I cannot for the life of me determine whether Sam wants to be anything in his life, except comfortable. He has dabbled in cooking, photography, construction, various retail and service positions—apparently his recent journeys in an RV with a woman named Cecile were his attempts to get a travel blog going. Now he is talking about playing the guitar on street corners and working his way around the world that way, but seeing that he has to learn how to play the guitar first, it seems he will be in Freya’s life for quite some time.
Freya has asked a few times how long he plans to stay, a question he always dodges—“you know me, baby, I try not to make plans” or “trying to get rid of the old man already, huh?” But she can see from the way he has taped photos of his friends to the bathroom mirror and unloaded all of his clothes into the dresser in her guest room that he is making himself at home. Freya is by turns uncomfortable and angry about this, seeing as he never actually asked her permission to stay, and after all, this is her house, already more than halfway paid for and shaped just how she wants it.
“Hon, you ever think about changing the upstairs carpet?” Sam asked yesterday. “It’s not a very nice color.”
“I don’t really care what color it is—it’s meant to be comfortable, and it is. Besides, it matches the walls.”
“Well, that’s another thing—don’t you want any color around here? A nice blue or a vivid green could really liven up the place.”
“They can also depreciate the resale value,” Freya pointed out.
Sam rolled his eyes. “You sound like your mother. You have to focus more on the present, baby! Now, come on, I’ll do the work for you if you want to do some redecorating. I helped my buddy Paul fix up his place out in Colorado.”
And so it goes. His criticisms and suggestions are always accompanied by bright smiles and winks that make it hard to tell what he actually means, and it takes long, exhausting conversational maneuvers for Freya to persuade him. I can already see the wear on her spirit, and I do not like it.
I have done what I can to make him feel unwelcome, short of becoming an outright poltergeist—and I have not entirely ruled that out, because everything else has been ineffective. He throws off my suggestions with an ease that gives me shivers, and even my fiercest disapproval at nights has only made him imply to Freya that she needs to replace the mattress in his room. And so I have turned my attention to Freya, trying to shield her from the subtle barbs in his words and the growing disappointment she feels in him.
If he were anyone else, Freya would never put up with even a moment of this. She hasn’t seen her friends since his arrival, because Sam expects to be entertained, and she had to call her mother today to tell her that she would not be coming to Thanksgiving dinner, and why. Esther took that about as well as one might expect.
“Heaven forbid that I should speak against your father,” Esther said, in such a tone that even through the phone I could tell that she was pinching the bridge of her nose, “but why, why would you voluntarily spend even one more day in his sole company?”
“What was I supposed to do, Mom, tell him that he had to spend the holiday alone?”
“Yes! He’s the one in the wrong by expecting you to change your plans just to suit him. You never could say no to him, that’s your problem,” Esther scolded her daughter.
Freya, particularly vulnerable just now, hunched her shoulders, and I draped my wings around them. She took a deep breath. “It’s not like I don’t know what he’s like,” she admitted to her mother. “But I don’t know, when he’s here, I just can’t shake the hope that I can make it better.”
“Sometimes there isn’t anything you can do for someone,” I murmured to her, thinking of Shannon with sorrow. “All the love in the universe can’t change someone who doesn’t want to be changed.”
“It’s not your job to change him,” Esther said, “and it’s not mine. He’s a grown man, and he has to accept the consequences of his choices and behavior.” Freya didn’t say anything, and on the other end of the line, Esther sighed. “Well, my love, I will not force you to turn him out on his ear, though that’s exactly what you should do. Just know that if you change your mind, there will still be a plate for you.”
“Thanks, Ma.”
“And if you want me to come kick his ass out of your house, you let me know and I’ll be there in an hour.”
“It’s a two-hour drive.”
“An hour,” Esther repeated in a dire tone.
Freya laughed and urged her mother not to get arrested, and so ended the call with a smile. It didn’t last, however, as she listened to the silence of her house, particularly sweet now since Sam is out—he was invited for drinks by a few friends who heard he was in town. Freya didn’t want to admit that she was happier with him gone.
She glanced at her phone, wondering if she should call George or Kara, but in the end she just fell back onto the bed and let it drop onto the coverlet. I sat down beside her and hummed what comfort I could.
“I love my father,” she said eventually. “I want him in my life.”
“But is it him you want?” I asked her. “Or just the man that you wish he was?”
She closed her eyes. “I don’t know that I’m brave enough to give up on him,” she whispered.
I knew what she meant. All these years she has known the truth of her father’s nature, but she has left the door open to him, refusing to surrender that last precious hope. It would be the loss of that hope, and all the dreams that came with it, that she would grieve if she were to close that door.
“You don’t have to give up,” I told her. “You don’t have to stop loving him. But you have to stop letting him hurt you and use you. Let him know that he can open the door again anytime if he wants to change.” After all, if even once Shannon had opened her heart to me again, I would have moved heaven and earth to help her again. “But on your side, it has to stay closed.”
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Help me,” she whispered.
I leaned down and kissed her forehead, washing her with warmth. “I always have,” I told her, “and I always will.”
And while I was still bent over her, she opened her eyes, and for the tiniest moment between heartbeats, we stared at one another. I knew then that she guessed I was there—whoever or whatever I was—and that for the first time, she had spoken to me with some intention. It was something of a trap, and I walked right into it. Now, filled with assurance and comfort, her belief in me is stronger than ever.
I find it difficult to mind. She is better now, more able to remain objective, and she is beginning to gather her strength to do what must be done. Besides, I cannot leave her now. Whatever she learns of me during this time, we can deal with it once her home is hers and her heart is safe again.