We started out so young and strong, only to surrender

I was running out of the door of the office yesterday when Paul called saying he and his research prof were going to R.P. Tracks. Of course, I was game — I wanted to celebrate!

From the car, I called Jeremy. "Hey, I'm going to Tracks. Made me think of you." To say he was curt might be giving him too much credit. I assumed it was because Sara was there and didn't want him talking to me. I was right.

While Paul and I were driving home, Jeremy called me back. Sara was at work and he was in my neighborhood, so we invited him over. We mixed up some drinks, goofed off, showed Jeremy Monstee's rendition of Sara. He stayed for like, six hours ... then left here in hopes that he'd get home before she did to stave off any impending You-Were-At-Kate's fights.

I just don't get it.

Sara spent a month in California helping a guy-friend, Mike, move to Memphis. Mike is now living with Jeremy and Sara. And yet Jeremy can't come visit Paul and me? It's annoying. She's ripped his effing balls off. She controls the money and gives him an allowance. She has her friends but he can't have any. Life is lived by her rules.

He didn't eat for two days last week because his allowance ran out, or something. I got so angry I didn't really let him finish telling me the story.

He worries about her and cares immensely for her, which is why he puts up with all this. But I worry about him and care immensely for him ... so I don't want him to put up with this. Since I can't stand up for him, I want him to stand up for himself. But it's a complicated situation, and things just don't happen like that. I'm relegated to short phone conversations and lots of worrying. At least he still opens up to me when he can get away. At least we're not totally back to square one, 1996.

Last night, when he was leaving, I asked if he still had a key to my place. He said he did, but didn't know where it was. I reminded him how to jimmy his way into the place. Paul said he was welcome anytime. He'll never come; she'll get too angry. But at least he's got a home away from home if he needs it.

This morning — somewhere between the grogginess of the drinks and the extra sleeping pills I shouldn't have taken last night — there's still a small fiery anger and a lot of resignation. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. Can't we just go back and rearrange things so that you're not everybody's caretaker, the world's shoulder on which to cry? Can't we make it so that there's no need to talk anyone down from the rafters?

So, now, I've put on Jackson Browne's The Pretender. I'm fighting my way through the haze still enveloping my brain, and I swear that one of these days, I'm going to make things right.

I just don't know when ... or how.