Page 70 of Shamed
I glance at her, wanting to ask what her secrets are, but when I see those enlarged pupils again, I decide against it. It doesn’t feel right taking advantage of her in her current state to get answers to questions she wouldn’t normally give.
I turn up the radio, letting the music fill the interior rather than questions we may not even want the answers to.
Once we pull up in front of her apartment, I switch back into caretaker mode and help her out of my truck. “You have your key ready?” She pulls it out of her pocket and hands it to me, this time without any hesitation, and I help her inside.
Jayne’s apartment is small, old, and fucking chilly.
She has minimal belongings and furnishings. No photos. Only one German shepherd figurine on a small table.
It makes me wonder again if something happened between her and her parents. Surely, they wouldn’t let her live this way if they were still on good terms? Or maybe it’s her choice.
I doubt having a leak in her ceiling is her choice, though.
The bucket and towel still sit in the same spot in her kitchen, under a large brown stain on the ceiling. “The landlord hasn’t fixed your roof yet?”
Jayne slips her jacket off and drops it to the floor in a careless heap. “Oh. No, he won’t.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because,” she answers simply with a small laugh and a shrug.
I walk over to inspect the ceiling, lips pressed together.
Why is she letting people treat her so poorly, as if she’s worth less than the dirt on their feet? Chester, those morons from the street, her landlord . . . God knows who else she lets treat her like shit.
Turning back to her, I watch as she slumps onto her couch with a dramatic sigh, arms and legs spread out like a starfish with her eyes closed.
This isn’t the first time I’ve had to look after someone who is drunk or who has taken recreational drugs.
A woman came to one of my classes a while back, high as a kite after running into her ex earlier that day. She was paranoid that he was hiding in the gym equipment, ready to attack her. Her behavior was much more irrational than Jayne’s, though.
While it doesn’t seem like Jayne is in that same head space, it doesn’t mean she won’t suddenly decide to go lay on the street, like she seemed to want to do earlier.
I figure I should hang around for a bit, even if it’s just sitting on the front steps.
“Why don’t you go get ready for bed, and I’ll get you a glass of water?”
She stretches, then like a boneless creature, slides down the couch to the floor. “I can just stay here.”
“It doesn’t look very comfortable.”
A lazy hum is the only response I get.
“Do you need my help getting up?”
“Hmm, maybe.” Eyes opening, she focuses on me. “But you help too much.”
I reach my hand out to her. “Come on.” I wait until she’s placed her hand in mine and I’ve pulled her to her feet before I reach down and scoop her up.
Jayne squeaks out a sound, her arms flying up to wrap around my neck. “What are you doing?”
“Carrying you to your room.” I ignore her continued weak protests, walking in the direction of one of the only doors that could be her bedroom.
So many times, I’ve carried my mother like this, so I keep telling myself that I’m just helping Jayne the same way.
There’s a distinct change in the feel of our surroundings when we step through the threshold of her bedroom. Like it’s the only space she bothers paying any attention to.
The scent of coconuts and something sweet fills my nose, similar to what I’ve smelled on her every time I’ve been close.
