16. James
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
James
NOW
Whenever I walk up Teeny’s walkway, it never ceases to amaze me how different Teeny’s life is compared to the rest of us Cohen siblings.
While most of our homes have concrete driveways and two-car garages, the standard for most single-family homes in Southern California, Teeny’s mansion is equipped with a cobblestone path and an oversized three-car garage.
Everett’s BMW sits on the driveway, freshly polished and spotless, right next to the bright rose bushes lining the property line.
More flower beds are positioned along the pathway, ranging from hydrangeas to lavenders, offering a fragrant quality as I reach her door.
I press the doorbell, and even the chime sounds florid and rich.
I stand there, feeling a little out of place while rocking back and forth on my heels when I hear footsteps near followed by a murky figure appearing through the distorted glass on the door.
“Hey,” Everett says when he opens the door. “Come in. The girls are in the back.”
I follow him through the house, taking in the foyer and high ceilings, and when we walk out to the backyard to the pool, I’m greeted with an echoing shriek.
“Daddy!” Sophia calls from inside the pool. She’s in there with Teeny and Sadie, the three looking like a trio of drowning kittens. It looks like they’re at the end of their pool day from their weary bodies barely able to tread the water.
I dropped Sophia off in the morning after Sadie begged for a day with her cousin.
Kendall needed some time to catch up on her work, and I managed to get some things done that I’ve been putting off for a few weeks.
It was a nice little break the both of us needed, though I felt like it cleaved us apart more than before.
We spent the day in the same house but barely spoke to each other.
I think I said more to her when I told her I was leaving to pick up Sophia than throughout the whole day.
“You about ready to go, Soph?”
“Aww!” she exclaims, her grin now a big pouty frown.
“We were going to pick up some pizza if you guys want to stay for dinner,” Everett offers. He’s picking up the stray towels and Styrofoam pool noodles, and he looks just about as sunburned as the rest of the soppy gang.
“Yes! Pizza!”
I turn to Everett with an exasperated huff. “I guess we’re staying for pizza.”
A string of excited squeals mesh with the lap of water as Sophia, Sadie, and Teeny exit the pool. Everett waits by the edge, towels in hand, and I take one from him to dry off Sophia.
“Did you have fun with Sadie?”
Sophia grins at me and nods eagerly. Water drips from her head and lands on the dry concrete in light splats. I roughly rub the towel into her hair before wrapping her up into a little Fifi burrito. “Sadie taught me how to float on my back.”
“She did?”
“Yup,” she claims proudly. “You’re supposed to lie back and pretend to be a starfish.”
“Are you hungry?”
She nods again, the enthusiasm gushing out of her like a geyser. “Can we have ice cream after pizza? And Sadie said we can watch a movie too!”
“How about just some pizza,” I carefully suggest, hoping to avoid a tantrum. “And then maybe we can get some ice cream on the way home.”
“Kendall couldn’t make it?”
I ignore the cross face Sophia’s making and turn to Teeny. “She had a lot of work to catch up on. With the end of the school year and open house next week, she’s been really busy.”
Teeny pulls a dress over her head, and Everett adjusts the back.
I watch him swipe over the material to dust off any loose dirt from sitting on the ground, and he tugs at the hem to adjust the way it sits.
His hand is already extended to take the damp towel from her before she even hands it over to him, and she smiles at him and quietly whispers a thank you.
It never occurred to me how differently Everett treats Teeny compared to her ex-husband.
How much more attentive and present he is.
Even Teeny’s demeanor is different. More carefree and relaxed, less circumspect.
Sadie swoops down and scoops Sophia in her arms, burrito and all, and the two rush off inside. I follow, picking up Sophia’s clothes along the way.
“I’ll be back,” Everett announces once we’ve settled around the couch. “The pizza should be ready in about twenty minutes.”
“Okay,” Teeny answers. She offers him a quick kiss, probably something adulterated with an audience, specifically her older brother, and he dashes off with his keys in his hand.
“I should go get Sophia changed,” I tell Teeny, pointing a loose hand to the noise upstairs. I hear both Sadie and Sophia giggle and hesitate with the thought that I might be an intruder in their moment.
“Sadie’s got her,” Teeny assures. “Just relax.”
I do as she instructs, sinking into the far side of the couch. “Sadie’s really good with her.”
Teeny reaches for the only dry towel in the pile that was brought in and folds it a few times before sitting on top of it. “Yeah, she’s actually thinking about changing her major to early childhood development. She wants to be a teacher.”
I smirk. “That’ll be a really good fit for her.”
“You know, if you ever want to drop Sophia off over the summer for a few days, you can,” Teeny offers. “I’ll be here too, and I’m sure Kendall could use the break. And Sadie loves hanging out with Sophia.”
“I’ll talk to Kendall.” It’s the only answer I can give right now.
Maybe I’ll bring it up to Kendall later, something in passing.
Or maybe not. Maybe we won’t get there, an incidental exchange of our day that never quite reaches the surface.
