19. Kendall
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kendall
THEN
I’m on my second serving of Kix for dinner.
Much like the dinner I had on Christmas.
Only it was a soggy bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, sliced bananas included.
There’s an indent on my couch where I’ve officially staked permanent residence.
Trash is strewn around me in a littered mess.
It’s all joined by empty bowls of cereal that haven’t been rinsed off and placed in the dishwasher.
I have a blanket that’s officially been assigned grief duty as it remains by my side.
When I walk to the kitchen, it’s draped over me like a cape.
When I go to the bathroom, it sits in a heap by the door until I do my business and swing it back over my shoulders.
The first week after winter break has come and gone, but I’ve remained at home.
My doctor gave me an extra week off to recover, but I’m back to work on Monday morning.
Until then, I have a few more days filled with wallowing, thriving in my self-masochistic habits like having cereal for three meals a day and watching sad movies about complicated relationships and shattered hearts.
Kyle has stopped by a few times to pour himself his own serving of Kix and criticize my choice in entertainment while joining me on my couch.
Sylvia has made multiple visits too, but for the most part, it’s just been me.
Me, General Mills, and plenty of movies about loss and love.
I barely had the energy to talk to my mom.
She called after her trip to check in and I feigned a stomach bug—shamelessly blaming the rampant flu season and my kids—and she urged me to hang up and get some rest. Physically, I feel better.
I’m not bleeding as much, and the pain has subsided to a dull occasional ache.
My energy has plummeted and my feet have been shuffling through thick mud, even in my small apartment, but that’s attributed more to my emotional state than anything else.
But soon enough, it’ll be as if it never happened.
Those kicks inside me will turn phantom.
I’ll look down at my stomach only to see it in its pre-pregnant state.
I’ll even forget about those wooden shards swept away and tossed into my trash bin.
Just like James has been swept out of my life.
This all feels so silly, to mourn over something I didn’t even want in the first place.
Something I never planned for but I was so ready to shape my life around.
I got so caught up in a life I practically fabricated over a span of a few months.
I was already picking out wallpaper and window treatments with James.
I was rewriting my entire future, throwing away any and all plans I had for myself.
So reckless and silly. So why am I this sad?
Why has my grief become this tangible thing, squished between my palms while I fold it into multiple layers of sorrow and pain?
I should be over this by now. Or at least on some journey of healing where the light at the end of the tunnel doesn’t feel like a dark hole.
That’s where I’m sitting. In complete darkness, all alone while clawing my fingers out through the other side.
And a small part of me—the hopeful part—wishes it was James waiting for me, ready to catch me as I fall.
I’m sprinkling a spoonful of strawberry Nesquik into my cereal—a fresh, new ingredient to pull me out of the monotony—when I hear a knock on my door.
Kyle said he’d be over to drop off an extra bag of pizza rolls from his recent overindulgent trip to Costco.
After watching me take out the trash in my bathrobe yesterday—when the mud I was trudging through was especially dense—I think he realized his usually composed, put-together neighbor had spiraled badly.
My greasy hair and stained sweatpants didn’t really help my case either.
I leave my cereal behind on the kitchen counter and drag my feet to my door.
“Miss M,” Kyle greets me, sweaty bag of pizza rolls gripped in his hands. It looks like they’ve been slightly thawed, the condensation glistening into beads of cold water. I reach for it, transferring the frozen goods straight to the freezer to enjoy later. A break from cereal sounds kind of nice.
“Thank you.”
“Cereal for dinner again?” Kyle follows me inside, shutting the door gently behind him.
I shrug. “Nothing like ol’ reliable.”
“How about I take you out for dinner? My treat,” he offers. “I’ve been craving some paella.” The kindness in his voice creates an ache low in my chest, and I realize how lonely I feel. How I want to cling to him so I don’t have to be completely and utterly alone with my thoughts.
“What’s that?” I ask with intrigue.
“It’s a Spanish dish they serve in this giant fry pan,” he explains. “Amazing with margaritas.”
I offer a halfhearted chuckle. “I think I’m good with my cereal.”
He slides a step closer, urgency heavy in his tight grip as he reaches for my hands. “Kenny,” he says, eyes wide and pleading, my name spoken with such tenderness. “You cannot sit here in your sad little apartment eating cereal all day.”
