Challenges of Sobriety in a Weekend of Confines

Friday

I had made up my mind to go over to her place, and was all set and ready to head there after school. I packed an overnight bag that would keep me stocked up all weekend and stashed it in my little carmine Corolla; it was a bit cramped. I had made a habit of going to see her every week, so she would be expecting me, but this week would be different. This week, I would not just be going over to satisfy myself and my guilt, to make sure she was still breathing. This week, I would actually do something helpful, something truly worthwhile.

Shaking my jeans pocket to hear for my keys, I walked with Eileen to my car after my last class, listening to her ask me over for a study session or a movie night or something. It was another heavy summer day, the sun baking weight into some thick atmosphere that pushed down on my shoulders. Plucking at the ends of my lengthy sleeves, I felt the wrinkles around my elbows peeling from my permissive skin, which sucked on the sunshine and salivated from it. Eileen paused in her invitation. I didn't even have to tell her why I would have to turn her down this week, as I always did. She already knew why.

"You're going to see her, aren't you?" Eileen surmised. She was always very discerning, so it was no surprise to me that she would notice that my head was elsewhere.

"Of course, someone has to go over and make sure she hasn't gone grey yet." I reminded her with a casual smile that spread about the traces of freckles fringing my cheeks. By then we could see my old coupe from across the university parking lot.

Eileen hesitated before she spoke again, but the word sounded funny to hear, perhaps forced or distant, "Still?"

"She's not dead or anything," I said bluntly.

"Not yet," was sneakily added while I paused for breath.

"And why shouldn't I stop by?" I asked as I raised my eyebrow under the looming shadow of my sun-streaked bangs. There was no valid enough reason I shouldn't go over there once in a while. 

"Don't make me say it," she groaned.

"Say what?" I urged her.

"Ever since, you know... everything, well," Eileen said slowly, and we looked away from each other as the topic was sensitive. We rarely mentioned it by date or event, but when we did, we often left the sentence hanging or called it something vague so we wouldn't have to address it directly. It was easier to discuss something you weren't really even discussing, which maybe makes no sense. She went on anyway, with, "She's kind of difficult to be around."

"She always was." I chuckled lightly, remembering that boisterous and belligerent attitude of hers that had been a part of her long before circumstances had driven cynicism into the mix. "That doesn't mean she's not my best friend any more, Eileen. I'm not about to stop seeing her just because it's difficult."

"Difficult and dysthymic are two very different problems." She was prone to using words like that—from her psychology class, I think. She thought it made her sound smart, I thought it a bit more akin to pretentious, but I never told her that.

"And what, exactly, does that mean?" I tried to interject.

"You don't have to sacrifice your good nature just because you two were once so close," she tried to sound indifferent or casual, but there was an edge of condescension to her tone that irked me.

"We still are," I said defensively, but spying the incredulous expression she tied on, I knew better than to keep brawling about it. "Besides, sacrifice is a bit much, don't you think?"

"All I'm saying is that her issues are hardly an excuse for acting like such a jerk. Bad things happen to people all the time, and they find a way to get through it. Don't let her pull you down with her. Sure she's sick and hurting, but your life and happiness should be considered as much as anybody else's. You're a much better friend than she deserves," she rattled on as though she was writing one of those compelling essays she was so highly regarded for.