A Thousand Sisters_ My Journey Into the Worst Place on Earth to Be a Woman - Lisa Shannon [17]
“Fifty thousand,” I say, then quickly change the subject.
Who knows if it helps, but a handful of Republican staffers promise to call to check the bill’s status, which will put pressure on the committee chair to pass it through for a floor vote. In a week, I will get an email from a legislative aide. The last statement in the Congressional Record, just prior to the unanimous passing of the bill, will be praise for Run for Congo Women and the way it has blossomed into a global effort to support the women of the DRC.
IF I SCORED POINTS IN D.C., I certainly haven’t scored any at home. I had imagined that my drop-everything-to-stop-a-war behavior would recharge a relationship that has had no space for the past five years. But my all-consuming volunteer work schedule and my Congo-first, business-second attitude have gotten old for Ted. I see his point—I have put our financial goals on hold. But I think I’ve earned some flexibility after putting in years of sixteen-hour workdays and months-long stretches without a day off.
In any case, people have started to notice. Long after the event, my mom confesses that at the Portland run volunteers pulled her aside to report Ted’s visible disenchantment with me. It was in the air that day. After the run, he went out for beers with a buddy while a neighbor drove me home. In my post- 30-mile stupor, I threw up out the window (much to the disgust of her teenage kids sitting next to me!) and spent the rest of the afternoon sprawled on the bathroom floor alone.
At this point, there’s no getting around it. Ted’s icy silence speaks volumes. I’m in breach of contract. I’m not free to do my own thing until delivery of a French country home, a Ducati Supersport, and a new Rolex. Anything less is just selfish.
The slow burn of betrayal is mutual. I’m desperate for us to try to work it out. But as our relationship descends into a series of seething, resentful fights, I find myself on the defensive, snapping, “I’m a human being, not a lifestyle.”
On the June day that we were supposed to get married, I can’t help but feel ripped off. In an alternate universe, I would be in the Val d’Orcia, dancing under a string of lights in the courtyard of a medieval Tuscan inn, overlooking ancient olive groves.
Ted asked me to marry him on New Year’s Day. We don’t believe in long engagements, so we set a June date, but in late March the Italian country inn cancelled our booking (something about an auto accident), and it was too late to find another venue. We said we’d do it next year. Maybe.
Now Ted is gone. He’s taking an extended “break” in Berlin, while I’ve been bestowed the freedom to date whomever I choose. It is not a freedom I’ve asked for or want.
I’m sure he won’t call today. Best not to wait around. Time to go for a run.
The phone rings; it’s my friend Lana. “Have you checked your email yet today?”
“Why?”
“Just do.”
I open my inbox to find a message presumably emailed to our entire guest list. Evite Reminder: Ted and Lisa’s Wedding.
Just so all of my friends and family really, really remember exactly what is not happening today. Mercifully, none of the recipients ever say a word.
Why mope? I leave for my run.
I get out of the car at the trailhead and stretch next to the two-lane road sandwiched between the river and the airport. It’s mostly used by truckers as a back route to industrial parks and freeways. I like it because the path is paved and flat. It’s my “I don’t feel like running” course.
I notice a man on a bicycle in the distance. I’ve learned how to distinguish recreational bike riders from the transient car thieves that comb isolated parking lots off this road. This guy is of the car thief variety so I stay near my car, waiting for him to pass. I don’t want to lose my stereo.
He doesn’t pass. He rides straight up to me and stops. He’s normal looking enough, but tattered