34. Kendall
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Kendall
THEN
I remember when I started first grade, my mom braided my hair into two pigtails and tied purple ribbons at the end.
I had a somewhat concerning obsession with the color purple from the ages of six to eight, and I remember how excited I was that she got them for me.
We went to some accessory store the weekend before the first day of school—the kind that sells those BFF necklaces with a crack down the middle, and you and your best friend each get one side of the heart—and I begged her for those purple bows.
Apparently, I had zero interest in forming a bond with a friend through metallic jewelry made with epoxy paint.
But purple bows? That was all the rage. When she obliged, I told her she was the best mom in the whole world.
“You’re all set,” I tell Sophia. Her own bow, just as purple as the one I used to wear, isn’t set in pigtails.
She only has one, and her hair is tied half up and half down.
The bow is clipped just above a small elastic band at her crown, and her small fingers gently feel for it at the same time a grin stretches across her lips.
“I love it, Mommy!” she says. Today’s her first day of preschool. She’s starting to discover the outer edges of her independence, finding out what she can do and what she still needs to call me for help. While she dressed herself today, she still needed help with her hair.
The last three years have flown by, bringing to light the age-old phrase, “The days are long, but the years are short.” Sophia went through a difficult colicky stage that lasted until almost seven months.
I eventually had to go back to work, spending my days in the classroom with three to four hours of sleep.
The sleep deprivation made me nearly hallucinate.
I was clawing through my days, and somehow, with Sophia nearing four years old, I made it out alive. Barely.
“Okay, let’s go have some cereal.”
“Can I have some bananas in my cereal? With the Flosted Frakes?”
I hold back my laugh. “Sure.”
She skitters off, and I follow. We walk into the kitchen where James is at the Keurig machine. The last gurgles of the machine come to a hissing stop just as he sees me behind Sophia.
“Did you want some coffee?” he asks, offering the fresh cup.
“Yeah,” I tell him. I reach into the fridge for the creamer as he sets another cup under the brewing spout for himself.
I got up before he did, and we did sort of a tag team type of morning routine.
I used the bathroom while he was still in bed.
By the time I got out, he was in the closet getting dressed.
When I came back into the room after waking Sophia up, he was already washing up, leaving the closet empty for me to get dressed.
It was almost on purpose, us dodging each other while calling it convenience and methodical.
Last night, when we went to bed, it wasn’t…
pleasant. I don’t know what other word I can use to describe the friction that never quite gelled into acquiescence.
I don’t even remember what we argued about.
I just know it was over something laughably unimportant, and then it eventually grew and grew into this mold that started to seize other parts of our lives besides just us two.
It leaked into our home, over the cracks barely being held together.
Into the still warm coffee cup in my hand that was meant to be a peace offering but is anything but.
How did we become this? We used to be so happy. There were never eggshells lining our wood floor. There was never this pause, this moment where we held our breaths, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And now, that’s all we are.
James sets out a bowl for Sophia. He reaches for the last banana sitting on the large fruit basket in the middle of the island while I stir a spoonful of sugar into my coffee.
We sit in silence, listening to Sophia move her spoon around.
It clinks against the ceramic bowl and the happy chewing noises she makes as she enjoys her breakfast provides a little distraction.
One I didn’t realize how badly we needed.
After we rush out the door to make it in time for drop off, we manage to find a spot in the already packed parking lot.
We walk her to her new classroom, her hands in ours, and we do the whole first day of school routine.
I was lucky her first day didn’t land on mine, allowing me to join James, but now, I can’t help but wish we could find a way to avoid this awkward air between us as we drive back home.
“Did you want to grab some breakfast?”
I shake my head while buckling my seat belt. “I’m okay.”
“Did you want to pick up some coffee?” he offers just as we’re pulling out of the parking spot. The heavy traffic of parents leaving their kids after a barrage of first day of school pictures and tearful drop-offs greet us, and we’re at a standstill.
“It’s okay,” I answer.
The blinker signals right, and James’s attention is focused on leaving without a minor fender bender with another frustrated parent. We manage to get on the road, and it’s a short drive back home.
“Did you want to talk?”
My eyes stay diligent on the road despite the fact that I’m not even the one driving. “About what?”
“Just…anything,” he answers cautiously.
It’s another peace offering. An olive branch similar to the one he gave in the morning with my coffee.
But I don’t know how to accept this one.
I don’t know how to take something that isn’t tangible.
His offer isn’t one I can hold in my hands.
Something I can consume or thank him for. And I can only eye it with suspicion.
“I don’t know,” I answer with a diffident shrug.
“Well, I’m here if you need to talk.”
His words shouldn’t frustrate me, but they do.
Always just words with no action. This never changes, and I feel the frustration bubbling under my skin.
I don’t know how to tell him he can do all the right things.
He can make Sophia breakfast, get her ready for bed, read a book to her or take her outside to play with her bubble machine, but all of that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t tell him all the things in my heart.
