying to focus. "They... they would call me."
"Who would call you?"
"My parents..." I whisper, rubbing my eyes, feeling the thick fog clear. "My parents would call me."
"Would they wait?"
I shake my head. "No."
"Would they tell you immediately?"