Chapter Three: Atlas Struggled

At the dawn of time a bloody war raged between the mythic Titans and Zeus for the right to rule the heavens. When their battle ended with Zeus victorious, those who opposed him were imprisoned forever. One titan was punished more severely than the rest; his name was Atlas. He was given the task of holding the world on his shoulders. He managed to hand over the task to Hercules for a while, but was soon tricked in to taking back his burden, and to this day the weight remains fixed on his shoulders.

My dad was the same way. Though he lacked the size or strength of the infamous Titan, he more than made up for it with his spirit of commitment and dedication. He never asked for the responsibility of raising us alone, but he never complained. He didn’t guilt us in to thinking it was our fault either. He often reminded us, “It’s nothing you did. She loves you.”

And yet, at times he cut us off. Occasionally, he would get home from work, and go directly to his room. He would go to sleep without saying goodnight. When we watched TV in his room, we’d sprawl out on his queen-sized bed with little conversation. I realize now how difficult it must have been for him during my mother’s absence. Every time he looked at us he saw the traces of the woman who abandoned him subtly marked in our features.

Unlike my mother though, he didn’t flinch. His world revolved around two things. His children and his daily routine. He’d wake up at 5:30 in the morning. Shower. Shave. Brush his teeth. Blow-dry his hair. Get dressed. Shoes. Breakfast. Work. Home. We all switched to autopilot to help us cope with our loss.

A routine was easy to maintain. Routines didn’t cause fights. Hands that were brushing teeth couldn’t make mysterious phone calls. No one could pack their suitcases and leave if they were naked in the shower. As childish as it may seem, sometimes if my dad didn’t get home from work at his usual time, a sense of dread filled my stomach.

That same panic filled me when I was maybe six or seven. My parents went out on an errand and left me at home with my brother. After what felt like hours, I started to worry. My hands pulled back the living room curtains every thirty seconds. I would hear the distant thunder of an engine pass the house and frantically search for our blue station wagon, but it didn’t come. I started crying. “They’ve left me,” I thought. “They’re not coming back, and I’m all alone.” When they finally walked through the door, I was curled in a ball behind the recliner, sobbing uncontrollably.

My family’s circumstances had changed. My mom was already gone. Who’s to say the strain of raising three frightened children wouldn’t impel my dad to plan his escape as well? Losing a parent rattled my trust in the world. I witnessed first hand that people were capable of horrifying acts of selfishness and it terrified me. That’s why my father’s morning routine acted as a safeguard, and established a bastion of hope for the day.

I knew beyond the shadow of my mother that he would be there to wake me up so that I could get ready for school. The light from the hallway would cut in to our room, framing his silhouette in the doorway. The fresh smell of his newly applied after-shave would wash over my senses before he had a chance to say, “C’mon Daniel. Time to get up.”

Occasionally I awoke with the niggling urge to use the bathroom. I’d lie still as long as possible and listen to him prepare for the day. The blow dryer would hiss. The shower would gurgle. These simple sensory cues calmed my nerves more than words could. Atlas was preparing to shoulder the weight. He’d step out of the bathroom only after our world rested firmly between his shoulder blades. Then he would wake me up, fully in charge of the situation.

I would step in to the bathroom moments after he left it. The water in the bathtub would trickle down its porcelain sides, accompanied to the customary drip-drop beat of the faucet thudding against the drain. Bathed by this reassuring chorus of sound, the warm steam would envelope my shivering body, and I’d feel safe. That’s what my father’s presence felt like during the intervening months while she was away: warm and safe.