Most Likely To Succeed

by Celica60

Shannon isn't in control anymore. Concurrent to BFF.

63. Chapter 63

Sunday is Christmas Eve.

It is another day at the Kilbourne house. Just any other day. Our half-decorated Christmas tree sits in the living room, jewel-colored glass bulbs sagging from its branches and underneath are small piles of wrapped gifts. From my sisters and I to each other. Our parents have gifts for us somewhere, gifts we chose ourselves from catalogues, marked the pages and circled the ID numbers and filled out the order forms. Mom wrote in her credit card number and sealed the envelopes. And that is her Christmas gift to us.

Dad is still missing and no one seems to care.

Upstairs, Maria's in her bedroom, listening to Christmas music on the radio and wrapping the rest of her gifts. She sings along, faintly. She was much louder half an hour ago until Mom yelled at her to shut up. Mom isn't in a very cheerful mood. She argued with someone on the phone earlier this morning. Likely Julian. She'll brighten this evening when it's time for the Jardins' party. That's where Mom's spending Christmas Eve. My sisters and I aren't attending. Tiffany's spending the evening with Tyler and his family, Maria's going to the Thomas-Brewers'. I don't know where I'm going. Maybe I'll go nowhere at all. I'll sit alone in my room or lay on the couch. I'll watch depressing television. I'll stay home with my thoughts and my relief and my guilt.

I pop into Tiffany's bedroom. She's at her closet, pulling out dresses and skirts, holding them up in front of the mirror.

"I'm thinking this one," she informs me, indicating toward her burnt-orange dress hanging on a hook beside the mirror. "Is it too fall-ish? Should I wear red or green instead?"

I shrug and lean back against the doorway. "The orange dress looks great on you," I tell her. I wonder if I should point out that it also reveals far too much cleavage. I suspect Tiffany already knows.

Tiffany holds the orange dress in front of her and tilts her head to the side. "Hm…well, Tyler loves this dress, but maybe I'll wear my green skirt with my green and white-striped sweater. Oh, I don't know!" Tiffany sighs, exasperated. She hangs the dress back in the closet and finally turns to face me. "You're dressed!" she exclaims, gleefully.

I shrug and glance down at myself, self-consciously. It's not like I've been lounging around the house in my pajamas for weeks. It was only a day and a half. "I'm going out for a little while," I tell Tiffany.

"Really? Is that okay?"

"Yes, it's okay," I reply and try not to sound irritated. I know Tiffany's concerned, but I'm not a child. "I wasn't supposed to drive right after the…the procedure, but it's okay now," I assure her.

"Oh, okay then. Be careful though. It's pretty slushy out there," Tiffany says.

"I'll be careful," I promise. "And you know, it snowed again an hour ago."

Tiffany cocks an eyebrow. "Really? I didn't notice. I've been busy choosing an outfit."

For an hour? But I bite my tongue. "I won't be gone long, probably," I say.

"Okay," Tiffany says and turns back to the mirror. "Hey, have you eaten today?" she calls out as I'm walking away.

I turn back and swing around the doorway. "I drank two glasses of orange juice and ate an apple," I answer. "I'm really not hungry, Tiffany. I'll see you later." I hurry away before Tiffany can lecture me.

Downstairs, I button my coat over my sweater and wind a thick multicolored knitted scarf around my neck. Then I walk into the kitchen and stack some of Tiffany and Maria's frosted sugar cookies on a Christmas plate. Honestly, I think they made five dozen cookies yesterday. I helped a little when it came to decorating. I couldn't help very long though. It was too exhausting. I cover the plate with green plastic wrap and carry it out to my car.

The inside of my car is freezing. My teeth actually chatter as I turn over the engine. I find a pair of gloves in my coat pocket, then crank the heater on full blast. I sit a minute, waiting for the car to heat up. I sit a minute, gathering my thoughts and my courage. Finally, I raise the garage door and back slowly out of the drive. As I roll cautiously down the snow-covered street, I pull the handwritten directions out of my purse. I had to call Kristy and have her ask Watson for help. I hadn't ever actually heard of Maguire Avenue until a few weeks ago when I opened the phonebook and looked up Mrs. Bryar's address.

