“Your therapist?” Kassim asks, eyes widening. “You said you were sick and sad.”
It sounds so stark and simple put that way, but it was true. There are days it still is. There may always be days like that, and I may be in and out of therapy for the rest of my life.
“Yes, that’s true.” I hope my smile is natural and reassuring. “But it’s also just good to have someone you can talk to about stuff that’s confusing or hard to understand.”
“Like robotics?” Kassim ventures. “Because there is a new level of—”
“No,” Josiah cuts in, chuckling. “Not robotics, though that always confuses me. More personal stuff like about Aunt Byrd passing away. And Henry.”
I draw a sharp breath through my nose at the sound of my son’s name on Josiah’s lips. He’s so rarely spoken it. I used to resent him for that, for not saying Henry’s name. For not being the sobbing, snotty mess I was every day for months. For holding it so damntogetherwhen I kept coming apart. Now I know we deal with things in different ways, though there are many things Josiah has not dealt with at all. I’m not his therapist. Hell, I’m not even his wife anymore.
Kassim’s expression shutters, and it breaks my heart a little seeing that face, usually so open, even at this age, trying to hide.
“I had to talk to someone about how much it hurt, you know,” I tell him. “When we lost them both.”
“That’s why you stayed in bed all the time and stopped combing your hair and stuff, right?” Kassim asks.
Hot pebbles crowd my throat. I feel Josiah’s eyes on my face, but can’t bring myself to meet his stare, not sure whether I’ll find contempt or compassion.
“That’s exactly right,” I tell Kassim, forcing a laugh. “I kind of fell apart for a little bit there, but talking to someone helped.”
“I’m not sick or sad,” Kassim says. “I’m not falling apart.”
The statement, spoken in complete innocence and void of any malice, lances through me for a moment. No, I was the only one who fell apart. Those familiar demons of shame and guilt pull up a seat at the counter, running cool fingers through my hair and hissing lies in my ear.
“We all need help sometimes,” Josiah says to Kassim, but looks at me. The contempt I feared his eyes would hold isn’t there. I’m not sure what is, but Josiah is hard to read in the best of times.
“You need help, Daddy?” Kassim sounds surprised, and his brows shoot up. “Do you talk to a therapist?”
Oh, this should be good.
I don’t rescue him. I can’t. Josiah has been so adamant in the past that he doesn’t need a “shrink,” I’m not sure how to help. If I’m being honest, I don’t want to.
“I’ve never talked to one, no,” Josiah says, meeting Kassim’s intent stare. “But I’ll do it if you will.”
I nearly topple off my stool.
He will?
“You will?” Kassim asks, surprise evident in his expression. Though Josiah never articulated to the kids, as far as I know, that he thinks therapy is a bullshit placebo to make you feel better and make “quacks” rich, he always seems self-contained, assured and unshakable. So hearing that he might need “help” must shock Kassim as much as it does me.
“I will.” Josiah says it smoothly, but his jaw ticks, which tells me Kassim needing him to do this is another form of duress. He’d do anything for our kids, though. I know that. He’d said he’d do anything for me, but therapy was some invisible line in the sinking sand of our life together, and he’d never talked to anyone.
And here we are.
“You talk to someone and I will too,” Josiah says, extending his hand to Kassim. “Deal?”
Kassim’s face lights up and he grabs his father’s much larger hand.
“Deal.”
Chapter Ten
Josiah
What the hell just happened?
Did I just agree to talk to a damn therapist? I don’t buy into the idea that just talking to someone about your feelings makes anything better. It may make us feel better about our shit, like we’re “taking steps,” but it doesn’t actually change anything. I know Yasmen thinks it’s helped her, but she was also on antidepressants. Drugs? Sure, those can help. Meds are measurable. They’re real. The talking shit?