Chapter Forty-Five
Atlas
"How the fuck did she do this every single day?"
It's about ten at night, the boys are in bed, Wendy is sleeping, and the house is finally clean. I can finally collapse into the very comfortable lounge chairs Wendy picked out for our deck next to Silas, who's smoking a cigarette.
My brother grins in amusement at my exhaustion as he lets out a stream of smoke.
He doesn't smoke as much as he did, especially after Carrie's death; he was up to about a pack a day. He said it was a bad habit he picked up in the military, since it was just something to do and take the edge off. He stubs out the cigarette before turning to me.
I'm drained completely. It's been just a week, and I never knew how fucking exhausting it is to manage the house.
Making sure the boys' lunches are packed, their breakfasts are made, their homework is done, making their meals, cleaning up after making them, doing four people's laundry, and arranging for someone to drop the boys off and pick them up from school.
Thankfully, Bonnie has volunteered to drive Liam to school since she also drops off Birdie, who hates the bus, and Noah usually gets dropped off by Silas. Noah always feels so cool riding in his uncle's Camaro.
My Dad has been covering the garage for me and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future, while also running the other locations himself, so he's stretched a little thin right now.
Mom has been running backups with the boys, helping me clean up around the house if I fall behind on something.
This help allows me to be Wendy's full-time caregiver, which I know she would prefer over hiring an aid. And I prefer it to.
But fuck—it's been hard, though the most rewarding things are.
I've had to keep track of Wendy's meds, feed her, help her to the bathroom, get her changed, carry her back to the bed, and settle her.
Then I help her with at-home physical therapy and schedule her follow-up appointments.
When the boys get home, they jump right into doing the chores Wendy assigned them, while I arrange dinner—usually one of the casseroles and meals Mabel made, so that's a weight off my shoulders.
I pick Wendy up and settle her in the wheelchair before wheeling her into the dining room, where we all eat together still.
Afterward, I bring her back to the bedroom, and the boys do their nighttime chores and bathe Wendy in the downstairs full bath. Trace and Silas installed a shower seat so that I can easily wash her.
I take care of putting the pelvic binder back on when we're done and bring her back over to the bed to settle her in for the night.
Caregiving is a job in itself.
Silas came over today to help me out. I think my Mom suspects I might be getting burnt out, and Wendy's been having some difficulty sleeping comfortably, so I can't settle if she can't.
Silas handled the meals today and distracted the boys so that I could nap with Wendy for a bit.
At first, Wendy expressed how useless she feels, though that's the furthest word I'd ever use to describe my wife. She's spent so many years being useful that when she has to just sit and recover, it feels wrong.
No matter how many times I assure her that I want to do this, that this is my job as her husband to take care of her.
She's been a little embarrassed as I've had to help her with incredibly personal, intimate things, including going to the bathroom in her commode and when she got her period.
She cried a little the first time I had to help her, embarrassed and ashamed, and said she felt gross. I wouldn't let that stand. She’s my wife, my love, she could never be gross to me.
And when I tell her this, about how beautiful she is to me, no matter what, she smiles and kisses me.
I decided to reframe it for her, as I think that's how her brain responds positively—I brought in her yarn basket, crochet hook, and laptop to download patterns.
She's been able to use the time spent recovering to crochet blankets and hats for the team that cared for her during her healing.
Each day, that guilty look on her face fades, and the tension in her shoulders bleeds away.
And I want to take care of her, the same way she's cared for me, the boys, our entire family for the last fourteen years.
If anyone deserves this, it's my wife.
"Because women are the stronger sex," he says plainly. "Learned that over the last two years."
I face my brother and study his face. It's not drawn with grief; he looks fond as his eyes glaze over, remembering.
"How are you doing, Si?"
"Can't complain," he shrugs, tapping the lighter on the glass table between us.
"Carrie's parents love having the girls nearby.
When I told them they needed to watch them for a bit and why, they practically shoved me out the door.
The girls were really concerned about their Aunt.
I called them and let them know she's okay. "
"But how are you doing?"
Silas meets my eyes, his brown ones are a little glassy as he says, "I'm doing okay. Really. Getting help was... the right thing to do."
"Yeah," I whisper, agreeing.
Silas stares at me for a long moment.
"I never… I never apologized for that night. I'm sorry you had to do that, Atlas. I'm so fucking sorry," he says, his voice low and pain-filled.
Sighing, he takes another cigarette out of the pack and lights up. The cherry burns bright red in the night, and Silas blows out a slow stream.
"Mom and Dad said you guys were dealing with some stuff. Was it because of..."
His voice trails off, but I know what he's saying, and I nod.
"Yeah."
"Fuck," he shakes his head, looking angry at himself. "Fuck! It's like a fucking curse I passed to you."
I frown, considering his words. It was like a curse in a way, trauma passed onto Silas, passed onto me, passed onto Wendy, could have passed onto our boys, but Wendy... she was strong enough for us to stop it in its tracks.
To be the shield between me and our sons.
To make me recognize that I needed help.
"After, you know—" I start, and he nods. "I started pulling away from Wendy and the boys. Just little by little. It was like my brain was telling me that by being close to Wendy, I would cause her death or... she would die and I would just be left alone."
Silas flinches and scrubs his hand down his face, sighing deeply.
"Fuck, I am so sorry, Atlas."
"It's not your fault."
"It is, though. I traumatized you."
"And Carrie's death traumatized you. That's not her fault. There are no villains here. Not you, not me, not Wendy, not mom and dad. It's just... life. Life fucking happens. Tragedy strikes and we don't know how to deal with it sometimes."
Silas doesn't look completely convinced, so I continue explaining, "I was neglecting my wife, being mean to her, pushing her away, rejecting her because I was scared. Because my OCD was barraging me with thoughts and nightmares of her dying."