Despite the ups and downs of yesterday, making amends with Anna felt good. Our friendship isn't completely mended, it may never be, but we're at a new beginning. Perhaps, not a fresh start. We have too much baggage for that, but it is a start all the same. In the last few weeks, I've started mending relationships I suspected were forever lost – Greer and I, Kristy and I, Tiffany and I. And now things are falling back into place. Perhaps, slowly, but they are falling all the same. And now I'd like to repair other relationships, begin making amends with those I've hurt. For today, I've decided on Mrs. Bryar.

Watson's directions take me clear across town. I drive through downtown and out past Birch Street. I feel a pang when I see Wes' apartment complex in the distance. A part of me still wishes things could have been different. I wonder if I'll always wish that or if that regret will someday dull away.

I find Mrs. Bryar's neighborhood. It's an older part of Stoneybrook that I never realized existed. I creep slowly through the streets, trying not to skid in the snow while simultaneously trying to locate Maguire Avenue. Finally, I come to it. Watson's directions are a bit off, but at least he got me this far. I make a right onto Maguire and continue driving at a crawl, searching for number 155. I spot Mrs. Bryar's car before I see the house number. Her gray Honda's sitting in the driveway partially covered in snow. I pull over and park alongside the curb in front of a green Audi. I take a deep breath and climb out of the car.

I stand a moment beside my car, holding the plate of Christmas cookies in my hands. I stare at Mrs. Bryar's house. The house looks sort of sad and lonely. It's a single story, beige with white trim. It's very bare. There aren't any Christmas lights or decorations. I glance around at the other houses. All around the houses appear ready for Christmas, looking cheery and bright with lights strung up along their trim and winding around the windows and bushes. The day is overcast and already some people have turned on their lights. Mrs. Bryar's house stands out, a dull spot against a brilliant backdrop.

I open the gate on the chain link fence and close it quietly behind me. I considered calling beforehand, but worried about what to say. What if Mrs. Bryar requested I not come over? She may still be upset with me. I treated her very poorly. I move at a slow pace up the front walk, which has thankfully been shoveled. I don't knock right away when I reach the door. I stand and listen. Inside, the vacuum cleaner is running. I listen and almost chicken out. I almost turn and walk away. I raise my fist and hesitate, and then finally rap sharply on the door. Maybe Mrs. Bryar is having a lonely Christmas Eve, too.

The vacuum cleaner shuts off. The curtain on the window next to the front door moves aside and Mrs. Bryar peeks out. She stares at me a moment, face expressionless, then moves the curtain back into place. The deadbolt turns and Mrs. Bryar cracks the door open.

"Shannon, this is a surprise," she says in an even voice that doesn't reveal if it's a good surprise or a bad one.

"Hello, Mrs. Bryar," I say, sort of shakily. "I'm sorry to drop in unannounced. Can I come in?"

Mrs. Bryar looks at me a bit warily. It's strange seeing her somewhere other than my house. Sort of like when I was a kid and would see one of my teachers shopping at the A&P or eating in a restaurant. It throws me off-balance. Mrs. Bryar even looks different. She isn't wearing any make-up and is dressed in a blue terrycloth robe. It never occurred to me that Mrs. Bryar has a life away from my house.

"Of course you may come in," Mrs. Bryar says after a moment. She glances briefly over her shoulder, then opens the door wider. "I'm not even dressed yet," she says, as if I didn't notice. "It's been a very chaotic week and I'm just catching up on my own housework."

I stamp my boots on the doormat, then step inside Mrs. Bryar's house. "It's okay," I tell her as she shuts the front door. "I've never been to your house before."

"I know."

