Anyway, I’m rambling. I guess I need some practice doing this. I promise my next email will be more thought-out. It won’t be about the corresponding fruit or vegetable for your gestational age. For now, I think I’ll just end thiswith an introduction. I’m Kendall. Or Mom. Maybe Mama or Mommy. It’s nice to meet you.
Love,
Mommy
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
James
NOW
There’ssomething about the mundane that feels like home. Routine that feels conventional. I never used to appreciate or even notice the everyday that flitted through our home. Simple things like a two-year stint in ballet class for Sophia with busy Saturday mornings and the occasional weeknight recitals. Or pizza nights on Fridays as a way to wind down after a long week. Even Sunday morning chai latte runs—Kendall’s request. Until it all stopped. Fridays turned into nights spent reheating leftovers in separate corners of our home. And on Sundays, Kendall and I started to do our own thing. She might take Sophia to the park or on a quick trip to the drugstore for essentials, or I might be cleaning out the garage. It didn’t matter. As long as we stayed out of each other’s way.
Today, on another regular Saturday, that routine seems to have returned, slowly and surely. We had pizza last night, delivered to our door while Kendall and Sophia picked our movie for the evening. We made ice cream sundaes for dessert—another part of our norm we’d forgotten about. Dessert after greasy pizza topped with concave slices of pepperoni, and our house suddenly feels like home again. And now, while Kendalldrops off Sophia at my mom’s, I’m at the hardware store getting supplies to fix the broken sprinkler heads in our front yard.
We hadn’t talked about what happened in the garage last week. We just let it fizzle until Kendall sort of…came around. Things at home have been smoother. Less askew and slanted, and I hope it’s not temporary. A part of me worries it’s due to an inkling of guilt on Kendall’s end, for stopping a moment I would’ve given anything to see through. Or maybe it has nothing to do with that. Maybe all the therapy sessions and the changes in her medications and the time that’s passed has finally done something. For now, I don’t want to question the whys. I want to be a little selfish and relish in the now.
On the way to the store, I started to plan out the rest of our weekend. Maybe Kendall and I can have lunch. Just us two with Sophia gone. Then we can pick up Sophia together, bring her home where we can watch another movie—hopefully something grown-ups can semi-enjoy as well. And on Sunday morning, maybe we can run some errands together. Get groceries, test out the new sprinkler heads. Maybe even revert back to our usual lasagna nights we reserve for Sunday dinner. Maybe we can even talk about our summer. Kendall will be off in just a week, and maybe I can take some time off too. A week or two so we can go on vacation somewhere. Get away and just be a family.
I pay for my supplies, stopping by the display of flowers to pick up some daisies for Kendall. Her favorite. When I pull into the driveway, my chest spasms with excitement seeing Kendall’s car there too.
“Kendall?” I call as I walk through the door. Whatever supplies I picked up, I’d haphazardly thrown on my workbench in the garage. The only thing I have gripped in my hand are the flowers I plan on giving to Kendall. “Ken? Are you home?”
“I’m in the room,” she answers from upstairs. I take the steps, two at a time, and find her crouched in front of our dresser, a frustrated scowl on her face. My smile drops.
“Did my mom mention when she wanted us to pick up Sophia?”
She shrugs, her back turned to me. I can sense a shift in the air. It’s tight and almost humid. I can feel it go in and out of my lungs. Something doesn’t feel right. I place the flowers still clutched in my hand on the bed. At the end where our turquoise throw blanket is neatly folded over and draped. The one Kendall usually swaps out according to the season. Orange for fall, green for Christmas.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” she says, her tone clipped and abrupt. She’s obviously lying.
“Did something happen when you dropped off Soph?”
She stands, her eyes focused on the now-empty laundry basket. It looks like she has no plans to answer with the way she tries to breeze past me toward the door. I stop her, nudging my hand into her arm, and she looks at my fingers as if they’re diseased, covered in something contagious.
“What happened?”
Her eyes narrow, and I see her chest rise and fall. I wish I could read her better, foresee what she’s going to say or do, but I’ve lost that touch. I don’t know if she’s going to start yelling at me or continue to ignore me for the rest of the day. She shakes her head almost as if she’s in disbelief, and her body sags at the same time her eyes catch the flowers on the bed.
“James,” she pleads, my name spoken through a sigh. A soft breath that’s equal parts painful and frustrated. “It’s nothing. Let’s just…move on.”
“How can I move on if I don’t know what I’m moving on from?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she insists. Annoyance coats her tone, and I should probably let it go. Move on like she’s suggesting. But my persistence pushes me forward.
“Is this about last week?” I bite, knowing I might be missing the mark completely, but I have nothing. And I’m starting to get desperate.
“What about last week?”
“Wha-what happened in…in the garage. I-I—” I stammer. I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. It’s not like I’m talking about our sex life with a close relative or something. This is my wife. We should be able totalkabout these things.
“That shouldn’t have happened,” she cuts in as if it makes her just as uncomfortable. “I’m sorry about…I shouldn’t have let it get that far.”
“Why not? Why can’t we?—”
“Because,” she cries.
