42. Kendall
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Kendall
NOW
I recently learned that seahorses mate for life.
Apparently, only about three to five percent of mammals are monogamous.
And that’s even including humans. Seahorses, though not mammals, express their devotion to each other by performing a dance that’s almost as elaborate as a ballroom routine.
There’s also the reproductive role male seahorses play.
Unlike humans, female seahorses deposit her eggs into the male where he fertilizes them.
He then carries them until they’re ready to be birthed.
Sounds like the perfect partner if you ask me.
I know if James had the option to carry a baby in my place, he’d do it in a heartbeat. He’d learn the waltz or the foxtrot or even the tango, producing his own performative mating dance. He’d also happily take on the laborious duty of bearing a child. Because that’s the kind of partner he is.
“So, you think James is…”
“A seahorse,” I answer. My therapist stares at me through the screen, an incredulous look on her face.
Though a bit dubious, a smile peeks through the quizzical furrow between her brows.
I guess listing all the reasons why my husband is more seahorse than man—figuratively, of course—turned my playful little simile into a concerning comparison.
I just finished telling her my recent discovery about seahorses and their mating rituals.
It came up during our session after I told her the details of the recent conversation I had with James.
It started with a simple question. “How are you?” A generalized inquiry of my life since our last session turned into a long-winded story about ocean life.
But I don’t think Sam minds. In fact, she’s been hanging onto every word, wariness and all.
“Sorry,” I tell her, realizing this segue was one I hadn’t planned on. “Didn’t mean to bore you with…that.”
She shrugs off my apology. “It’s fine. You’re not boring me.”
“But to answer your question, I’m good,” I say, finally answering her question.
“That’s good to hear.” The light tone in her voice, the hopeful tilt and easy cadence, shows she’s being honest. And that she believes me.
Or maybe for the first time, I feel like I’m really telling the truth.
I don’t feel like I need to hide behind my silence, wondering how much she can see through it.
I’m splayed open, like a well-loved book, and I don’t even mind.
“In fact, I wanted to tell you I’ll probably be doing fewer sessions.”
“Oh?” That concerned look is back, overlapping the amused curiosity she held. “Is there a reason why?”
“James and I actually started going to couples therapy,” I explain. “And I don’t know if I can do weekly sessions. You know, schedule-wise.”
“I see.”
“Is that okay?” I don’t know why I’m suddenly nervous. It’s not like I’m breaking up with her. I just want to be able to spread my time between our sessions. I don’t know if I absolutely need weekly sessions on top of my sessions with James. But what do I know? Maybe I do.
“We can do every other week for now,” she answers after some thought. “And we can check in each time to see if an unscheduled session is needed.”
“Okay,” I agree. “But do you think I’ll be okay?” The sudden realization that I won’t have her to talk to every weekend like some crutch brings on an unexpected wave of dread. What if I’m not ready for this change? Maybe her apprehension, as badly as she tried to hide it, is there for a reason.
“Why don’t we just play it by ear?” she suggests, putting me a little at ease. “We can keep our appointment as a backup, and you can cancel if you feel like you’re ready to skip it.”
I nod. I can do that. I can play it by ear. Take the training wheels off one at a time instead of having me fly off into a half-pipe with no helmet or elbow pads.
“How about we work on some exercises until then?” she asks. She says it like a suggestion, but it’s more subtle in the way that she leaves it up to me.
“Okay,” I agree. “What kind of exercises?”
“We can do journaling like you mentioned before,” she answers.
I nod. I can journal. I can write, tap out those emails like I’ve been doing. “I can do that.”
“How do you feel about me giving you something more specific and purposeful to journal about? Kind of like homework.”
I’m usually the one giving homework. It’s different being on the other side. “What kind of homework?”
“After you have your meetings with your family therapist, I want you to write down two to three thoughts you take away from each session.”
“I can do that.”
“Great.”
There isn’t much left of our session, but by the time it’s over, I feel better about not meeting with her next week.
It’s weird because I used to dread these sessions.
I remember I would feign an illness sometimes to cancel my appointment, never mind that it’s a remote session where the virulence of the flu or some other viral infection is irrelevant.
I leave my laptop behind where I had my session atop my neatly made bed and walk downstairs.
I opted for a more comfortable setting today instead of the office or in a straight-back chair, and it feels like a reflection of my current state.
This new approach where I face therapy with less apprehension and more hope.
James took Sophia to the store to pick up some groceries.
While there was a need to stock up on our weekly produce, I know it was mainly to get Sophia out of the house while I was having my session, his way of giving me some privacy.
I mosey into the garage for no other reason than to put Sophia’s arm floaties away.
They’d been left out to dry after going to Teeny’s for another midweek swim.
I stuff them into the plastic tote that holds most of our pool equipment including a beach ball and small boogie board.
As I’m closing the lid shut, I notice the box next to it.
The one I was rummaging through before the summer began.
I open it, wondering if the contents of it are still intact.
The last memory of when I opened it is foggy in my brain, muddled by a moment that soured into regret when it should’ve been about me and James.
But it’s there, the lavender owl squished and strangled alongside cable cords and other electronics.
I take it out and run it along my cheek, taking in the stale scent that usually lingers in storage containers.
“You never got to do what you were meant to do, did you?” I whisper softly, toying with the tattered wings.
It really didn’t. This soft, fuzzy owl didn’t get the chance to sit in a crib, serving as a witness to long sleepless nights and a colicky phase.
It didn’t get to be held and squished, dragged around the house while it collected various stains and sticker accessories.
It didn’t get to run through multiple cycles in the washer and dryer, a concerned toddler watching through the round window to make sure their best friend made it through the rough jets alive.
Instead, it sat in a storage bin for almost a decade.
It was shoved away to avoid any pain or regrets only for all of us to feel it all anyway.
We felt every bit of it, sans stuffed animals.
And now, I want to offer it a second chance.
A proper playmate who will hopefully handle it with better care than a reckless toddler.
I wedge the owl under my arm and walk back into the house.
My mind is set once again on my laptop, a specific email ready to be tapped out from my head.
I make it to our room and sit down, opening up my web browser like it’s second nature at this point.
But with the owl perched at the edge of the comforter and it patiently waiting for me to finally write something, I don’t really know what to say.
I don’t know if I want to say goodbye or do the usual thing where I log all the things that have been happening in my life, whether or not I want to let go of my past or add to the pages of this unintended autobiography.
So instead of clicking on the tab to compose a new email, I log into a different email account.
The one holding deeper layers of my past. I expect to see all the different emails I’ve been sending, reading like some chronological timetable.
Only there’s more. I find myself sitting face to face with an email I didn’t expect at all, catching me completely off guard.
It’s from James. He knows both he and I can access this email, and I can read them at any given time. So, with curiosity getting the better of me, I click it open.
From: james.cohen526@
To: babybeanC@
Hey Bean,
You have a sister. Her name is Sophia. She’s six, almost seven, and she loves the color pink, though purple was her favorite for a while.
She likes ice cream and stickers. She loves to go swimming.
She has one cousin who I think is her best friend even though she’s nearly three times her age. And we love her.
I know this is an odd way to start a letter, but I realized the other day that I don’t think we’ve ever told you about her.
And one day, we’ll tell her about you. I want to remember you as something good.
As a part of our family. When we erase the memory of you with grief, it’s easier to not talk about you.
But when we celebrate you and remember how happy you made us, we don’t have to be sad.
We can talk about you and be happy. We stopped talking about you for a long time because both Mommy and I were so sad, but I don’t think we have to do that anymore.