I glance around. All I can really see is the living room, which is decorated in beige and pale green. The room looks comfortable and normal and mostly tidy, except for today's newspaper strewn across the couch and several coffee mugs resting on the coffee table. Off the living room, through a partially open door, I can see into Mrs. Bryar's bedroom. She's hasn't made her bed. The pale green comforter is in a tangle, half on the bed and half off. I guess Mrs. Bryar likes the color green.

Mrs. Bryar adjusts her glasses and smoothes down her dark hair. "Well…would you like to sit down?" she asks.

"Sure," I reply and follow her into the living room. "How long have you lived here?"

"About twenty-five years, I guess. Since before the divorce."

"How long have you been divorced?" I ask and am vaguely surprised that I've never asked before. It never occurred to me to ask.

"Oh, I don't know. Twenty-one, twenty-two years. A long time," Mrs. Bryar answers and sits down in a beige armchair. She gestures for me to take the armchair opposite hers.

I lower into the armchair, holding the plate of cookies on my lap. I've forgotten what I intended to say. Mrs. Bryar crosses her legs and folds her hands over her stomach. She bounces her right foot, so the blue slipper on it rocks back and forth. She stares at me. I stare at her.

I've completely lost all ability to speak.

"Tracey, honey, have you seen my glasses?" a male voice booms from the direction of the bedroom.

I sit up very straight, startled. Mrs. Bryar has a man in her bedroom? What is a man doing in Mrs. Bryar's bedroom?

"Did you check your face?" Mrs. Bryar calls back.

There's a short pause.

"Thank you!"

I'm certain my eyes nearly pop out of my skull. There is a man in Mrs. Bryar's bedroom. It's an effort to keep my jaw from dropping. Mrs. Bryar, for her part, acts like nothing is amiss. She continues staring at me, face impassive, jiggling her foot. However, I believe I detect a faint flush of pink in her cheeks.

The man appears in the doorway of the bedroom. He's tall, late-forties with damp black hair that's graying at the temples. He's wearing a pilot's uniform and holding a suitcase in one hand. He appears just as startled to see me as I was to hear him.

"Oh…" he says. "I didn't hear the door."

Mrs. Bryar turns her head to look at him and holds out her right arm. She beckons to him with a finger. He sets down his suitcase and comes into the living room, stopping beside Mrs. Bryar's chair. She touches his hand.

"This is Malcolm," she says to me. "Malcolm, this is Shannon."

Malcolm smiles sort of vaguely. "Oh…you're Shannon," he says, flatly. He must realize his tone because he steps forward and extends his hand, his smile becoming less vague. "It's nice to finally meet you," he says. "I've heard a lot about you and your sisters."

I shake his hand, still feeling a bit stunned. I've never heard anything about him. And dear Lord, what has Mrs. Bryar told him about my sisters and me? I have a feeling she's told him everything. I feel my chest grow hot and hope it doesn't travel to my face.

"It's nice to meet you, too," I manage to say, politely.

"Are you cold?" he asks me.

"No…why?"

"You're wearing a scarf and coat."

Now my face does turn red. I feel it grow warm. "Oh," I say and set down the plate of cookies. I begin unwinding the scarf.

"You can keep that on," Mrs. Bryar tells me, as I begin undoing the buttons on my coat. She smacks Malcolm lightly in the side. "Don't be so rude," she scolds him.

"Sorry," he says to me.

I struggle out of the coat sleeves and don't reply. This has not gone as planned.

Malcolm rests a hand on Mrs. Bryar's shoulder and looks down at her. "I'm going over to my brother's and then to the airport. I'll see you in a couple days," he tells her and then leans down and kisses her on the mouth. It's vaguely disturbing. And it isn't a peck either. There's actually a man kissing Mrs. Bryar.

"You smell like pink grapefruit," Mrs. Bryar informs him when he straightens up. She sets her hand on his and smiles up at him almost adoringly. Again, it's vaguely disturbing.

