Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131486 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 657(@200wpm)___ 526(@250wpm)___ 438(@300wpm)
“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.
“I thought you had to speak at the conference,” I hear Kassim say when I’m within earshot.
“Yeah, I do,” Josiah says. “I actually have two sessions. One was this morning and the other is in about an hour, so I can’t stay long.”
He glances from Kassim’s upturned face to mine, and his features shutter, the warmth in his eyes cooling. The vulnerability that used to be reserved for the three of us—Kassim, Deja, and me—I don’t get that anymore. I lost the privilege of his feelings, his body, his heart; or rather, I forfeited those intimacies when I asked for a divorce.
“Hey.” I bite my lip and slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I had to see my boy,” he says, shifting his look back to Kassim and gifting him a dazzling smile. “I figured you’d be fine, but just in case you were a little nervous, I wanted to check on you. You doing okay?”
“Yeah.” Kassim angles a look up at me. “But Mom says it’s okay not to be okay. She says no one is always okay.”
Josiah doesn’t hesitate, nodding and bending a little to catch Kassim’s eyes. “She’s right.”
“You too?” Kassim whispers, his voice so low I barely catch it.
In the small silence following Kassim’s question, I want to drag Josiah aside and beg him to let down his walls just this once. To at least pretend he hurts like the rest of us mortals so his son doesn’t feel alone.
“Me too.” Josiah squeezes Kassim’s shoulder, that unique tenderness he withholds from everyone except our kids gleaming in his dark eyes. “Remember, I’m gonna talk to a therapist too.”
“When?” Kassim’s smile is stretched wide with hope and eagerness.
“Monday,” Josiah answers. “How about you tell me how yours goes and I’ll tell you about mine?”
“Okay.” Kassim beams. “Deal.”
Josiah glances at his watch. “I have to get back soon, so let’s go before I have to leave.”
“Oh, you’re coming inside?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He grins down at Kassim. “You ready, son?”
Still wearing his uniform, Kassim practically skips between us as we walk toward the building housing Dr. Cabbot’s office. The waiting area is decorated in warm hues of honey and coriander, spiced with fidget toys, puzzles, and a huge aquarium built into the wall. Kassim is winning a staring contest with a blowfish when the connecting door opens and a man in his late thirties or early forties emerges. His sandy hair is neatly trimmed, and his eyes are still deciding whether they should be brown or green. He extends his hand to Josiah and then me.