Chapter 4 - What Marcus Knew
The next morning, Marcus arrived at eight.
For the first Sunday in months, nobody went to the park.
Chloe seemed personally offended.
“Shoes!”
“We're staying home today,” Liam told her.
“Park.”
“Later.”
“Uncle Marcus park.”
Marcus lifted both hands.
“Don't drag me into this.”
Chloe stared at his boots.
“Crying shoes.”
Marcus looked at me.
“I regret buying these.”
It was the first easy laugh we had shared since the party.
Then Liam went upstairs to shower, leaving Marcus and me alone in the kitchen.
I poured coffee.
“You should have told me.”
Marcus nodded.
“I know.”
“I’m still angry.”
“You should be.”
That answer made it harder to stay angry.
I handed him a mug.
“Tell me everything.”
Marcus hesitated.
“Everything Liam would want me to know.”
“That’s fair.”
He sat.
The first panic attack had been worse than Liam described.
When Marcus found him, Liam was parked crookedly beside a gas station, convinced he was dying.
“He couldn't unlock the door,” Marcus said.
“What?”
“His hands were shaking too badly.”
My chest tightened.
“I had to reach through the passenger side.”
Marcus drove him to the emergency room.
Liam made him promise not to call me.
“He said you would bring Chloe and scare her.”
I could understand that part.
“What happened afterward?”
“For a few weeks, nothing.”
Then another attack came.
This time Liam called Marcus before it peaked.
Marcus stayed on the phone.
Then came another.
Eventually Sunday mornings became their unofficial safety valve.
“We really did take Chloe to the park,” Marcus said. “She'd play. Liam and I would talk.”
“About what?”
“Everything he wouldn't say at home.”
That hurt.
Marcus saw my expression.
“Not because he trusts me more.”
“It feels like it.”
“He trusts you more. That's the problem.”
I frowned.
“He thinks your opinion matters more.”
Marcus leaned forward.
“If I see him scared, so what? I'm Marcus. We've known each other since we were nineteen. I've seen him drunk, broke, dumped, failing exams, puking behind a fraternity house.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“But you?” Marcus continued. “You're the person he wants to be good enough for.”
“He doesn't have to earn me.”
“I know.”
“Does he?”
Marcus did not answer.
That question followed me all day.
That afternoon, Liam and I found a therapist through our insurance network.
Dr. Rachel Levin.
Liam stared at the appointment confirmation for almost a minute.
“You can cancel,” I said.
He looked relieved.
Then I added, “But I hope you don't.”
He sighed.
“You're getting good at this.”
“At what?”
“Not letting me escape.”
“I've had eight years of training.”
His first appointment was Tuesday.
I did not ask what they discussed.
That was harder than I expected.
When Liam came home, I wanted every detail.
Instead I asked, “How was it?”
“Uncomfortable.”
“Good uncomfortable or bad uncomfortable?”
“I don't know yet.”
He kissed me.
“But I'm going back.”
Over the next several weeks, our marriage changed in small ways.
Liam started saying things he previously swallowed.
“I had a rough morning.”
“I’m anxious.”
“I need twenty minutes alone.”
“I don't know how to fix this.”
The first few times, hearing those sentences frightened me.
Then I realized why.
I had benefited from Liam’s performance too.
I liked believing he was unshakable.
It made the world feel safer.
Without meaning to, I had helped reward the very behavior that was hurting him.
One night I admitted it.
“I think I liked you being the strong one.”
Liam looked at me across the couch.
“I liked it too.”
“Until you couldn't do it.”
“Exactly.”
Therapy did not magically stop the panic attacks.
That disappointed Liam.
Three weeks after his first appointment, one hit while we were grocery shopping.
I found him gripping the cart.
“Emma.”
I recognized the look.
“What do you need?”
“Outside.”
We left the cart.
In the parking lot, Liam sat on the curb.
I sat beside him.
“Don't tell me to calm down,” he whispered.
“I wasn't going to.”
“Marcus usually makes me name things.”
“What things?”
“Five things I can see.”
I looked around.
“Okay.”
He breathed.
“Blue car.”
“Good.”
“Shopping cart.”
“Good.”
“Your shoes.”
“Those are very nice shoes.”
He almost smiled.
“Tree.”
“One more.”
He looked at me.
“You.”
We sat there until his breathing slowed.
Nobody died.
Nobody stared.
Nothing catastrophic happened.
Eventually Liam stood.
“We abandoned a full cart.”
“We did.”
“Chloe’s cereal was in there.”
“She'll survive.”
He laughed.
That night, after Chloe went to bed, Liam cried again.
Not from panic.
From relief.
“I thought you'd look at me differently.”
“I do.”
His face fell.
I touched his cheek.
“I know you better now.”
He stared at me.
“And?”
“And I’m still here.”
The next Sunday, we all went to the park.
Marcus came too.
At the bench where Chloe had seen her father crying, Liam stopped.
Marcus sat down.
His infamous leather boots stretched in front of him.
Chloe pointed.
“Daddy cries there.”
This time nobody laughed at her.
Liam crouched beside her.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because Daddy got scared.”
She frowned.
“Of monster?”
“Sort of.”
“Where?”
He touched his chest.
“In here.”
Chloe considered this.
Then she put her tiny palm against his shirt.
“Monster gone?”
“Not completely.”
She leaned closer.
“I scare him.”
Liam smiled.
“You will?”
She nodded fiercely.
Then she roared at his chest.
Marcus laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench.
And Liam laughed with him.
For the first time, the place where he had been ashamed of breaking down became somewhere we could stand together.
But there was still one thing Liam had not told me.
I learned that two nights later when I found an unopened envelope hidden beneath a stack of papers in his desk.
May you like
The return address belonged to the hospital.
And the date on it was six months old.