"I'm not bothered," he answers. "Besides, you're the one who ordered me to take a shower. I'll call you later." He kisses Mrs. Bryar's forehead. "It was nice to meet you, Shannon," he says to me. I'm shocked he remembered that I'm here.

"You too…Malcolm," I reply. I'm still confused. "Um…have a nice flight."

We watch him leave.

"Is that your boyfriend?" I ask, bluntly, the moment the door shuts behind him.

"No, it's a man I picked up at a bar last night," Mrs. Bryar replies. "Of course he's my boyfriend."

"Does he live here?"

"No. He lives in Stamford."

"I didn't know you have a boyfriend."

"Well, you never asked."

I guess that's true. I never thought to ask. I pick up the plate of cookies from the floor and set them back on my lap. There's an awkward silence.

"He's handsome," I finally say, pleasantly. "A bit somber-looking though," I add. "And I'm not sure about his manners."

"His niece just died," Mrs. Bryar snaps. "And he can't take any more time off from work because of the holidays. Give him a break." She pushes a lock of dark hair away from her face. "And really, Shannon, you're not exactly someone who should be criticizing other people's manners."

My cheeks flush again. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Bryar," I apologize. "That was rude of me."

Mrs. Bryar's face softens. "Oh, well, you didn't know. It's all right, Shannon. I shouldn't have snapped at you."

"No, it's okay," I reply because I know I deserved it. I don't say anything for a moment. Finally, I hold the plate of cookies out to her. "Tiffany and Maria made these. I helped some with the decorating though. Don't worry, I tried one last night and they're completely edible. Merry Christmas."

Mrs. Bryar leans forward and takes the plate from my hands. She looks down at the cookies and smiles, appearing rather pleased. "Thank you, Shannon. This is very thoughtful of you," she says. "Of course, I'm Jewish."

"You are?" I gasp. "Since when?"

"Well, it's not exactly a new development. I've always been Jewish. But thank you very much for the cookies."

"Bryar doesn't sound very Jewish," I comment.

"Oh, well, my ex-husband isn't Jewish," Mrs. Bryar replies and sets the plate on the coffee table. "And I never went back to my maiden name because seventeen and a half years as Tracey Zaretsky was more than enough. Would you like something to drink, Shannon? I should have asked when you got here."

"No. I'm fine. Thank you though."

There's a short silence.

"I have something else for you," I announce, bending down to grab my purse. I pull out my wallet and remove a check from the cash sleeve. I hold it out to her. "Here. This is your Christmas bonus. Or, well, your holiday bonus."

Mrs. Bryar waves her hand. "I can't accept that," she tells me. "I don't work for your family anymore."

"No, no. It's yours," I insist, shaking the check at her. "You deserve it after everything you had to put up with. Not only from Mom, but from all of us. I realize now that it couldn't have been easy working for our family. And it's not like it's my personal money. It's coming from my parents."

Mrs. Bryar hesitates, then finally reaches out and takes the check. "Thank you, Shannon," she says, simply.

"You earned it. And if you notice, I spelled your name correctly. T-R-A-C-E-Y."

Mrs. Bryar smiles. "Yes, I noticed. Thank you."

"I don't think you look anything like a Tracey," I tell her.

Mrs. Bryar laughs.

I feel a little more comfortable. I feel ready to say what I came to say. I sit a bit taller in the armchair and fold my hands in my lap. "Mrs. Bryar?" I begin. "I want to apologize for how I spoke to you. I'm sorry that I lost my temper. I was unnecessarily rude to you. I realize now that you were only trying to help. I hope you'll accept my apology."

"Of course. Thank you for offering it. I know that must have been difficult," Mrs. Bryar replies. She pauses a moment and regards me. "I want to apologize to you, too, Shannon. I handled the situation poorly. I should have tried to speak to you before telephoning Social Services. It's just that…well, your parents never listen to anything they don't want to hear and honestly, Shannon, you don't exactly listen very well either."

