Carrie and his daughters were the only ones who could pull it out of him.
"Wendy took on my girls without blinking an eye when Carrie died. I'm doing the same for you guys."
"Thank you," I whisper, and he nods once, before his eyes trail to Wendy's unconscious form.
"How's my sister?"
"Improving," I say, settling back in my chair. Wendy hasn't moved a muscle, lulled to a deep sleep by her pain meds.
"Fractured pelvis. Internal bleeding," I say. His eyes widen at those words, and I quickly add. "They fixed that, but she won't be able to walk on her own for a bit."
"Whatever she needs, she's got us to help," Silas says, his eyes meeting mine. The combination of emotions in them makes my chest hurt. Heartbreak, longing, and confidence. "Most importantly, she's got you."
I take in his words, and I instantly feel better.
Too much information from the doctors, too many words of physical therapy, aides, and mobile assistance made myhead swirl enough to shut down. But now, it doesn't feel as overwhelming.
We have our family. We have our friends.
My dad is handling the shop and my clients for the foreseeable future because no way am I going to be able to work and take care of my wife, and the choice between the two is quite fucking obvious.
My mom is handling the boys now, watching them, calling their school to excuse them from attending this week.
And now my brother is here as backup for anything we need.
We're not alone.
We're going to get through this together.
Chapter Forty-Four
Atlas
April
After twelve full days since the accident, we can finally bring Wendy home.
The last six days in the hospital were spent managing her pain, giving her some time to heal, and listening to the doctors explain her recovery.
I had to demonstrate the ability to get her safely out of the bed and into her wheelchair, which was easy because I've spent my entire life picking Wendy up and carrying her in my arms.
I think about the mile I had to carry her as we walked back to the high school after she twisted her ankle—piece of cake then, piece of cake now.
I was given a huge packet of information for her healing—her med schedule and her follow-up appointments, including with the orthopedic doctor and physical therapy. The latter showed me how to brace her hips and safely maneuver her without causing her any harm.
But every single time my wife flinched from pain, sweating and pale, and gasping for breath, it felt like a thousand knives slicing me open. I hate that she's in pain, but that means she's alive.
She's still smiling at our boys, at me, at our family. She's still here, and I feel like the luckiest bastard in the world.
They showed me how to put on Wendy's pelvic binder, and Taylor thankfully brought some loose, comfortable clothes from home for Wendy to wear. I loaded her in my truck, put the wheelchair in the back, and we were on the way home.
Wendy seems a little tense in the car, hands clenched into fists on her lap and eyes shifting back and forth, especially when we reach an intersection.
"Are you okay, baby? Are you in any pain?"
Wendy shakes her head, "No, the meds are working great, it's just... I feel a little weird in a car..."
It hits me then. The last time she was in a car, a careless driver t-boned her. She probably has a little bit of post-traumatic stress running through her body.
