27. Kendall
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Kendall
THEN
From: kmoreale@
To: babybeanC@
Hi Bean,
I know I just wrote to you not too long ago.
I recently realized I seem to come back to writing to you when I’m having a harder time than usual.
I’ve been thinking about going to therapy.
I don’t know how much good it’ll do. I don’t even know where to begin.
But for now, I’ve looked into some therapists in my area.
I heard you can do sessions online now, so that’s kind of an added plus.
It’ll make things really convenient, for sure. I guess we’ll see.
I met Katy today, which is probably why I’m kind of having a hard time.
We came to visit your Auntie Sylvia and Uncle Tommy, and Katy is their little girl.
I think you would’ve made the perfect playmate for her.
At least, once she has better hand-eye coordination.
It would give us an excuse to visit more often.
Just so we could see you two grow up together.
She’s only a few months old, and I think it was the first time I’ve ever held a baby.
Well, except for you. I’ve held a baby kitten before, and I had to be just as careful, but it’s not the same thing.
But it made me think of you. What it would feel like to hold you again when you’re bigger and stronger.
How careful I would have to be with you in my arms. If I would’ve been able to stop your tears just by rocking you, kind of like how I did with Katy.
What kind of cute little outfits I would put you in.
I know one day, I’ll stop writing these letters.
I’ll go on with my life and have a future where I’m not constantly thinking about my past. I don’t even feel like I’m writing these letters to you anymore.
I feel like I’m just…writing them. Sometimes in my car, before I drive home, I’ll tap one out on my phone.
Or sometimes, like tonight, with James asleep next to me.
Just so I can say the things in my head and see the words somewhere other than in my dark thoughts.
I don’t know if it’s that I miss you anymore.
I think maybe I miss the idea of what could’ve been.
Maybe this feeling like I’m stuck in this deep, dark pit is the only feeling that feels familiar and safe, so I stay here.
I use my miscarriage as a crutch, hoping it’s understandable and the questions won’t come, and it lets me be here without being forced to claw out.
Or maybe I’m being manipulated by my own thoughts and losing you was really the greatest tragedy of my life.
So these dark thoughts are valid and the only way for me to move on is for me to acknowledge them and learn to work through them. Who knows.
At least I have you when I’m here. Please don’t leave me. Don’t fade from my memories. Hold on to me like I’ve held on to you. I guess I’m wrong. I do miss you. I miss you, and it aches. I don’t just miss the idea of you. I miss you.
“I have to warn you about my mom.”
James chuckles from the driver’s seat, his focus on the long gravelly road leading up to my mom’s house. “I’ve met your mom, you know.”
“I know, but she’s gotten comfortable with you now. She can be a little overbearing if she knows you won’t say no to her. Plus, she’s at home,” I explain, “and she’s a little different in her own habitat. A little loose and…too comfortable.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He pulls to a stop next to my stepdad’s pickup.
Their home is more secluded than Sylvia’s.
Yards and yards of space from her house to her neighbors, allowing for plenty of privacy and space.
Space she and my stepdad fill with morning walks and weekend afternoons spent tending their lawn.
The same lawn now littered with garden gnomes and lanky stone frogs.
The doors to our car shut as the front door opens, and the sounds are all followed by urgent footsteps and a high-pitched squeal.
“You’re here!” my mom calls, her arms meeting me before the rest of her body. She pulls me into a suffocating embrace, and I stand there, rocking side to side in her death grip.
“Hi, Mom,” I mumble into her sleeve.
One last strangling squeeze and she lets me go. And then it’s James’s turn. Though his embrace is filled with equal verve, he gives little protest.
I offer my stepdad a quicker, more painless embrace, and they’re ushering us toward the door.
“James, this is Javier,” I say just as James is free from my mom’s grasp. He and my stepdad exchange pleasantries, and we stand there, sort of unsure of what to do next.
“I made pasta,” my mom announces, happily slapping a hand to her denim-covered thigh. “And we’re growing our own romaine lettuce, so I made a salad too.”
“With homegrown tomatoes,” my stepdad adds.
I glance at the small garden splayed along the side of the house. Various greens join a small vine of tomatoes held upright using wooden rods, all of it contained in a large in-ground planter box.
