Before I Let Go, page 11
I always ask, as if the dog gets the courtesy of deciding where he’ll sleep. He could bounce between the houses like the kids do, but he always stays with me. He stands and walks toward the foyer, head tilted to an imperial angle. Conceited bastard. After a bath, he practically struts at the dog park.
“I’ll walk you out,” Yasmen says, standing from the stool and following Otis.
I let her walk a little ahead of me. These damn pants she’s wearing. The material must be hand-sewn by the devil and shipped from hell the way it hugs her ass and hips. The T-shirt crops just above her waist, gifting glimpses of her stomach—smooth and brown and toned. Beneath the top, her breasts hang ripe and overfull. When we were married, she’d walk around the house with no bra to torture me. I never missed an opportunity to drag her into the pantry or into a corner, tug up her shirt, bare her breasts, and suck her nipples. It was our own kind of foreplay. There were times, if the kids were upstairs or out of the house, when I would take her on the kitchen counter. Spread her wide, eat her out.
Jesus, I’m hard.
Not good. Not good at all. There’s no way I can fool myself that this erection has anything to do with my actual girlfriend, who has sent me two texts hinting that she’d like to spend the night. Nope. This is all Yasmen, dammit. I subtly shift in my pants, hoping to rush down the steps and to the car before she notices.
“Hey.” She grabs my arm when I move to walk past her on the porch. “Can we talk?”
With a quick glance at her hand on my arm, I nod tersely and sit in the swing. Maybe if I stay seated and the porch light is off, she won’t notice the pole stand in my pants.
The motion-sensor light turns on.
Great.
I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. She comes to sit by me on the swing, stroking Otis’s head. He leans into her palm, eyes rolling in canine bliss.
“That went better than expected.” She pulls one leg under the other. “What’d you think?”
“Yeah. It was pretty good. He seems okay with it.”
“I think…I’m sure you offering to go to therapy with him helped a lot.” She angles a sideways glance at me. “Did you mean it?”
I bend my knees a few times to rock the swing a little. “Damn, Yas. You think I’d say something like that and not follow through?”
“No, of course not. You were just always so adamant about not seeing a therapist when we…when I…well, before, so I was surprised you offered.”
“Am I excited about it? No. Do I think it’ll do anything for me? Hell, no, but if it might help Kassim adjust, I’ll go.”
“I see.” She blinks, her pretty lips shaping into a wry curve. “So therapy might help children or weak-minded people like me, but couldn’t possibly be of any benefit to someone as strong as you.”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying. Don’t twist my words.”
“I don’t have to.” She stands abruptly, the coolness in her eyes not enough to disguise the hurt. “Do you want recommendations? If so, I can get referrals from Dr. Abrams. Or are you just going through the motions to satisfy Kassim?”
Both.
I know saying it aloud would only ratchet up the tension coiling between us, so I blank my expression before I answer.
“That’d be great.”
“I’ll let Ms. Halstead know we’re moving forward,” she says, turning to grab the knob of the front door.
“Yas, hey.” I stand, and this time, I’m the one who takes her arm. “I really didn’t mean to imply I’m too good for therapy or that you’re weak or—”
“You didn’t have to imply anything, Si.” She tugs, freeing her elbow from my grip and looking down. “You obviously see our son’s emotional well-being as something worth fighting for, worth going to therapy for. I think it’s awesome.”
Except it sounds like she may as well have said “I think you’re an asshole.”
“So we’re good?” I ask, even though the tightness in the air, the tightness of her expression, tells me we’re not.
She holds my stare over her shoulder, one hand on the door, and I’m not sure if it’s disgust or disappointment that darkens her eyes, but it makes me feel slimy.
“Yeah.” She opens the door. “We’re good.”
Chapter Eleven
Yasmen
You sure you’re okay taking Deja, Hen?” I remove bottles of Gatorade from the plastic rings and load them into a cooler packed with ice. “We drove all over the city yesterday, and couldn’t find this hair she wants anywhere.”
