Meredith Dardenne Character Analysis

“I won’t hurt you,” [Meredith] said. She came cautiously closer, as if she were afraid of startling me. I was paralyzed, watching the silk move like water on her skin. A bruise was already swelling beneath her collarbone, and I couldn’t help but think of Richard’s hands and how much damage they could do.

“I can think of someone who might,” I said.

“I don’t want to think about him.” Her voice had a raw, tender quality, which I didn’t immediately recognize for what it was: shame.

I couldn’t pretend I was immune to Meredith; I’d always admired her, but from what I thought was a safe distance. By coming closer she’d confused me. I didn’t believe she really wanted me, just that I was the easiest mark. But I couldn’t admit that to James—because I was embarrassed, and because I was afraid I was wrong.

James stood behind Richard like a shadow, watching me with a shell-shocked expression, one part dread, one part indignation. Anger bristled on my skin, trapped there by the fabric of my shirt pulled tight against my body. I wanted to hurt Richard like he’d hurt Meredith, like he’d hurt James, like he would hurt any one of us who gave him half a reason.

The delicate line of her wrist was marred by tiny blooms of purple, like budding violets on her skin. Older marks, weak as watercolors now, showed where a heavier hand than mine had touched her, where phantom fingers had squeezed too hard: the nape of her neck, the curve of her knee. She was every bit as bruised as James.

That little prick of sadness burrowed deeper, touched me at the quick. How well I’d been trained to mistrust her. And by whom? Richard? Gwendolyn? I glanced over my shoulder at James again. All I could see was a shock of his hair sticking up behind the arm of the couch. It didn’t really matter where I slept, I decided. Nothing mattered much after that morning. Our two souls—if not all six—were forfeit.

I sighed and looked down at my own reflection on the surface of the water. My face seemed somehow unfamiliar, and I squinted, trying to work out what was different. The realization hit me like a blow to the stomach: with my dark hair a little wilder than usual and my blue eyes hollowed out by the weak starlight, I almost resembled Richard. For one sickening moment he stared back at me from the bottom of the lake.

“You know, everyone calls you ‘nice,’” she said slowly, expression drawn and thoughtful. “But that’s not the word. You’re good. So good you have no idea how good you are.” She laughed—once—a sad, resigned sort of sound. “And you’re real. You’re the only one of us who isn’t acting all the time, who isn’t just playing whatever part Gwendolyn gave you three years ago.”

Instead the silhouette I saw on the wall belonged, inexplicably, to James—who had no business in that room, in my thoughts, at that moment […] I let my fingertips trail from the tip of [Meredith’s] shoulder to the smooth inward curve of her waist, comforted by how soft and feminine she was. Her head rested on my chest, and I wondered if she felt the fleeting stillness of my fitful, troubled soul.

I knew by then the way the story went. Our little drama was rapidly hurtling toward its climactic crisis. What next, when we reached the precipice? First, the reckoning. Then, the fall.

“Us. All that time. Was any of it real, or did you know all along, and we were just a get-out-of-jail-free card for James?” She glares at me with those dark green eyes, and I feel sick.

“God, Meredith, no. I had no idea,” I tell her. “You were real to me. Sometimes I thought you were the only real thing.”

“I won’t hurt you,” [Meredith] said. She came cautiously closer, as if she were afraid of startling me. I was paralyzed, watching the silk move like water on her skin. A bruise was already swelling beneath her collarbone, and I couldn’t help but think of Richard’s hands and how much damage they could do.

“I can think of someone who might,” I said.

“I don’t want to think about him.” Her voice had a raw, tender quality, which I didn’t immediately recognize for what it was: shame.

I couldn’t pretend I was immune to Meredith; I’d always admired her, but from what I thought was a safe distance. By coming closer she’d confused me. I didn’t believe she really wanted me, just that I was the easiest mark. But I couldn’t admit that to James—because I was embarrassed, and because I was afraid I was wrong.

James stood behind Richard like a shadow, watching me with a shell-shocked expression, one part dread, one part indignation. Anger bristled on my skin, trapped there by the fabric of my shirt pulled tight against my body. I wanted to hurt Richard like he’d hurt Meredith, like he’d hurt James, like he would hurt any one of us who gave him half a reason.

The delicate line of her wrist was marred by tiny blooms of purple, like budding violets on her skin. Older marks, weak as watercolors now, showed where a heavier hand than mine had touched her, where phantom fingers had squeezed too hard: the nape of her neck, the curve of her knee. She was every bit as bruised as James.

That little prick of sadness burrowed deeper, touched me at the quick. How well I’d been trained to mistrust her. And by whom? Richard? Gwendolyn? I glanced over my shoulder at James again. All I could see was a shock of his hair sticking up behind the arm of the couch. It didn’t really matter where I slept, I decided. Nothing mattered much after that morning. Our two souls—if not all six—were forfeit.

I sighed and looked down at my own reflection on the surface of the water. My face seemed somehow unfamiliar, and I squinted, trying to work out what was different. The realization hit me like a blow to the stomach: with my dark hair a little wilder than usual and my blue eyes hollowed out by the weak starlight, I almost resembled Richard. For one sickening moment he stared back at me from the bottom of the lake.

“You know, everyone calls you ‘nice,’” she said slowly, expression drawn and thoughtful. “But that’s not the word. You’re good. So good you have no idea how good you are.” She laughed—once—a sad, resigned sort of sound. “And you’re real. You’re the only one of us who isn’t acting all the time, who isn’t just playing whatever part Gwendolyn gave you three years ago.”

Instead the silhouette I saw on the wall belonged, inexplicably, to James—who had no business in that room, in my thoughts, at that moment […] I let my fingertips trail from the tip of [Meredith’s] shoulder to the smooth inward curve of her waist, comforted by how soft and feminine she was. Her head rested on my chest, and I wondered if she felt the fleeting stillness of my fitful, troubled soul.

I knew by then the way the story went. Our little drama was rapidly hurtling toward its climactic crisis. What next, when we reached the precipice? First, the reckoning. Then, the fall.

“Us. All that time. Was any of it real, or did you know all along, and we were just a get-out-of-jail-free card for James?” She glares at me with those dark green eyes, and I feel sick.

“God, Meredith, no. I had no idea,” I tell her. “You were real to me. Sometimes I thought you were the only real thing.”