I furrow my brow, confused. How can she say that? I'm an excellent listener.

"However," Mrs. Bryar continues, "I should have spoken to you about the things Maria told me, as well as the things I've noticed for quite some time. I like you very much, Shannon, and I care a lot about you and your sisters. I've watched your family disintegrate these last few years and I've felt very badly for you. But you've always been such a smart, responsible girl that I thought you had things under control. Your sisters seemed much better off with you than with either of your parents. And then it was quite a shock to learn the things you'd been up to. I should have approached the situation differently. I don't have any children and I don't have any nieces or nephews either, but I do remember what it's like to be a teenager and recall quite vividly what I was like at seventeen. I never wanted to listen to adults either. But even with that in mind, I should have handled things differently."

"I would have done exactly what I wanted anyway," I respond, quietly. I know I would have. Nothing anyone said or did would have stopped me. I stare down at my hands in my lap. "You know…" I say, "I don't think I've ever heard you talk so much at one time."

"Well, you always have so much to say," Mrs. Bryar replies.

I furrow my brow again. What is that supposed to mean?

"So…would you like to tell me about this teacher you've been dating?" Mrs. Bryar asks. She says it quite casually.

I nod, biting my lip. I tell her about Wes. I tell her about how we met and how I lied to him. It's important that she know that, that she knows Wes isn't a pervert or a predator. I don't want anyone to ever think that of him. He's a good man who I tricked. And he really did love me. It's important that Mrs. Bryar understands that, too. I think it's an important part of the story. I end with Elizabeth's unmasking of my deception. I don't tell Mrs. Bryar about the visit to Wes' classroom. I definitely don't tell her about the baby.

Mrs. Bryar listens without expression. When I finish, she simply asks, "Shannon, why would you do that?"

"Why would I do what?" I reply. Is Mrs. Bryar purposely attempting to confuse me today?

"Everything. Why would you do any of that?"

"I wanted him to love me," I answer and feel the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Is it so hard for anyone to understand that? "All I wanted was for someone to love me."

"So, you lied to him?"

I think about it a second, then I nod. "He wouldn't have wanted me had he known the truth. I mean, obviously. He really did love me, Mrs. Bryar. He wasn't lying or pretending. He really loved me. And I thought that because of that he wouldn't leave me." I bite my lip again and look down at my lap. "I thought that…"

"You thought what?"

My cheeks grow warm. I can't look at her. "I thought…I thought that because we were having sex it would be harder for him to leave me. I thought that if I proved I loved him, he might love me back regardless." I sniffle, fighting back my tears.

"Oh, Shannon…" Mrs. Bryar sighs. "That isn't how it works."

I nod and wipe my eyes with my sleeve. I'm not actually crying, but the tears are near, threatening to burst free. I feel so stupid. I feel so clueless. I don't know anything. Everything I think is wrong. "It did make it harder for him," I tell her, "but he left anyway." I reach into the pocket of my coat, draped over the arm of the chair, and pull out a tissue. I hide tissues everywhere now. "I know what I did was wrong, but I really thought…I really thought that having sex would prove to him that even though I lied, my feelings were real. I thought the proof would be worth something."

"That just…that just isn't how it works," Mrs. Bryar says again. "You don't have sex to prove something. You shouldn't have sex to prove something. You'll only end up hurt and disappointed. You aren't the first girl to think that, Shannon. But the truth is, a guy isn't going to stay around simply because you have sex with him. That doesn't bind someone to you, Shannon. And having sex doesn't really prove anything other than that you're willing to have sex."

"Then why have sex at all?" I ask. I wring the tissue between my hands. "What's the point? If it doesn't prove anything and it doesn't make him stay, then what's the point?"