Similar to the schoolyard gossip she carries home with her every day but chooses not to share with me.
Small accounts like a mishap with one of her kids or an annoying occurrence at my office.
Even something concerning or funny that Sophia did. Probably not.
“How is she?”
I hear the care and heed in her voice. The question she asks when we have a quiet moment alone. When we aren’t surrounded by our brothers or parents or kids.
“She’s…” I consider lying but then remember who I’m talking to. Teeny isn’t our friends or our other family members. It’s Teeny. “She has her good days and her bad days.”
She nods, and I know I don’t need to elaborate. We sit in a moment of awkward silence, and I consider whether or not it’s okay to ask the question I want to ask. But with the thought of my wife at home and the knowledge she’s wallowing in her grief, I ask anyway.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
Teeny sets down the remote she had in her hand. She’s settled on some cooking show but ignores it as she faces me. “Sure.”
It’s not a topic I know she particularly enjoys talking about, but it’s me, and I feel like if I sit any longer in this quiet my insides are going to claw up my throat.
“I know back, you know, before…I know it was your choice and all, and I know it was a long time ago, and you were really young, but—”
“Are you talking about my abortion?” She says the word so boldly, it throws me off guard. But it also eases whatever apprehension I have talking to her about Kendall.
I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah.”
“What about it?” she asks earnestly. There’s no offense or insult behind her question, and there would never have to be any.
I was there. I was the only one there when she didn’t want our parents to know.
When she was sixteen and her mistake haunted her more than two decades after a decision that changed the entire trajectory of her life.
“I know it’s not the same thing as Kendall’s miscarriage, but…
I don’t know. I’m just trying to figure things out.
It was such a long time ago, and I think it’s still weighing on her.
I’m trying to do the right thing, but it always feels so wrong.
And I feel like…maybe neither one of us are over it, but I don’t even know how to talk to her about it.
” Everything comes out in a projectile word vomit.
I let the dam open. I’m desperate, and I don’t even know what I’m saying.
All I know is that I want my wife back. “Sorry. I just really have no one else to talk to.”
I watch the way Teeny takes me in. My haggard posture, my dejected face. And I see pity deepen the creases on her face. “I can’t speak for Kendall,” she finally says after a careful, solicitous pause. “I just know that…I don’t think I’ll ever be over it.”
“Even after all this time?”
She smiles softly, and I can tell it isn’t a smile that’s fond or even sad. It’s a mask. A shield methodically drawn up whenever she talks about her past. “You know, before I went through with it, I thought about having it.”
I nod. It doesn’t surprise me. Even at sixteen, I saw how she struggled with the decision.
“Kendall didn’t have that choice,” she continues. “In fact, she made the choice to have a baby you guys didn’t plan on, but it was made for her. Her choice was taken from her. I think it’s good that you’re trying to figure out how to help her.”
“I don’t know how much help I am.” I think about how I try to help.
In the grand scheme of things, I do so little.
I’m just…there. We exist in the same home, filling it with delicate glances and succinct inquiries that lack weight or purpose.
But it’s all we have. If we took what little we have away, we’d be left with nothing.
There would be no us. So maybe, in my own broken way, it is helping.
“She uh…she had to deliver the baby,” I say, no preamble.
“What do you mean?” I’d given her so little about our miscarriage, this bit of information is news to her.
I exhale a deep breath. I’ve never told anyone this.
Sylvia knew because she was there, but I’ve never let someone in on Kendall’s trauma.
“Her water broke at almost twenty weeks, and the doctors couldn’t stop the baby from coming.
They had no choice but to have her deliver the baby knowing they wouldn’t be able to save it. ”
“James,” she gasps. She reaches to smooth a comforting hand over mine and I see her eyes glisten.
“And I wasn’t there,” I continue. “I had gone on some work trip to Boston, but I turned right back around as soon as I landed. By the time I got to the hospital, they’d already taken the baby away.”
Teeny turns her face and wipes her thumb across her cheek. She clears her throat before saying, “I can’t believe she went through that.”
I nod. “So I understand why she’s never gotten over it, but…I don’t know what more to do. I feel so fucking helpless.”
“Have you thought about talking to someone?”
“Me?” I ask in answer. “What? Like a therapist?”
“Yeah,” she answers.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I mean, Kendall sees one—”
“She does?”
“Once a week,” I tell her. “On Saturday mornings. I don’t know if it’s even helping.”
“If Kendall’s doing it, maybe you should too.”
“But I’m not—I’m not really grieving. Not like her. And I don’t think I’m depressed or anything.”
“But maybe it’ll help you understand Kendall a little better,” she points out. “You want to help her in some way. This could answer some questions you have.”
I always assumed therapy was to talk about your problems and to sift through all the tricky emotions we deal with on a daily basis. I never thought to use it to learn how to cope with other people’s emotions. To help understand your loved ones better when words aren’t working anymore.
“They do that? Like, in therapy?”
She shrugs. “It doesn’t hurt to try.”