I confess it, I have been avoiding Shannon. It is shameful for me—I thought that I had gotten past my own prejudice against her. The fact is, however, that it is painful to be with her, to see the sharpness and unkindness in her spirit. But even so, she was chosen by my seniors, and so she deserves better care from me. I should have more trust in them and in her.
I went to check on her today. She has finished with school at last, and she now has a job in an art museum, helping to catalogue and organize their collections. It is not as enjoyable as she thought it would be, but she pushes on, for she is now paying her own rent. The responsibility pleases her, though she does not really fear the consequences of a missed payment, knowing that her parents are always there to help. I wonder if such fear would make her less proud?
She was in her new, smaller apartment this afternoon when I visited her, having just come home from work. Her feet were on the coffee table, bearing red marks from the shoes she chose to wear, and she was flicking through her phone, making a face. I could tell that she was waiting for a call, and that the call was supposed to be from Thomas.
I crouched next to her, already feeling tired, and looked long and hard at her. She is a beautiful woman, with strength and courage and passion. Why are those good things so easily misused?
“He is not good for you,” I said to her. “You are using him as a comfort, looking only at the things that he is not. What will happen when you see the things that he is, and you do not like them?”
She tossed the phone down onto the couch and glared at it for a moment. Then she said, “Oh, the hell with it,” and picked it back up again, dialing.
When Thomas answered, she said with a whine in her voice, “I thought you were going to meet me here.”
“Sorry, babe, lost track of time. Can we meet up tomorrow? I’m kind of busy.”
“You’re kind of busy. Doing what?”
“Just a couple of things that need to get done. Why? Jealous?” There was a light mockery in his voice—light, but not gentle.
Shannon made a scornful noise.
“I thought there weren’t any strings on this, Shannon.”
She pushed to her feet. “Who wants strings? All I want is for you to be here when you say you’re going to be.”
“Sounds like a string to me.”
“Well, fine, since I’m such a ball and chain, you can go—”
“Easy, easy,” Thomas laughed. “Look, if you wanted to see me that badly, all you had to do was ask.”
“Excuse me, don’t interrupt me,” she barked into the phone. “You can go fuck yourself.” And she hung up the phone and threw it back onto the couch.
Fifteen minutes later he was there at the apartment, bearing coffee and apologies, and she let him in.
They play games with each other, twisting and turning like a pair of snakes in a basket. She feeds his pride, and he soothes hers. In a strange way, it works, in a way that alcohol works to make one feel better—for a while. I am afraid that the positive effects will not last, but what can I do? I do not know how to help her when she will not listen to me.
That is not true. I do know what I can do: I can be present, be there for her whether she feels she needs me or not. I can stand by her and give her a better option, and thus far I have failed even at that.
I will do better. She deserves that, and even if she did not, she needs that. That should be good enough for me.