13 July 1989
Aside from a couple of truly standout memorable moments, this summer has kind of all run together.
Meg has lost track of how many hours she's spent at the Gagnés' house. She's always to Alain's right, away from broken arm and ribs, sitting next to him, or in the floor next to his chair with her head resting against his knee.
They have the kind of conversations you have, when you see each other every day and there's very little new to discuss, aimless discussion that mostly meant to fill time. Or they watch movies or baseball games. Meg reads her assignments for her French literature class outloud, and Alain breaks in to offer commentary or observations, and occasionally to explain a word she's never encountered before.
Meg tries not to make him laugh -- anything that moves his ribs that much hurts, even though once an hour his grip will tighten on her hand or her shoulder while he does just that, taking the deepest breath he can stand to try to ward off pneumonia.
And perhaps, after a month of that, it's inevitable that someone is going to lose their temper, but she isn't expecting it when it happens. She couldn't even tell you exactly how it happened. One minute they're talking, and the next he's just mad, lashing out about her being too concerned with rules about stupid things like coffee and would she stop being so damn cheerful all the time and just let him be miserable for a change?
It's pain and frustration and boredom and being helpless to do anything about those things, and she knows that. Which is why she just waits until he has said it, all of it, and then asks, "Are you done?"
When he doesn't say anything for ten seconds, Meg nods. "Okay," she says, and stands. "Well, then I'm going to go, and I'll see you tomorrow."
"Meg, wait, I--" he says, and she cuts him off with a shake of her head.
"I know," she says. "But, um, I think we both need some time to ourselves at this point. So, I'm going to go, and I'll see you tomorrow."
Meg has lost track of how many hours she's spent at the Gagnés' house. She's always to Alain's right, away from broken arm and ribs, sitting next to him, or in the floor next to his chair with her head resting against his knee.
They have the kind of conversations you have, when you see each other every day and there's very little new to discuss, aimless discussion that mostly meant to fill time. Or they watch movies or baseball games. Meg reads her assignments for her French literature class outloud, and Alain breaks in to offer commentary or observations, and occasionally to explain a word she's never encountered before.
Meg tries not to make him laugh -- anything that moves his ribs that much hurts, even though once an hour his grip will tighten on her hand or her shoulder while he does just that, taking the deepest breath he can stand to try to ward off pneumonia.
And perhaps, after a month of that, it's inevitable that someone is going to lose their temper, but she isn't expecting it when it happens. She couldn't even tell you exactly how it happened. One minute they're talking, and the next he's just mad, lashing out about her being too concerned with rules about stupid things like coffee and would she stop being so damn cheerful all the time and just let him be miserable for a change?
It's pain and frustration and boredom and being helpless to do anything about those things, and she knows that. Which is why she just waits until he has said it, all of it, and then asks, "Are you done?"
When he doesn't say anything for ten seconds, Meg nods. "Okay," she says, and stands. "Well, then I'm going to go, and I'll see you tomorrow."
"Meg, wait, I--" he says, and she cuts him off with a shake of her head.
"I know," she says. "But, um, I think we both need some time to ourselves at this point. So, I'm going to go, and I'll see you tomorrow."