If my illness progressed to the point where I wasn't able to work, what would Wendy have done?
Or, looking at it from her viewpoint, I seemed checked out of the marriage, so if I ended up leaving her—again, over my dead body—Wendy was operating on the knowledge that I could upend her life and leave her with nothing.
Fuck. I would never, she should know that... but... I also thought I would never neglect my wife and children.
Mental illness is a vicious kind of beast.
It's not something you can fix easily, like stitching up a wound and putting a bandage on it.
It's not logical, which is why none of my thoughts really made sense—thinking I could manifest my wife's death.
It's not something you can negotiate with.
The only way to fix it is to confront it head-on and to talk about it. The SSRI I'm taking has toned down the noise like Dr. Mason and Dr. Newman have told me, but the only time I really feel better is when I'm talking about it, even when my body rebels doing so.
Standing up from the couch, I walk through the house, keeping my steps light so I don’t wake up anyone. It's almost ten, and I don't hear any movement.
Cracking open the door to Noah’s room, I see him knocked out cold, his nightlight shining a kaleidoscope of colors on the ceiling for him.
"Goodnight, buddy," I whisper, before gently closing the door.
Across the hall, I crack open Liam's door and peek in, smiling when I see Liam sprawled across the bed as normal, out like a light.
Carefully, I grab his blanket and lay it over him.
"Goodnight, son," I whisper, before closing the door and heading back downstairs. My phone's vibrating on the coffee table, and I freeze in the doorway of the living room.
My body tenses.
It's the police...
It's Taylor...
They're calling you to tell you that Wendy is dead... or dying... or sick... or—
Inhale. Hold. Exhale.
Check the phone, Atlas.
When I turn it over, I see that it's Trace calling me. Trace wouldn't call me if Wendy was in trouble, Taylor would, or the police would. They would come to the house. They would tell me first.
Wendy is okay. She's at home. She's safe.
My fingers still shake as I press the answer button.
"Hello?"
"What's up, Mr. Mom?"
Trace chuckles, his voice light and easy, and it helps ease the pressure on my chest. "What's up, man?"
"Watching the game. Checking in on you. First weekend with the rugrats by yourself. You tap out and call Wendy yet?"
I snort, even though he's not completely off base.
Thoughts of last night and this morning make me wince, but the hug I got from Noah when I put him to bed, and the fist bump that Liam offered me before he went into his room, made me feel ten feet tall.
"First of all—fuck you. I can handle my kids."
