She won’t quit,” Shannon Beckley insists.
Her face is hovering just inches from Tara’s, but she’s squinting like someone peering through a microscope, searching for something. Her voice carries conviction, but her eyes lack it. Her eyes think the search might be hopeless.
“Trust me,” Shannon says.
I always trust you, Tara answers, but no sound comes out. Why isn’t there a sound? Strange. She starts to speak again but Shannon interrupts. Not unusual with Shannon.
“Trust me,” Shannon repeats, “this girl…will…not…quit.” Shannon’s green eyes are searing; her auburn hair is falling across her face, and her expression is as severe as any boot-camp drill sergeant’s. Tara can smell Shannon’s Aveda moisturizer, with its hint of juniper, and feel her breath warm on her cheek. She’s that close, and yet Shannon’s eyes suggest that she feels far away, unable to see whatever she’s looking at. That’s confusing, because she’s looking at Tara.
Good for her if she will not quit, Tara tells her sister, and again there is no sound, but that concern is replaced by confusion. Hang on—who will not quit? And what is it that she’s not going to quit?
Shannon is always forceful, but her face and words carry heightened intensity as she makes these stark but meaningless assertions about the girl who will not quit.
Not her eyes, though, Tara thinks. Her eyes are not nearly so sure about things.
Shannon leans away then, and the light that floods into Tara’s face is harsh and white. At first she can’t see anything because of that brightness, but then it dulls, as if someone has dialed back a dimmer switch, and she sees her mother. Her mother is crying. Rick is rubbing her shoulders. Good old Rick. Always the man with a hand for the shoulder and a comforting word. Usually the words don’t mean much, silly platitudes, bits of recycled wisdom. But Tara’s mother needs a steady diet of encouragement. The supportive touches and comforting words do the job she used to let the pills do.
But what is today’s crisis? Tara watches her mother cry and watches Rick rub her back with a slow, circular motion that feels nearly hypnotic, and she tries to determine what the problem is, why everyone is so scared, so sad.
Oh, yeah—someone won’t quit, that’s the problem.
Tara’s mouth is dry and her head aches and she is very tired. Too tired to deal with her mother’s anxiety yet again. Let Rick deal with it. And Shannon. Shannon is here, ready to take charge, as always. Why is Shannon here? She’s in her last year of law school at Stanford, and Shannon doesn’t miss classes. Ever. But here she is…
Where is here? Where am I?
She knows this should matter, and yet it doesn’t seem to. Between Rick’s soothing and Shannon’s shouting, it will all work out. Tara isn’t needed for this one. She’s too tired for this one.
What is this one?
The girl who won’t quit. That girl is the problem. Who exactly she is and what exactly she is up to, Tara doesn’t know, but the girl who won’t quit is clearly causing the trouble here. Tara is too tired to join them all in their concern, though. The whole scene exhausts her and makes her strangely angry. Whoever the girl is, she needs to back the hell off and leave everyone alone. Look at them. Just look at their faces. See those tears, that fatigue, that sorrow? Back off, bitch. Back off and leave them alone.
Just go away.
Tara decides she will sleep again. Maybe while she sleeps, this relentless problem girl will finally abandon her confusing quest.
All Tara understands with certainty is that it will be better for everyone when that girl finally quits.