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MAKING ROOM | PAGE 2 OF 2 - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Romantic entanglements are most delicate, of course. It's awfully easy to go too far, say too much -- or too little -- about what we observe. In doing so we embarrass our children or anger them and inadvertently push them closer to the dubious partner. I knew my son well enough to know his taste for forbidden fruits, for rebellion, resistance -- for my dismay. He was over 18: old enough to spend his days and nights where, and with whom, he wished, but still young enough to be driven against my wishes. I bit my tongue and said "hmm" a lot and strove to seem neutral. "Still together?" friends began to ask me after a year -- and then after two years, and longer, and I would nod, as surprised as anyone else. I tried harder to get to know her, to invite them out of the insular solitude they formed. She was simply, constantly there, standing in the doorway, on the telephone, walking quickly through the kitchen to dash into his room, and bit by bit, I came to know and like her. She was smart, observant, witty and she was on the edge of my life, every day, and in the center of his. A lot changes between not-quite-17 and almost 20. A few months ago I could see his devotion begin to pale. Just as I'd grown used to her continual, ghostly presence, he'd grown tired of it. They had the same fight over and over, he told me one day in frustration -- she wanted him to talk and listen more, and he wanted more space. (Then, I had to bite my tongue not to laugh.) He was bored with the routine, the solitude. He bumped into a young woman he'd known in school, a woman his own age -- outgoing, good-natured, confident. And fell in love in an altogether new way. He's an honest person, a person with a healthy conscience, and he struggled with the dilemma, the guilt, his desires. Finally, he broke up with Jasmine. I was as helpless as a child told that her parents would divorce and then remarry; I couldn't decide how I felt, and of course, it didn't matter. The week after the breakup with Jasmine, she showed up at our house with a sleek black cat and shoved it in my son's hands and said, "Here. This one's yours." When she left, she took the telephone. I didn't really know her that well, but she was there, a person who interested me. I worried about her a little. I kept a space in myself for her. Without warning, in a matter of moments, she was gone, and the space remains. I find myself wondering if her mother, who never responded to my attempts to get to know her at all, feels this way about my son. Or more so -- she spent quite a lot of time with him, took him deeply into her life, for better or worse. He's gone from her now. After a few weeks, I called Jasmine and told her I was sorry, that I hoped she would come visit sometime, knowing I might never see her again. "Is the cat all right?" she asked, and seemed relieved at my reassurance.
Since that day, Morgan's been with Mary -- morning, noon and after work at
night, every day. Every single day for two months now. I come into the
living room and there she is, patting the dog. He's suddenly talkative, full
of confidences and questions. And Mary is, too, telling me about Wyclef
Jean's new CD and her job at See's Candies. I'm scooting over, making room.
Discuss Sallie Tisdale's column in Table Talk. |
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