40. Kendall
CHAPTER FORTY
Kendall
NOW
From: kmoreale@
To: babybeanC@
Hi Bean,
This summer feels different. Every year, after every school year, I can feel the seasons change.
Not just in the weather, but the seasons here in our home.
Every year, Sophia gets bigger, and every year, I start to miss you less.
I think that’s okay now. It used to scare me.
I never wanted to let you go, and when the memory of you started to fade, it would terrify me.
But I think that’s the beauty of grief. We can remember you when we want to and when we can.
We can think about the short but wonderful time we had with you and still be happy and grateful for all that has happened since you.
We don’t need to be scared to let you go. I think you would’ve wanted that.
I know that by being okay to move on doesn’t mean I’m suddenly cured.
I know there are still parts of me I need to work on.
I’m going to probably spend the rest of my life figuring out how to deal with my…
everything. I’ll always grieve, but I can learn how to exist with all of it.
And on the days when it gets really hard, I know who I can turn to.
I have people who care about me and are able to help me when I need it.
Asking for help is also something I need to become comfortable with too.
I need to learn to not feel like a burden for simply existing. I’m getting there. Work in progress.
This isn’t goodbye, this is see you later.
I’m going to keep you here, in these emails, where I can visit you whenever I want.
And you don’t have to stay here forever.
You can go off and be wherever you need to be, but let’s promise to meet here whenever we need each other.
When we find ourselves reaching for each other or on those days we’re having a little bit of a harder time, let’s find each other here.
And maybe one day, we won’t have to come back here.
We can look for each other in another world where emails or missing each other or guilt don’t have to be in the mix.
We can just love each other and know it wasn’t our time before, but it’ll be our time later.
Love,
Mommy
It’s just after nine in the morning, and Sophia isn’t up yet. James left for work over two hours ago, a little earlier than normal, but with the holiday weekend ahead of us, he wanted to get an early start to get back earlier this afternoon.
It’s a quiet morning. Most people don’t get to experience the summer vacation period like I do.
They still have to go to work and drive their commute, most likely sending their school-age children off to summer camp or to a relative’s home, but it’s nice I get to have a lazy start to my day.
I have a lukewarm cup of coffee held between my hands.
The usual rise of steam is long gone, and I blow at it more out of habit than to cool it.
My laptop is open to an email, the sender portion already filled in.
I spent the last twenty minutes typing out what I want to say, and I think I’m ready to send it.
James might read it at some point. Maybe later today or maybe in another nine years, but those words are as much for him as for our baby.
Knowing the letters are for the three of us, and in part Sophia, feels freeing.
They aren’t meant to be kept like a top-secret journal with a brass lock, but more like a scrapbook full of memories.
We can open them whenever we want and stow them away when we need to.
James and I briefly glossed over the topic of these letters.
We decided to keep the account open, allowing us to go back to it whenever we want.
Things like this aren’t kept quiet between us anymore.
At least not all of it. Some things we keep to ourselves, waiting for when we’re ready to share with each other.
But we don’t hold back out of fear or resentment.
We do it out of care and respect. We’re slowly sweeping away the remains of those pesky little eggshells, even the sharp crumbs, and we’re walking around barefoot.
No heed to be paid so we don’t step on something and splinter a cut into our soles.
Just him and me, wide open like a book hitting the second act.
My phone buzzes on the counter, and when I look at the screen, I smile at James’s name flashing.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hi,” he says. “Is Sophia up?”
“Nope,” I tell him. “Still sleeping.”
“What are you guys going to do today?” I hear a phone ring through the line followed by some chatter from his office. I can tell he’s having a somewhat hectic morning, but he’s making the time to call me before he’s thrown into the throngs of his day.
“I was thinking of taking Sophia for a haircut and then getting her a new swimsuit. Maybe some lunch. Oh, and I have to make some returns at the craft store.”
“Sounds like a busy day,” he comments.
“You just called to ask me what I was going to do today?” I ask with a smile.
“Yeah,” he answers boldly. “And to say good morning since I left before you got up. So…good morning.”
“Good morning.” I was still in bed, stirring and half asleep, when he left in the morning. I felt him kiss me goodbye but was still a little groggy with sleep to kiss him back.
“I was thinking that maybe for dinner we could go out,” he suggests.
“I’m okay with eating at home,” I tell him. “I was going to cook those steaks we’ve had in the fridge. I can make a salad with that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course,” I say. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Just thought that maybe…you’d want a break from making dinner tonight,” he says with what I assume is a shrug while he’s seated at his desk.
I’ve been cooking every night since we’ve been back home, but I really don’t mind it.
It’s been a nice routine, something my therapist said would be a good way for me to work with my depression.
And I think it’s been helping. But it hasn’t been so much work that I can’t handle it.
“James,” I say, sniffing out where this is going. “Are you worried I might resent you for making me cook dinner every night?”
“No,” he argues, his answer firm. “I just don’t want you to take on more than you need to.”
“I don’t mind,” I tell him.
“I know, but I don’t want to overwhelm you.”
I sigh and it comes out more frustrated than I intend to. “I can do these things. I want to do these things. I mean, I also would love to go out to dinner with you and Sophia if that’s what you really want to do, but we can do that another time.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
In the past, I think this kind of conversation would have ended in a series of conciliatory answers in an attempt to keep the peace.
We’d shrug off each question with some passive affirming answer and never really say our underlying thoughts.
It hasn’t been easy. There’s been a bit of an adjustment period, and we’re still learning how to be open and honest with each other, but this is a start.
“Listen,” I continue just as his other line rings. “Go back to work. You sound busy, and we’ll talk later when you get home. Okay?”
“Yeah,” he answers. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
I don’t know if this is something I should be concerned about.
I know James is just worried about me. We’re just barely settling into what feels like a new norm, and he doesn’t want to get too comfortable.
He wants to make sure I’m okay as we navigate this new step in our relationship. But I also don’t want to be babied.
But James is trying. He’s talking to me.
And more importantly, he’s listening to me.
He hears me when I tell him I’m okay. And he hears me when I’m not, especially when I need him a little more than other days.
And I’m learning to let him know when I need him to be there for me instead of trying to work through things on my own.
We aren’t perfect, by a mile, but we’re us. And that’s what we’re going to work on.
“Mommy?”
My thoughts are interrupted by a mousy whisper, and I’m greeted by a nest of bedhead and a lopsided nightgown.
“Good morning, Fifi,” I say softly, bending down to scoop Sophia in my arms.
“Mommy, I want bananas.”
“Sure,” I tell her. “You want some eggs too?”
She nods, rubbing her fists into her sleep-riddled eyes.
“Okay,” I tell her, setting her back down. “Mommy’s going to make you some breakfast.”
She grins at me, offering me her toothiest smile, and I go about fulfilling her request.