together still, aren’t they? On that commune or wherever?’
‘Yes. But I never felt safe. I never had any rules, anything to make me feel secure. I don’t want—’ She stopped before she said the words my children. ‘I don’t want to live like that.’
Jo was watching her carefully. ‘It doesn’t do you any good to keep everything inside, Elisabeth. You had a bad experience not long ago. It’s okay to feel sad sometimes, and to tell your friends about it. I’m trying to make you happier.’
The expression on Jo’s face made Elisabeth feel even worse. She was a good friend, and she’d do anything to help her. But honestly, truly, Elisabeth didn’t need any help herself. She had everything totally under control.
See? She could even stop herself crying.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to talk about anything. I was only trying to tell you why I don’t want to go out with Angus MacAllister.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘And speaking of the devil, I was supposed to be with him ten minutes ago. I’ve got to run.’
She hugged Jo and kissed her swiftly on the cheek. ‘Thank you for being concerned about me and wanting to know my problems. You’re a good friend to me. And you’re right, I don’t appreciate you as much as I should.’
Jo picked up her chocolate bar again. ‘Well, start.’
‘I will.’ She paused at the door, and looked over her shoulder at Joanna. She was still looking upset, despite her chocolate.
‘How about you give the Welsh tango-dancer my number,’ Elisabeth said.
Her friend perked up. ‘Cool.’
Elisabeth smiled, glad she could make up in a small way for her shortcomings as a friend, for all the things she kept to herself.
Growing up, the atmosphere had always been so carey-sharey, everyone relating, her parents and all of the long-haired, sandalled strangers who had trooped in and out of her house, and that had all been well and good and made everybody feel better, but the problems had never got solved.
Somebody would turn up at the house with a problem, and for days they’d sleep on the couch, eat with Elisabeth and her family, hug their trees or whatever, drink her mother’s homemade wine, and talk. Incessantly. About this girl who had left them, or the job they had lost, or the square landlord who had kicked them out for not paying the rent, and wasn’t this a free country, man, and her parents would talk right back. The arms race. The ozone layer. Maybe they weren’t being good parents. Maybe they should never have had a kid.
And they’d talk so much and so deep into the night that Elisabeth would try to read herself to sleep and couldn’t. She’d hear their voices through the thin walls. Sometimes she listened because what they said was interesting, about politics or books or how to save the world. Sometimes she tried hard not to listen because what they said was something she didn’t want to hear, something about her parents’ own doubts and fears, about their relationship, about Elisabeth. Something that her parents should have kept out of her hearing, something they should have built boundaries around to keep her from knowing and being afraid.
Some things shouldn’t be shared. Some things hurt more for being out in the open.
And the next morning her parents would tell her to pack her stuff, they were going to Manitoba to start a hemp farm, or Vancouver to join a peace rally, or somewhere else far away from the friends Elisabeth had started to make and the teachers she had started to love. Away from everything that was hers, except for her books.
She’d had her own special suitcase for her books.
At the door of the food technology room, Elisabeth shook her head. The past was over and there was no point in talking or thinking about it. Right now, she had two problem children and one problem chef to deal with.
She wondered what Angus would ask her to do with him today. And as soon as she thought it, realised she was actually looking
‘Yes. But I never felt safe. I never had any rules, anything to make me feel secure. I don’t want—’ She stopped before she said the words my children. ‘I don’t want to live like that.’
Jo was watching her carefully. ‘It doesn’t do you any good to keep everything inside, Elisabeth. You had a bad experience not long ago. It’s okay to feel sad sometimes, and to tell your friends about it. I’m trying to make you happier.’
The expression on Jo’s face made Elisabeth feel even worse. She was a good friend, and she’d do anything to help her. But honestly, truly, Elisabeth didn’t need any help herself. She had everything totally under control.
See? She could even stop herself crying.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I don’t need to talk about anything. I was only trying to tell you why I don’t want to go out with Angus MacAllister.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘And speaking of the devil, I was supposed to be with him ten minutes ago. I’ve got to run.’
She hugged Jo and kissed her swiftly on the cheek. ‘Thank you for being concerned about me and wanting to know my problems. You’re a good friend to me. And you’re right, I don’t appreciate you as much as I should.’
Jo picked up her chocolate bar again. ‘Well, start.’
‘I will.’ She paused at the door, and looked over her shoulder at Joanna. She was still looking upset, despite her chocolate.
‘How about you give the Welsh tango-dancer my number,’ Elisabeth said.
Her friend perked up. ‘Cool.’
Elisabeth smiled, glad she could make up in a small way for her shortcomings as a friend, for all the things she kept to herself.
Growing up, the atmosphere had always been so carey-sharey, everyone relating, her parents and all of the long-haired, sandalled strangers who had trooped in and out of her house, and that had all been well and good and made everybody feel better, but the problems had never got solved.
Somebody would turn up at the house with a problem, and for days they’d sleep on the couch, eat with Elisabeth and her family, hug their trees or whatever, drink her mother’s homemade wine, and talk. Incessantly. About this girl who had left them, or the job they had lost, or the square landlord who had kicked them out for not paying the rent, and wasn’t this a free country, man, and her parents would talk right back. The arms race. The ozone layer. Maybe they weren’t being good parents. Maybe they should never have had a kid.
And they’d talk so much and so deep into the night that Elisabeth would try to read herself to sleep and couldn’t. She’d hear their voices through the thin walls. Sometimes she listened because what they said was interesting, about politics or books or how to save the world. Sometimes she tried hard not to listen because what they said was something she didn’t want to hear, something about her parents’ own doubts and fears, about their relationship, about Elisabeth. Something that her parents should have kept out of her hearing, something they should have built boundaries around to keep her from knowing and being afraid.
Some things shouldn’t be shared. Some things hurt more for being out in the open.
And the next morning her parents would tell her to pack her stuff, they were going to Manitoba to start a hemp farm, or Vancouver to join a peace rally, or somewhere else far away from the friends Elisabeth had started to make and the teachers she had started to love. Away from everything that was hers, except for her books.
She’d had her own special suitcase for her books.
At the door of the food technology room, Elisabeth shook her head. The past was over and there was no point in talking or thinking about it. Right now, she had two problem children and one problem chef to deal with.
She wondered what Angus would ask her to do with him today. And as soon as she thought it, realised she was actually looking
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