“Oh, I already know this place off Candler Road has it.” Seated at my kitchen counter, Hendrix sips her coffee. “Several of my clients get their hair there on the low. When you see it on TV, you’d never know it comes from a shop in the back of a grocery store.”
I pause, a bottle in each hand, to stare at her. “The shop is in a grocery store?”
“One of them one-stops you only find in the cut. Get your milk and eggs. Get your nails did. Get your taxes done. Hock a watch and grab four, five packs of hair before you go.”
She clasps the long ponytail hanging over her shoulder, lifting it and letting it fall. “That’s where I got this silky silky.”
“Well, thank you. I can’t miss Kassim’s soccer match, and Josiah is speaking at this entrepreneurs conference so he couldn’t step in.” I hold up a bottle of Glacier Freeze and a pack of Go-Gurts. “Forgot I’m snack mom today, so I’m scrambling to get it all together.”
I pull a bottle of orange juice from the fridge for Kassim.
“Anyway,” I continue, “Kassim’s first session with this child psychologist is after the game. Josiah and I did an initial meeting with him and Kassim last week, just to kind of info-gather and for us to meet him, but today will be their first session one-on-one. It was the only slot Dr. Cabbot had available so I don’t have time to drive all over, looking for this hair. You’re really coming through for me.”
“Is Kassim nervous?”
“Am I nervous is probably a better question.” I pause to lean a hip against the counter. “How did I not know he was so hyperfocused on death? And on losing his family? I’m with him every day, and he’s never mentioned anything like what his teacher said is in his journal.”
“It’s not surprising when you think about it. Do kids really go around confessing their deepest fears to their parents unprompted?” Hendrix shrugs. “Maybe some do, but I didn’t when I was a kid. Pat yourself on the back for doing this now instead of condemning yourself for not knowing sooner that he needed it.”
“You’re right. It’s made such a huge difference for me, and I’m really glad Kassim’s experiencing it so young. Maybe if he needs it when he’s older, it won’t hold the stigma it does for so many men.”
“Especially Black men. My cousin Bilail has been through so much crap all his life. Divorced parents. Molested by his uncle. Mom was an addict, but you think he’s talking to someone about his feelings?” Hendrix shakes her head and turns matte red lips down at the corners. “No, ma’am. That man’s twisted tight as a can of biscuits and can’t figure out for the life of him why all his relationships have an expiration date before they even start.”
“Speaking of Black men and therapy,” I say, loading more bottles into the cooler. “Did I mention Kassim is going because Josiah said he would?”
Hendrix’s mug of coffee hovers at her lips and her brows fly high. “Wasn’t he dead set against it when you guys were together?”
“Yeah.” I bend to stuff the last of the sports drinks into the cooler. “He always said it wouldn’t do him any good, but he apparently thought him going would convince Kassim, so he will. Just makes you wonder.”
“Wonder what?” Hendrix asks.
I glance up, meeting her probing stare for a millisecond before turning my back on her to pull the last of the yogurt from the fridge. “Nothing. So this hair is apparently called Kinky Curly or something like that. Deja—”
“Wonder what, Yas? Why Josiah wouldn’t go for you?”
My hand’s still halfway between the refrigerator and the cooler, and I have trouble meeting her eyes again when I turn back, but I do.
“Maybe. Not even for me, but for himself when I suggested it. He wouldn’t even entertain it, but he volunteered when this came up with Kassim. And I guess I wonder what changed.”
I huff out a laugh and close the cooler. “Not that he expects to get anything out of it. He still thinks it’s useless, but at least he’s willing.”
“Therapy can be intimidating, and folks aren’t always ready when we want them to be. They’re ready when they’re ready. Josiah thinks he’s going because of Kassim, but maybe it’s that deep down he’s just finally ready. It might surprise him. He may get in there and learn a lot about himself. The right therapist can change everything.”
“Yeah, and the wrong one sometimes changes nothing.” I roll my eyes. “Thank God I finally found Dr. Abrams.”
Footsteps charging down the stairs cut the conversation off, and I’m kind of relieved. I don’t want to think about Josiah finally going to therapy, and how that could have impacted what happened with us, much less talk about it.
