“What am I missing?” I ask finally.
She sighs. Her bright blue eyes tilt upward as if searching for an answer amidst the imaginary clouds. “Do you ever want to help the people you donate supplies to? I mean, face-to-face. Do you ever think about what their lives must be like?”
I shift from one foot to the other.
She is hitting me with the hard questions today. I haven’t even asked myself that in almost four years. Do I ever want to engage with the people in Derek’s organization? There was a time I did. A time when all I thought about was social reform and helping others. It was the whole reason I got into teaching in the first place. Now, all my time is relegated to term papers and publishing analyses in academic journals.
“Sure, but who has the time for that?” Damn it. Why did I say it like that? I sound like a dick!
You sound like your father.
Her brow knits deeper. I’m in for it now. Clearly, this woman has a soft spot for volunteer work, and I am pushing all of the wrong buttons. “Right, because people in those situations are there by their own doing. Is that it?”
Now,thatsounds more like your father.
“That’s not what I meant,” I say, fumbling through the millions of excuses rolling around in my head.
I used to help.
I’ve been too busy to help the less fortunate. My father thinks its beneath us to give money to the poor, and I’ve grown tired of arguing.
None of the excuses I can think of make me feel any better. What happened to me? Didn’t I want to change the world? I donated plenty of time in the past, working in food kitchens, mentoring foster kids. It was where I met Derek. Where I first realized there was more to life than socializing with business investors and spending thousands of dollars on extravagant parties.
So why does it feel different when she asks me? Why does it feel like I’ve failed somehow?
“Then what did you mean?” she asks.
“There’s not enough time to do everything that needs to be done,” I explain. “You can’t change the world in a day.”
That’s it. Crush her idealistic spirit. What am I doing?
Sparing her from learning a harsh reality the long way.Some people don’t want to be saved. And sometimes the struggle to save them comes at a great cost to yourself.
“So we sit back and do nothing?” she asks, her eyes narrowing over me.
“I am doing something.”
“So long as you don’t have to see the pitiful creatures you’re helping?” she says. Now, that one hurt. “So long as you can drop off the supplies and pretend like you’re doing some good in the world.”
“But I am donating supplies. Isn’t that enough?” I say, foolishly regretting it afterward. “Something is better than nothing.”
Keep digging that hole you’re working on, Zach.
To my surprise, she stops, staring after me as if she had awakened from a trance. As if she hadn’t meant to lay into me for the last five minutes with her lecture about the poor and their struggles.
“Yes.” She nods, weakly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Whatever passion I had ignited in her before quickly dissipates. I find myself longing to spark it back up again, just to see what other idealistic notions she still has. I want them for myself. Every inch of the fire in her spirit, the passion, I want it. The way I used to before.
Somewhere deep within me, a memory emerges. I was once like her. Bright-eyed, ready to tackle the world and its problems. So why did I stop? Was it really all about the time? I could do more if I wanted to. Do I even want to anymore?
“Here’s your receipt,” she says and hands me the sheet of paper. I sign it, reluctantly, feeling far too much like I’ve signed away my soul instead.
I hand her back the slip. But when she takes it, I don’t let go. She stops, holding my gaze one last time. I’m not sure what’s left to say, only that I don’t want to let her go.
The flicker of heat from before passes between us. I lean forward, drawn by a force I can’t explain. This is more than seduction, more than a quick tumble between the sheets. I want her to look at me the way she did before. Before I opened my mouth and ruined her illusions with my cynicism.
She sucks in a quick draw of breath. The parting of her lips instantly focuses my attention downward. Her cheeks are flushed, her breathing shallow. A few mere inches away from her mouth, and I’m not entirely sure what I intend to do.