The pinch in my mom’s brows show more than just an offer for pasta and salad.
They’re filled with concern and a level of hovering she knows she shouldn’t infringe on.
But she can’t help it. Twelve-hundred miles away and all it’s done is form a layer of guilt and worry to cast over the both of us.
Her, being the mom who’s always been an arm’s length away, and me, the daughter who used to tell her mother everything. Things have changed.
“Come on, come on,” she urges. “Let’s get inside.”
“How are the chickens?” I ask as we walk up the steps to the door.
My stepdad chuckles. “We thought we lost one of them, but turns out, she flitted off to the neighbor’s coop.”
“I guess they serve better pellets,” my mom jokes before adding, “But you have to try some of the eggs while you’re here. They taste amazing.”
“Have you two been thinking about getting some?” my stepdad asks.
“Um, we don’t really have the space for it,” I explain.
“Apartments in San Diego don’t really offer the best accommodations for fowl,” James adds as we walk through the house.
The living area is like a shrine to my childhood.
Pictures from school recitals, awards for silly things like “Kindness” and one that actually says, “For always doing her best.” Framed and all.
Even a plastic trophy from my soccer days without a single particle of dust like my mom polishes it daily.
“Are we lighting candles for a vigil after dinner, or…” James points at one of the many school pictures, this one in particular made especially ridiculous with crooked bangs and a gap tooth.
I pinch his side, and he winces. “She’s…proud.”
“Of course she is,” James placates. He scoops me into his arms and kisses my cheek. “How could she not?”
“I think I remember a specific baby blankie still folded in someone’s childhood drawer back home.” I tease back.
“Hey, I love that thing,” he defends.
“Of course you do,” I say with a puckered pout, patting my hand on his jawline.
I see a flat, oval rock with the words “I love you” written in purple acrylic paint, and I think I’ve had about enough.
“Mom, don’t you think these…awards can be thrown away now?
” I ask. “I think you’ve had them long enough. ”
My mom, who was in the kitchen, rushes back and shoos my hand away from her display. “How can I throw these away? You were so proud of them.”
I don’t argue with her. Instead, I glare at James with a silent demand to keep his insults to himself.
“I think they’re adorable,” James mocks, ignoring me. “And it’s so sweet of you to be so proud of Kendall’s accomplishments, Kathy.”
“Exactly,” my mom agrees. “Now go sit down. I’m just finishing up the sauce.”
We eat, James and I on one side of the dining table with my mom and stepdad wandering back and forth from the kitchen to make sure we have everything we need.
We barely lift a finger, aside from our utensils to our mouths, as we eat.
My mom fills us in on the goings-on here at home, and James and I listen.
I answer when my mom throws in an offhand question, usually about how life is now that we’ve been living together for some time.
And next thing we know, I’m helping my mom put away leftovers while James sits in the living room watching an enrapturing game of some sort on the flat screen.
“How’s work?”
I nod, wiping away at the kitchen counter with a damp sponge. “It’s fine.”
“You’re planning on staying with the same school next year?”
“Depends on if they have a spot for me,” I answer with a shrug. “But I hope they do. I like the staff and the district is okay.”
“And Sylvia?” she continues. “She’s doing well with the baby?”
I ignore the twinge in my chest and force a smile. “Yeah. Baby’s great.”
“How’s their new place?”
“Yeah,” I answer, avoiding her gaze for some reason. “It looks amazing. They look…happy there.”
I finally look at her, the sad smile still on my face. I expect her smile to match mine. Even an affirming hum and a transition into the next topic of conversation, but instead, the sigh that leaves her lips feel heavy. “Are you going to talk to me?”
I continue this clueless act, attempting to replace the fake smile with a look of innocence. Hopefully something more convincing. “What do you mean?”
The dish towel in her hands turns into a twined knot, twisting and turning with tension.
“Look,” she says, her voice low and discreet.
She shoots a quick glance in the direction of the living room.
“Whatever is going on with you, you haven’t been the same for—for a while.
Ever since you moved. And I just want to make sure you’re okay. ”
I bite my lower lip, a sad attempt to stop my trembling chin.
“It’s me. You know you can tell me anything.”