“Hey, Aunt Hen,” Deja says, her smile bright and open. “Thank you for taking me today.”
“It’s no problem.” Hendrix stands to dump the last of her coffee in the sink and rinses the mug.
“And you really think this place will have the hair I need?” Deja asks.
“I already called and confirmed they do,” Hendrix says, her smile only slightly smug.
“Eeeeep!” Deja’s hands fly in the air approximating a hallelujah. “I’ve been looking all over, and there’s this passion braids challenge I want to do next week, and I have to use this hair.”
“Well, I got you,” Hendrix says. “And there’s a place near the shop called Ruby’s. Best neck bones in the city.”
“Neck bones?” Deja’s skepticism is palpable.
“Wayminit.” Hendrix sets her fists on her hips. “You mean to tell me your parents own a soul food restaurant and you never had neck bones?”
“Not on our menu.” I laugh, grabbing my purse from the stool. “Byrd hated them, and Vashti doesn’t do them either.”
Hendrix links her arm through Deja’s. “Well, you gon’ learn today. We’ll have them for lunch if you want.”
“Okay!” Deja nods, her space buns bobbing on either side of her head.
“What time you want her back, Yas?” Hendrix asks.
Deja looks directly at me for the first time, her smile fading. I’m like the pin that pops every balloon for her.
“Um, whenever you guys are done,” I say, forcing a smile. “Thank you again for helping out.”
Hendrix glances between Deja and me, her smile dimming. “You my girl. You already know it’s no big.”
I walk out of the kitchen, giving Hen’s arm a quick squeeze, and head to the foyer, stopping at the base of the staircase.
“Kassim!” I shout up to the second floor. “We’re gonna be late. Come on.”
He appears at the top of the steps in his red-and-white soccer uniform with his duffel bag slung over one shoulder. I glance at his feet.
“Ankles ashy as a bag of flour.” I blow out a breath and tip my head toward the garage. “There’s lotion in the car.”
“Is Dad coming?” he asks, heading down the steps.
Josiah spent many afternoons and evenings in our backyard kicking the ball around with Kassim. Of course my son loves having me at the games, but it’s his father’s face and approval he seeks in the crowd every time he scores.
“Not today, but I promise I’ll get video for him, okay?”
“So he won’t be at therapy either, huh?” Kassim’s expression doesn’t change, but the flicker of unease in his eyes makes my heart clench.
“He has a convention he has to speak at today, son. I’m sorry. It was booked months ago, and he couldn’t get out. I’m sure he’ll call tonight to see how it went.”
“Okay,” he says, shifting the bag on his shoulder. “Do I have time to eat?”
“KIND bar and OJ on the kitchen counter. Grab ’em and go straight to the car. I have the team snacks. We can’t be late.”
His mouth drops open. “You’re the snack mom?”
“Yeah.” I grimace. “I forgot.”
“Then we gotta go!”
Kassim is definitely “the responsible one” in every situation. He rushes past me, not even breaking stride when he scoops up the breakfast I left out for him. He waves to Hendrix and Deja, but doesn’t pause on his way to the garage.
“Guess we’ll be going too,” Hendrix says, picking up her Hermès bag, a gift from one of those fancy awards shows.
“You be good, Day.” I grab the handle of the cooler and start toward the door, dragging it behind me.
“Yes, Mom.” The usual exasperation colors her voice, but it can’t disguise the undercurrent of excitement. She’s been talking about this hair challenge thing for a week, and as much as I disagree that social media hair guru is a wise career choice, I don’t want her disappointed.
I give Hendrix a quick kiss on the cheek. “I owe you one.”
“We got an open tab,” she says, kissing my cheek in return. “You know that.”
She and Deja follow me into the garage, then continue down the driveway to where Hendrix’s Mercedes G-Class is parked on the street. By the time I back out and the garage door lowers, they’re gone.