“I don’t,” I argue weakly before I point out, “I’m going to work on Monday. And I took out the trash yesterday. You saw me.”
“But then you climb back under your blankets and pop in a sad romance movie until you start sobbing into your throw pillows.” He jerks a head toward my couch.
Exhibit A: A rumpled throw blanket, the remote, and a few crumpled-up tissues strewn on the floor.
The extra bowl with a silver spoon and crusted remnants of cereal—the contents of my breakfast from this morning—is nodding its figurative head, taking Kyle’s side.
“It’s not always romance movies.”
His brow shoots up to this hairline. “Just ones with a cancer-ridden husband and a soon-to-be-widow.”
My throat tightens. I don’t say anything. Not only because I can’t, but because my argument is thin. Scarce. Pathetic even.
“You need some fresh air,” he says when I stay quiet. “And not to the trash chute. Like, real outside air. And a nice adult meal. Not cereal.”
“The air in the trash room isn’t that bad.”
“Okay, now I know you’ve lost it.”
I laugh. A real laugh, not self-deprecating, but an actual laugh that feels different and nice. Like a sliver of optimism and encouragement wedged into this new lifestyle of grief.
“So go shower and get dressed in something that isn’t…fleece,” he instructs, giving my outfit a once-over. “And we can paint the town red.”
“Best I can do is beige,” I joke, finally relenting. “Maybe khaki.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. As long as there’s some kind of smearing and slathering involved.”
I follow his instructions and take a shower that’s hot and gratifying.
I probably spent too long under the scalding water because steam billows around me when I step out of the tub and roughly towel dry my hair.
I slip on a pair of jeans with a creamy cashmere sweater.
A gift from James from a holiday shopping trip to the mall.
I spent a minute too long dilly-dallying over how expensive it was and how I shouldn’t spend so much money on something that isn’t a necessity, and he whipped out his card with a wide grin.
It’s soft and loose, something we both figured I’d use with the need for extra growing space.
“Much better,” I whisper to my reflection after I dab on some lip gloss.
I muster a smile, the corners of my lips stretching into an unfamiliar shape. My hair is still slightly wet, and my skin feels soft and damp, the aftereffects of a pruning shower. Though I didn’t manage to put any effort into my appearance, I smell a whole lot better than I did thirty minutes ago.
Kyle is standing over my kitchen sink, his sleeves bunched up to his elbows, and it looks like a gang of cleaning fairies has flitted through my apartment.
The trash that was littered throughout like a trail of breadcrumbs is gone as if it’s been swept under a rug.
The dish rack is packed with freshly washed bowls.
No more crusty cereal and sour milk thanks to some elbow grease and a half-empty bottle of Dawn. And a tenacious neighbor.
By the time we’re hopping into Kyle’s car, I don’t feel like I’m leaving my house against my will.
And by the time Kyle’s paying the check—a lost battle on my end after we played a game of tug-of-war with it—I think maybe I’ll be okay.
Maybe I can call my mom back and tell her what happened, fess up and tell her the real reason I’ve been feeling under the weather.
Even fill Sylvia in on my current relationship status.
Let her know that, after some consideration and afterthought, I decided to dissolve what was left of me and James.
That we are no more. No more accidental pregnancies or baby announcements around a brightly lit Christmas tree.
No more shared apartments and roommate agreements.
All of it’s gone. Poof. Just like it always should’ve been.
Just me, all alone, in my sad little apartment.
With a stomach full of paella and margaritas, I’m going to recalibrate my life.
Place my feet back on track with the pathway it was heading all along.
I’m going to focus on my work, concentrate on my classroom and my students so maybe I can get a permanent teaching job for the next school year in San Diego.
I’m going to take up a hobby. Like baking or knitting.
Maybe even something daring like surfing.
This is good. Probably what I should’ve been doing from the start.
Instead, I tossed all that independence I wanted to hold on to the second I met a man.
It’s like I couldn’t stand the thought of being alone and I clung to the first person I thought could fill the void from being away from home.
And I fell for him. I fell hard, like some lovesick fool. I feel so stupid.