"keith laid there, feeling particularly victorious. the girl in front of him was a suitor of many, and who should be so lucky as to land angie dupont?"
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prequel to dead flowers
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shannon, aged 17.
Shannon had no idea how stressful being a mother would be. She had an idea, of course. She actually did pay attention in health class, but it was never talked about. Like careers, motherhood was done as if it was a job. Nobody complained about it, it was taboo and unwomanly. And Shannon cared very deeply about being womanly.
Shannon had been sad before. She was sad when her dog died, sad when her parents divorced, sad when the modelling agencies her mother dragged her to as a child rejected her. But as she entered her home, hurting physically already, without a baby in her arms, never before had she felt such a soul crushing sadness.
After Andrew had left for a smoke break, Shannon had dragged herself out of bed despite the nurses' wishes and pulled her IV behind her, like a ball and chain. Imprisoned by it, she stood in front of the nursery window, solemn-faced and teary-eyed. She knew baby Andy wasn't in there, no, he was in the NICU, extremely underweight, crying, uncomfortable with tubes in his small nose. Shannon could and needed to pretend, though, so she lifted her hand to the glass and pressed it against. There was a baby in the corner that might've been Andy, but the wisps of hair on his head were far too blonde to be. There was a baby, mid-second row, but it was wrapped in a pink blanket so Shannon assumed it was the wrong gender entirely. Even so, her eyes were green; Andy's were brown. Shannon began to cry, and the disconnect from her baby grew further. When she entered her hospital room, her cheeks were streaked with tears. When Andrew did, he was crying as well; nobody spoke of it.
Now, she was at home, never feeling so alone. Andrew was there, but not really; he moved silently across the room like a wolf protecting its cave, radiating anger and being insular. By the way he grumbled occasionally and sat reading, very closed off, Shannon could tell he did not want to deal with her right now.
"Andrew?" She asked anyway, trying not-very-hard to hide her forthcoming tears. He grunted in acknowledgment, flipping his page, so she continued, "Do you love me?"
He took a long time to answer; he even stopped reading to think, before speaking in that particular posh voice he used when he wanted to remind Shannon of their class differences, "My father says seventeen is too young to love."
Thoroughly displeased with his answer, Shannon scowled, "Well, don't you think the rules are a bit different for us, considering our baby? I mean, we're parents!"
Andrew frowned, noticeable even from across the room, "I wish you would stop saying that." Evidently, his stomach began to swirl in on itself, a terrible fear gripping his mind.
"Stop saying what, Andrew? That we have a baby? Because we do!" Shannon could hardly contain herself, and stood up to get some level-ground against the man who stayed curled in the chair, not caring that he had upset her. In fact, he sighed as if Shannon had done him the greatest misfortune, "Oh for cryin' out loud! What do you want me to say, Shannon? You went looking for a fight when you asked me that question, why are you being difficult?"