We arrive at the field just in time. The team is circled up and the coach is starting his pep talk. I place the cooler at the end of the bench and set my folding chair with the other parents on the sidelines. By the end of the second half, the action picks up and Kassim is running the ball down the field.
“Go, Seem!” I stand, aiming my phone just in time to record him scoring the winning goal.
All the parents high-five while our kids shake hands with the other team.
“Mom, did you see me score?” Kassim asks, grinning between gulps of Gatorade, sweat beading his brow and dampening his jersey.
“I did.” I hold up my phone. “And I got it all right here.”
“We can show Dad!”
“I’ll send it to him in a little bit.” I check the time on my phone. “But we need to go if we want to make it to Dr. Cabbot’s office on time.”
The excitement drains from Kassim’s face, replaced by something close to dread, and I regret bringing it up.
“Oh, yeah,” he mumbles. “I almost forgot. Therapy.”
“Therapy” sounds like “firing squad” when he says it.
I grab the cooler and wheel it to the car. Still unusually subdued considering his victory, Kassim carries his duffel bag and takes the back seat. I don’t ask him why or pressure him to sit up front like he usually does. If anyone understands those first-time session jitters, it’s me.
When we pull up to Dr. Cabbot’s office, I park and turn to look at Kassim.
“Hey.” I wait for him to meet my eyes. “I know you’re nervous—”
“I’m not nervous.” He slides his glance away. “I don’t think we’ll have anything to talk about. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“I talk to someone all the time. Do you think there’s something wrong with me?”
Wide brown eyes snap to mine. “No. There’s nothing wrong with you, Mom. I…I just meant…I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize, baby.” I reach back, place my hand on his knee. “Sometimes we have a lot of feelings we don’t know what to do with. Ya know?”
He hesitates, but then nods, pulling at a thread on his shorts.
“Dr. Abrams says feelings come out one way or another. Like if we’re mad, sometimes we take it out on other people. We may snap at the barista at Starbucks or yell at our kids or kick our dog.”
“If somebody kicks Otis,” Kassim says with a tiny twitch of his lips, “he’ll kick them back.”
“You’re probably right. Otis is not the one to mess with. My point is, sometimes when we don’t understand our feelings, we point them in the wrong direction. Or if they do stay inside, they start to make us feel bad. We want you to understand some of what you might be feeling about Aunt Byrd, about Henry, about anything that’s been on your mind.”
“So I don’t kick Otis?” His small smile is still somewhat uneasy, but at least he seems a little more relaxed.
“Something like that, yeah. I just want you to know that the things you feel sometimes about them being gone, I feel them too.”
“But you’re okay, right, Mom?” The uncertainty in his voice makes him sound even younger than he is, and I wonder how my struggles have affected my kids, how even when I tried to hide my utter inability to deal with the world, they may have sensed it. I could drown in guilt wondering how I may have added to Kassim’s fears, or I can do my part now to allay them.
“No one is always okay, Seem.” I take his hand. “Life is not about always being okay. It’s about getting help when we aren’t. About letting our family and friends help us. Letting people like Dr. Cabbot help us. You know what I mean?”
“Daddy’s not always okay?”
A part of me wants to scream that no, Daddy is not always okay, even though he seems like it. Just because someone never asks for help doesn’t mean they don’t need it.
“Like I said,” I tell Kassim. “No one is always okay, but your father is one of the strongest people I know. He’ll always be there for you. We both will.”
His face lights up, but before I can congratulate myself on my impressive mommy wisdom, he says, “Dad!”
I follow his line of vision over my shoulder and spot Josiah’s black Range Rover parked a few spots away. Kassim undoes his seat belt and scrambles out of the car. More slowly, I follow. I want to give them a few moments together, but I also want time to compose myself. Josiah always looks good, of course, but today he’s dressed for the conference. The impeccably tailored suit molds his broad shoulders and fits the powerful muscles of his legs. The unyielding lines of his face soften when Kassim reaches him. He cups our son’s neck and bends to kiss his forehead, and there’s a part of me at the core that melts. Even at our lowest point, I could never doubt Josiah’s love for Deja and Kassim.