All the thoughts that swirl in my mind are kept in, twisting in a dark tornado I can’t seem to stop, and he’ll never know about it.
He’ll go on, thinking he’s doing something wrong.
He’s not helping around the house, he’s not doing enough, when it’s the things he doesn’t do that’s the problem.
I don’t know how to tell him these things without it turning into this huge blown-up argument.
Instead of telling him all this, I answer with a straight-faced, “I’m good. There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Hi.”
“Hi,” I respond.
“I’m Sam. You’re Kendall?”
I nod at the screen. This feels weird. Like I’m watching TV and the whimsical characters are suddenly staring straight into the camera and talking to me, breaking the fourth wall.
There’s a drawing next to my keyboard. A rainbow.
Or at least, an attempt at one. Some mix of maroon and brown in there, making it look more earth-toned than something meant for the sky.
Sophia drew it last night after dinner, her crayon held in her fist while she pounded it against the paper like a hammer.
I think her first day of school jitters were getting to her, and she found a way to work through them with some crafting time.
James went to work, his attempts to ease some of the tension sitting between us thwarted when I once again declined his offer to cook me something before he left. It’s quiet now, and it’s leaving a lot of room for those thoughts to have center stage.
“So do I just talk about how depressed I am?” I guess I’m getting straight to the point.
She smiles, something placating yet kind. “Why don’t we start with you telling me a little bit about what you’re expecting from this?”
“You mean from therapy?” I say the word like it’s difficult to get rid of. Once you say it in that scared and trembling voice, it’s stuck. It becomes this sticky, viscous film you can’t wash off no matter how hard you try, and you become this person who goes to therapy.
Another gentle smile. “Yes.”
“Um,” I thoughtfully hum. “I think I was hoping…you would fix me?” It sounds silly even to my own ears.
She chuckles, a balm over my embarrassment.
“Not how therapy works, I assume?” I ask with a reluctant smile.
“Not exactly.” Her face glitches, a small disruption to remind me there’s this disconnect.
I just met this person, and I’m supposed to somehow tell her about all the deepest, darkest parts of me.
Through a screen of all things. Maybe getting straight to the point isn’t going to work with this whole therapy thing.
Maybe I need to ease into it. Take it day by day, session by session.
“Didn’t think so,” I say with a sheepish smile. After a pause, I add, “I considered therapy a few years ago.”
“And you didn’t go through with it?”
I shake my head. “I guess it wasn’t…dire at the time.”
“You think it is now? Dire?”
“Maybe,” I answer. It’s ambiguous, these non-answer answers, but they’re honest. I’m not holding something back.
I just don’t know what I’m trying to give.
Everything inside my head is a tangled mess, and it’s coming out in matted knots.
I’m trying to unravel them, bit by bit, but it’s taking some time.
A learning curve I never knew I needed to work through.
“Is there anything you’ve done in the past to help you with your depression? Anything other than therapy? Maybe other home remedy type techniques?”
“Home remedies?”
“It’s a word I like to use for clients who haven’t made the jump to professional help. Specifically for depression and anxiety,” she explains. “It could be a wide variety of options like meditation or journaling. Hiking, going to long walks—”
“Journaling?”
She nods, but I don’t say anything else. Writing sounds…okay, doable. Possibly helpful. “Is that something you want to try?”
“I think so,” I respond, falling into silence once again.
“How about you tell me about the last week for you,” she says after I’ve remained quiet for a moment too long.
“What do you mean?”
“What did you do?” she clarifies. “Who did you see, what did you eat? Any extracurricular activities you participated in. Or just your norm. What your day-to-day looks like.” She says it like it’s a suggestion.
Like I could choose not to glaze over the last few days and sit here in silence instead.
And she would be perfectly okay with that.
“I took my daughter to get milkshakes on Saturday after dinner.”
“You have a daughter.” Not necessarily a question considering I noted my post-partum depression on my online intake forms.
“She’s almost four.”
“That’s a fun age.”
“Yeah,” I answer through an aberrant laugh.
She’s right. Three is a fun age. Sophia’s starting to grow out of the heavy tantrum stage since she’s able to use her word to get the things that she wants.
But she also knows how to use her words, wielding manipulation schemes like guilt and triangulation tactics.
“What’s she like?”
“She’s…silly and funny and shy around people she doesn’t know. But once you peel back her layers, she becomes this little comedian.”
“And your husband?” Another detail listed on my demographic sheet. Married. Not single or divorced or separated.
“He’s…” I think about James—my husband—what he means to me and the part he plays in my life.
“Sometimes I don’t know if I deserve him.
But don’t tell him that. Can’t let that kind of stuff go to his head.
” It’s a joke, a shiny veneer to place over the cracks in my marriage hoping to make it look less damaged. But I don’t think I’m fooling her.
“Why don’t you think you deserve him?”
The shell breaks, and I realize it didn’t stand a chance. Nothing can make my relationship look pretty on the outside.
I don’t answer her. Instead, with my bottom lip clamped between my teeth in order to stop my trembling chin, we sit in silence.