Mrs. Bryar opens her mouth but no words come out. She shifts her eyes from side to side. She doesn't close her mouth. "Oh, well…" she finally says. "It's…I'm really not sure I feel comfortable discussing this with you, Shannon." Mrs. Bryar pauses and rubs her forehead. She reconsiders. "Well…it's complex. When you're in a relationship, sex is another way to express your feelings for the other person. It brings you closer together and helps forge a deeper commitment. This isn't always true though, Shannon, and there are other ways to become close to someone. There's more to a relationship than sex. And…I'm really not explaining this very well. Intimacy is complicated, Shannon. Sex does not necessarily lead to love. I think you're confused about that. You can't expect to have sex with someone and then he falls in love with you. Nor can you expect to date someone for a month, have sex, and then he can never leave you."

"How long then?" I ask.

"How long for what?"

"How long should I know someone before having sex with him? I asked Elizabeth once and she said I'd just know. How do I know?"

Mrs. Bryar opens her mouth again. She hesitates. "Oh…well, I don't have an answer for that. It's not like there's an exact timeline. Different times are right for different people."

"How long did you wait?" I ask, blunt as can be. Maybe I've spent too much time with Kristy and Sally. I have no shame.

"Excuse me?" replies Mrs. Bryar, her eyebrows shooting up.

"Well, you're having sex with your boyfriend, aren't you? How long did you wait?"

"Shannon!" Mrs. Bryar cries. Her cheeks definitely turn pink this time. "I can't believe you asked that! That's none of your business!" Mrs. Bryar touches a hand to her throat and looks extremely uncomfortable. "I would like to point out," she says, "that I am forty-eight years old and not seventeen. We waited much longer than one month and that's all I'm going to say."

An awkward silence fills the room. I don't know what gets into me. I used to have so much more self-control. Now things simply pour from my mouth, lies and half-truths and cruel remarks. All things I thought myself far above.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Bryar," I apologize. "That was rude of me."

Mrs. Bryar purses her lips. She stays quiet. I wonder if she's finally had enough of me.

"Oh…well, it's all right," she finally says. She's very forgiving. Much more so than me. "You know, Shannon," Mrs. Bryar says to me. "I think you are a lot more like me than I realized. Well, like me when I was a teenager. I always thought it was Tiffany. You were always so responsible and ambitious, which I never was. But now I see…" Mrs. Bryar tilts her head to the side and watches me, like she's really detecting something in me for the first time. "You know…" she tells me. "I was your age when I got married. I got married the same day I finished high school. I married the first guy who agreed to marry me because I wanted out of my mother and stepfather's house. I thought getting married would make me happy and solve all my problems. And, of course, it didn't. It only made everything worse. And I ended up in a terrible marriage and couldn't leave because I had nowhere else to go. My mother and stepfather wouldn't let me come home and I had no money and no skills and I'd never held a job. So, I stayed and stayed and I put up with a lot more than I should have. And then, one day, my husband just didn't come home from work. I waited and waited and three months later, I received divorce papers from El Paso, Texas. And I was exactly where I'd been eight years before. Only, I was even unhappier. So, Shannon, you can't count on someone else fixing your life. Sex, like marriage, isn't a cure for loneliness or unhappiness."

I bite my lip. I've shredded the tissue to pieces and clutch them in my fist. Why didn't anyone ever tell me these things? So many things I should have known. I've seen how Greer and Sally look at me. They know I am naïve. They think I am stupid. That's what I am – a very, very stupid girl. Mrs. Ellenburg thought so. She was simply too polite to say it aloud. And Mrs. Bryar thinks I'm foolish. A foolish girl who should know better. A foolish girl who should not be so desperate for love that she lies on her back to get it. Tiffany once called me a whore. I wonder if I am one. A whore who killed her baby.

"Mrs. Bryar?" I whisper. "Can I tell you something else? Something even worse?"

Worry crosses her face, pulling at the tiny lines creasing at her eyes. "Of course, Shannon," she replies.

"I had an abortion on Friday."

Slowly, Mrs. Bryar raises her hand to her mouth. She holds it there. Her eyes are wide with surprise. She looks away from me. She stares out, elsewhere. She's appalled. She's repulsed. She can't even look at me.

