11. Kendall
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Kendall
NOW
From: kmoreale@
To: babybeanC@
I’ve been thinking about time lately. How long my commute is from home to school. The length of my favorite movie or a song I play on repeat in the car. How long it takes me to get through one of these emails.
And I look at nine years. 3285 days. That’s a long time.
A long time to hold on to something I should’ve said goodbye to years ago.
“Hi Kendall.”
“Hi Sam.” I realize I’ve probably said my therapist’s name about seven times since I started seeing her last year. I smile, a vast difference from the gloomy, moody affect I’ve graced her with in the past.
“How are you today?”
I shrug, though my shoulders bob up and down with a buoyant bounce. “I’m okay,” I tell her truthfully.
“You look better. And sound better,” she comments. There’s no reproving ring to her voice, and it makes me hopeful that I appear “better” enough for her to take notice.
“Yeah,” I agree.
“How’s the new medication?”
I nod. “I struggled pretty badly with the side effects for a week or so, but I’m feeling better.”
“And, aside from the side effects, how do you feel?” She emphasizes the word “feel.” Like trying to rearrange the question to its original form and asking if I’m still severely depressed is too risky.
“I don’t know.” I’m being honest, an unexpected trend for today’s therapy session. Usually, I’m a tight-lipped church mouse of awkward silences and deflection. “Right now, I think I’m just getting over the symptoms. The nausea was pretty horrible, and I feel like I’m finally getting over that.”
Her brows shoot up, and I’m not sure if she’s surprised with my unorthodox chatty self or the fact that I’m actually answering her questions. No diverting, no digressing. Maybe this is the start of Kendall 2.0 à la a rattly bottle of prescription drugs.
“I’m sure the psychiatrist told you, but it takes some time for the medication to do what it’s supposed to, so keep taking it as ordered for now. If the symptoms come back or if they’re affecting your day-to-day more than usual, let them know.”
“Yeah, I’m doing that.”
“Good,” she continues. “How are things at home?”
Instead of off-handedly saying “fine” like I normally do, I lean forward. My face fills the screen, digitizing into larger pixels. “Things are…okay.”
“Just okay?”
“For now,” I admit. “James…he’s been good.” I pause, a small smile twitching my lips. “He’s been taking on a lot of things at home while I adjust to my medication, and…we’ve been okay. Good.”
“That’s good.”
“And we talked about…things.”
It’s Sam’s turn to lean forward, as if we’re sitting at a table right across from each other instead of two monitors and hundreds of miles of distance between us. “What things?”
“We talked about when we first met,” I say. “When Sophia was little. About…” My voice trails.
She doesn’t know about the other things. I haven’t managed to get to that level of therapy. Maybe I need to go through different stages, defeat various aversions, unlock new aptitudes in an attempt to get over my fears. Until I get to the final boss: Kendall’s big, ugly villain of grief.
“What else?”
I shrug again, this time with a hefty weight sitting on my shoulders. I bend the conversation back in a direction I’m more accustomed to. “I-I don’t know.”