“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.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kendall
THEN
“Hmm!”
“What?”
James, his mouth full of cherry compote-filled pastry, points with an insistent finger at the storefront we’re walking by. We’re at an outdoor strip mall with stores ranging from a comic bookstore to a women’s clothing-slash-cosmetics store to a bakery where we took a break to indulge in some flaky goodness. To satisfy my cravings, according to James, though I think it was more his appetite we satiated.
People are popping in and out of shops with purpose. Arms filled with shopping bags and looks of determination stamped on their faces, no time to dilly-dally before they move onto the next destination. The holiday season will do that to you. Buying presents for every family member and friend, wrapped and ready for parties and gatherings, is a feat in its own. I’m learning this from firsthand experience.
I’m experiencing my first ever Southern California winter. It’s not too different from Washington. It’s not like there are a differing set of customs Californians adhere to. The variance is mainly in the weather. San Diego has the kind of winter that allows shorts and sunglasses. Sweaters are an option rather thana requirement, usually dependent on the time of day, and I can even enjoy an iced chai latte without suffering through an incessant chill.
I look up at the large, cartoonish drawing of a spider painted in black tempera paint right next to where James is gesturing toward a silver door handle. Above the silly drawing, the words “Itsy Bitsy Spider” are sprawled on the display window in a whimsical cursive font. Inside, I see frilly clothes in miniature sizes, gussied up with ruffles or lace, and other goods, all falling into the mommy or baby category.
James shoves the remains of his crostini inside one bulging cheek. “Let’s go in.”
“Why?” I take a long sip of my orange juice. A substitute for the coffee I’d much rather have. They ran out of the decaf.
“I just want to look.” He tugs at my hand, urging me to follow him. “We’ll be quick.”
I reluctantly follow, preferring to get a start on our own holiday shopping before the crowds get thicker. Though, if I were to be completely honest, I’m curious to see what we’ll find inside. What treasures will tempt us into parenthood with all the adorably small clothes and shoes.
The bell trills as soon as we walk inside, and I see James’s eyes grow wide and awestruck.
“Welcome in,” the attendant calls from a rack of dresses that’ll probably fit a decent-sized opossum. “Looking for anything in particular today?”
I shake my head and smile. “Just looking.”
Just looking. So simple, yet it feels so much more than that.
It’s been some time since we last saw the murky ultrasound picture, confirming our pregnancy through the blip of a heartbeat on the monitor. That was over two months ago. Since then, I’ve buried myself in worry. What if something happens to the baby? What if something happens to James or me? Whatif I’m a horrible parent? What if this kid grows up to hate me? What if the world gets terrorized by brain-eating zombies, and I have to deliver this baby in some underground bunker on an air mattress surrounded by canned goods and pre-filled jugs of water?
