Page 15 of On the Edge

“You must try to remember, it is very important. You did not takeallof those, right? Atlas? You did not take multiple pills?”

“Vodka,” he says with finality.

“You only drank vodka?”

“Oh, who knows.” He sighs. Frustrated, I lean my head down against the steering wheel, and squeeze my eyes shut. A hand pats my back. “Don’t cry, Henri. Don’t cry.”

When I lift my face and look at him, Atlas smiles, hand still patting my upper back mechanically. It makes me sad to see that smile. I hadn’t thought it was an expression he knew how to make, and I hate that the first time I’ve seen it is when he’s wasted. Letting my foot off the brake, I continue driving us toward campus.

“Where do you live?”

“Number three Melbourne Place!”

I shake my head, but don’t bother arguing with him. We cannot waste the rest of the night driving around aimlessly while I wait for Atlas to provide me with proper instructions. He’ll have to come back to my dorm with me.

The campus is deserted by the time I pull my car back into the usual space. Beside me, Atlas is asleep, slumped against the door and breathing softly. He looks so peaceful, I feel badly about reaching across the car and touching his shoulder. I shake him gently, trying not to startle him. After a sustained thirty seconds of jostling, he blinks his eyes open and looks at me.

“We are here,” I tell him. He fumbles for the seat belt with shaky hands, and I watch him for a few moments before getting out of the car and walking around to his side. This time, when I lean over him to help, he doesn’t touch me.

It takes both of our efforts to unfold him from the car, and once we get there, he leans against the side and closes his eyes as though the movement made him dizzy.

“Where?” he mumbles, squinting around the parking lot.

“I have a single in Simmons Hall,” I reply, pointing toward the building. He stares at it, seemingly confused. I grasp ahand around his elbow and pull him gently into motion. “Come. It is late.”

He stays quiet as we walk toward my room, bumping against me as he struggles to walk. He stares hard at his feet, apparently confused as to why they aren’t working properly. When we get to my room, I lean him against the wall and unlock the door. He steps inside when I gesture.

“Do you have a bathroom?” he asks. Alarmed at the question and the thready sound of his voice, I walk him over to the door and click on the light. It’s a small bathroom, but more than most have when they live in a dorm.

“Are you going to be ill?”

“Yeah.” He sighs, sinking down to his knees next to the toilet. Trying to give him a little privacy, I leave the bathroom. Taking my shoes off, I line them up by the door, perpendicular with my others.

Pausing to listen at the door of the bathroom, I ascertain that Atlas is still occupied before pulling off my dress clothes and changing into sweats. Biting my lip, I consider laying something out for Atlas as well, but none of my sweatpants will fit him and I’m not sure he’s able to function well enough to change his clothes. Deciding I’ll wait and see what he wants to do, I rap my knuckles gently on the bathroom door before pushing inside.

He’s got his forearms resting on the rim of the toilet, spine arched and head hanging low. I can see sweat beaded on the back of his neck at the base of his hairline, and he’s panting like he’s just run a race. Silently, I step behind him and wet a clean washcloth in the sink. When I crouch down next to him, he lifts his head and looks at me blearily.

“What are you doing here?” he asks. There’s no malice behind the question, just curiosity.

“You called me to pick you up. We are in my dorm.” I hold out the washcloth and he takes it from me, wiping it across his face.

“I called you?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry,” he mumbles, sitting down on the floor and sliding backward until his back comes up against the vanity. He’s deathly pale, eyes and hair impossibly dark against his waxy complexion. He looks like a corpse.

“It’s all right. Are you going to be sick again?”

“No,” he says, before amending it to, “Not yet.”

I hold out a hand for him and pull him to standing, keeping hold of him when he sways dangerously. He laughs, apparently finding something funny in the situation. When we get to my room, I’m able to deposit him on the bed without a fight and hand him a fresh bottle of water. Faced with the conundrum of clothes again, I hesitate. Atlas doesn’t look at me, just sits hunched on the edge of the bed, hands shaking where they are curled around the water bottle. He will not ask for help, I realize, even though he needs it.

Without speaking, I crouch down and begin untying the laces on his shoes.

6

Atlas

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