I start to cry.

Mrs. Bryar removes her hand from her mouth. "Oh, Shannon…" she sighs and stands up. She takes my hands and says, "Get up," and so I obey. Mrs. Bryar takes me over to the pale green couch and sinks down onto it, pulling me with her. She puts her arms around me. She lets me cry onto the shoulder of her terrycloth robe. She strokes my hair. She says soothing words that I don't really hear. I like the sound of her voice. She has a very lovely voice. I never noticed before.

I turn my head, resting my cheek on her shoulder. "Do you think I'm a bad person?" I ask.

"No," Mrs. Bryar answers. "We all make mistakes. We all do things we regret. No one thing makes you a bad person, Shannon."

"Before, I always felt abortion was wrong. I feel like such a hypocrite. I haven't made only one mistake. I've made an entire mountain of them, just one stacking on another. I feel like a bad person." I let out a shuddering breath. It reverberates in my lungs and up my throat. "Do you think abortion is wrong?" I ask.

"It doesn't matter what I think," Mrs. Bryar replies. An answer in the form of a non-answer. "I'm sure you made the choice you felt was best for you."

"Maybe. I don't know," I tell her. I close my eyes. I'm so tired. Is this the rest of my life? Always tired, always dragging, always full of guilt and regret. Empty. "I thought about it a lot. Then I didn't think about it at all. I just wanted it over with. Sometimes, I'm so relieved. I'm relieved and ready to start again. And sometimes, I'm so remorseful that my entire body sags and it feels like nothing will be all right ever again. Will I always feel like that? Moving up and down like a yo-yo?"

"I don't know. I doubt it. You'll feel like that for a while and one day, you won't feel it so much any more. With each day it will be less and less until you hardly think of it at all. Sometimes, you'll remember and be sad, maybe even regretful, but it won't dominate your life forever."

It's comforting to think that may be true. I hope it is. I need hope.

"He's really upset about it," I tell Mrs. Bryar. "Wes. He blames himself when he should blame me. I think I've destroyed a part of him. He'll never be the same again. I didn't mean to hurt him. His mother took me to the clinic for the abortion. She was actually worried about me. Do you know what Mom did when I told her I was pregnant? She slapped me. Then she ordered me to have an abortion and flew to Hawaii. She came home yesterday. She said to me, 'did you get rid of it?' and she hasn't spoken to me since. What's wrong with my mother?"

Mrs. Bryar touches my hair. "I don't know. I think it's very unfortunate, though, that your mother takes for granted what some of us cannot have. I don't know what's happened to your mother, Shannon. I think she's just very bitter and disappointed at how her life has turned out."

"I think you're very wise, Mrs. Bryar," I say.

She laughs.

"It's true," I say and wonder why I never realized it before. I knew she was a good listener. I knew she was sympathetic and understanding. She just never seemed to have much to say. I bite my lip, thinking. Maybe she is right about me. Maybe I don't listen and maybe I have too much to say all at once. Maybe I take up all the space and air someone else wishes to share.

"Well, I haven't always been so smart," Mrs. Bryar assures me, rubbing my back. "I was very stupid when I was your age and I made a lot of mistakes. I made a lot more mistakes than you at a much younger age and with a much greater frequency. I know this is a difficult time for you, Shannon, but if you learn from what you've done, eventually things will get better. I think, eventually, you'll be all right."

I close my eyes, still resting my head on her shoulder. I hope she's right. I hope things improve from here. I've hit rock bottom. I'd like to climb back up.

"Have you eaten?" Mrs. Bryar asks. "I've already had lunch, but I can make you something to eat."

"I haven't been eating," I admit. I can't lie anymore. I don't have the energy.

"Oh, well, you're about to start again," Mrs. Bryar replies, matter-of-factly and rises from the couch. She reaches out and takes my hands and pulls me up. She pulls me up again.