He tilts his head, "OCD?"
"And PTSD."
"Shit, Atlas..." His face crumples and he drops his head in his hands.
"But, I got that shit under control now," I say proudly, thinking of how far I've come.
"My fear doesn't rule my life, especially after it almost made me lose my family, the one thing in this world I cannot live without.
I was drowning, and Wendy pulled me out.
Even after everything, she stayed. She never abandoned me, and God, I wouldn't have fucking blamed her if she did.
I was an asshole, I treated her and our sons like shit. "
Silence lingers between us for a few long moments, before Silas breaks it quietly. He sits up and takes another drag of his half-burnt cigarette.
"Dr. Wilson's pretty great."
"He is," I grin, nodding. "I met a lot of great people through this journey. People who cared. People who stuck by me. Was that how it was for you?"
"Yeah, Dr. Wilson got me in contact with grief counselors. The girls and I go every week. They smile a lot more. We visit Carrie's grave every week after, bringing flowers and little gifts. They talk to their Mommy, and I do too."
"We miss her," I nod, reaching out to lay a hand on my brother's shoulders. A tear trails down his cheek, and he roughly wipes it away before taking another drag of his cigarette. "We all do."
"She was... she was something," Silas says with a smile, before meeting my eyes. "You have to cherish every single second, Atlas. Every. Single. Second. Because you'll miss her every second she's not here."
His words are delivered almost harshly, his voice low and desperate-sounding, making sure I understand the meaning. And I do.
A couple of months ago, that statement would have sent me into a panic spiral.
Not anymore. Because I almost lost Wendy twice now.
Once by my own hand, the other by someone careless.
But now I understand my mental health. I can differentiate between fact and fear. I take my medication that dulls the panic noise.
When I encounter a thought, I think of that engine—I check everything first before writing it off. If nothing is wrong, then I've created the problem myself. I can talk myself through it.
God, and I almost gave it all up, while Silas wishes for more time. I gave up a year of being with her and my boys, cherishing them every day, because one day it could be taken away.
Never again.
I will keep my head facing forward and put one foot in front of the other. I will be grateful for all the time I'm given.
And when the time inevitably comes, as it will one day for all of us, I'll know I did it right.
"Do they know?" Silas suddenly asks me, and I frown in confusion. He elaborates, "Mom and Dad. Did you tell them?"
"Just that I needed help. They helped me get it."
"I'll... do you want to tell mom and dad?" Silas nods, definitive. "I think I should, it started with me, it should end with me."
"Do you want me there?"
"Nah, you got your family to look after," Silas says, shaking his head, giving me a small smile. "I got it from here."
Silas and I stand, as if of the same mind, and we hug. My brother rubs my back, and I squeeze him tighter, feeling something settle inside of me. "I love you, Si."
He grunts, "I love you too, baby brother."
Silas and I walk back inside, and he gives me a wave as he heads to his car parked in the garage, telling me he'll see me tomorrow morning to drop off Noah at school.
The house is quiet, aside from the hum of the fridge and the dishwasher running. I double-check the doors, making sure they're locked before heading upstairs.
My mind won't settle unless I see them before sleep.
I walk to Noah's room, cracking the door open and seeing him sprawled out on the bed. I smile, keeping my steps as light as I can as I grab the open sketchbook on the bed. He's drawing a new comic book. It's a rough outline, no color, just a sketch, but the words on it make me freeze.
Super Mom and Dad of Steel.
It's Wendy, in spandex and a cape, smiling down at me as she levitates in the air.
And me, looking up at her while I lift a car with one hand, but my expression is pure love.
Is that how Noah sees me looking at his Mama?
The boys are there too, watching us from afar, happy and smiling. I study the picture, feeling my heart grow in my chest as I gently place it on his little desk, turn his nightlight on, and bend down to kiss his head.
"I love you, buddy."
My son Noah, my little artist.
My sunshine boy with his Mama's hair and freckles, who smiles so bright at everyone he meets.
I walk over to Liam's room next, cracking the door open to find him in bed, but his face is illuminated by a screen he tries to hide when he sees me.
His face turns sheepish, and I snort, giving him a look.
"Tell Birdie goodnight."
"Alright," Liam sighs, all teenage melodrama that reminds me of me when my mom would catch me talking on the landline with Wendy late at night.
I grin at my boy and walk over to press a kiss to his dark hair. "I love you, son."
"Love you too, Dad," Liam says, giving me a small smile before putting his phone on his bedside table to charge.
The screen lights up, showing a picture of him and Birdie, him kissing the blonde's cheek and her smiling at the camera.
I guess some things are inherited.
My son, Liam, my basketball star.
My little mini-me, my hair, my eyes, my height, who protects the ones he loves with everything in him.
I switch off the light before I leave the room and head downstairs to our bedroom.
Quietly, I take my clothes off and climb into bed, trying to not disturb Wendy, but she's such a light sleeper. She blinks, still half-asleep, but her lips curve into a beautiful smile when she sees me.
"Everything okay?"
"Yes," I smile, nodding my head, relieved at how much I mean that. "Everything is great, baby."
"Okay..." Wendy trails off sleepily. I shift closer to her, careful of her hip, and carefully wrap myself around her.
My head is buried in her neck, breathing in her warm vanilla scent deeply.
She hums and lifts her arms to pull me in even tighter, never close enough unless we're melded together. I hum in return and kiss her neck, and she turns her head to press her lips to mine.
"I love you, Atlas," she sighs, nuzzling her nose against mine.
"I love you, Wendy," I rumble back, "Always have."
"Always will."
My wife, my Wendy, my love, my life, my everything...
My cornerstone.