too. I shouldn’t have insulted your parents or
the choices they made. I just heard some echoes of my own loneliness when you
were talking about not having many friends, and I wanted to take your side
against them. And maybe I was a little jealous because you were such a huge
part of their lives and their work.”
Jenny realized she still had her hand on
Helen. She should move it, let go, step back. Instead, she slid her palm down
Helen’s arm until she reached her hand. Their fingers interlaced loosely.
“You weren’t close to your parents?” Jenny
asked. Admittedly, after watching Helen interact with her neighbors in Cannon
Beach, Jenny had pictured her growing up in a close-knit family. Learning how
to bake in the kitchen with her mom. Experiencing the cozy domesticity Jenny
had sometimes longed for.
Helen shook her head. “I never had a chance.
We were in a car wreck when I was still a toddler. The truck hit us head-on,
and since I was in the backseat, I was the only one to survive.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Grieving is abstract when you barely knew
someone.” Helen leaned against the metal siding of the auditorium, still
keeping her hand in Jenny’s. “Anyway, my uncle brought me to live with his
family, but he was…well, he wasn’t a nice man. I don’t think he and my father
were ever close. As soon as I was old enough to pack a bag, I was running away
on a regular basis. I stayed on the street or in foster homes, but then I’d be
taken back to his house. We lived in a small town, so the cops got to know me
well enough to recognize me and I never got far. Once I turned eighteen and
graduated from high school—barely—I got the hell out of there.”
Jenny sighed and propped her shoulder on the
wall next to Helen. She felt a current of excitement being this close to her,
their hands joined and their thighs barely touching, but she put her own
responses in the back of her mind. This was a time for a different kind of
intimacy, and she didn’t want Helen to stop talking. Jenny lived her own story.
When she went to disaster sites to work, the focus was always on the
present—how to deal with the crisis of the moment. Rarely did she stand still
long enough to listen to someone else’s life unfold through their words and
expressions. Rarely had she ever wanted to hear.
“What did you do once you left?”
Helen shrugged and Jenny felt the friction of
the movement against her own shoulder. Her fingers tightened on Helen’s
reflexively, and Helen returned the squeeze.
“I was directionless. For most of my life, I
had been straining to get away, but I never had any idea where I was headed to . I didn’t have the
best support system in place. Most of my friends were runaways, too. Ditching
school, leaving home, getting into trouble. I managed to stay clear of the
worst parts of street life, but I was on a downhill slope. I was crashing with
some people I knew and couldn’t seem to get a decent job, let alone hold on to
one if I managed to get hired.”
Jenny shuddered to think of the direction in
which Helen’s life could have gone. She realized the sharp edge she had seen beneath
Helen’s surface had been honed by survival. The added dimension made her even
more attractive to Jenny, but it scared her, too. She wasn’t accustomed to
seeing depth—just names and faces that blurred together and faded from her mind
once she moved on.
“And now you’re a pastry chef and
entrepreneur. I’m impressed. What made you turn your life around?”
Helen looked at her with an appreciative
smile, as if Jenny’s compliment actually meant something to her. “I got a job
washing dishes in a diner. Not exactly the dream career for most people, and it
didn’t pay much, but I got a hot meal every night. It was owned by a huge
Italian family, and I loved watching them fight and laugh and run their
business together. They were everything a family should be, and nothing like
the one I had. At first I figured
the choices they made. I just heard some echoes of my own loneliness when you
were talking about not having many friends, and I wanted to take your side
against them. And maybe I was a little jealous because you were such a huge
part of their lives and their work.”
Jenny realized she still had her hand on
Helen. She should move it, let go, step back. Instead, she slid her palm down
Helen’s arm until she reached her hand. Their fingers interlaced loosely.
“You weren’t close to your parents?” Jenny
asked. Admittedly, after watching Helen interact with her neighbors in Cannon
Beach, Jenny had pictured her growing up in a close-knit family. Learning how
to bake in the kitchen with her mom. Experiencing the cozy domesticity Jenny
had sometimes longed for.
Helen shook her head. “I never had a chance.
We were in a car wreck when I was still a toddler. The truck hit us head-on,
and since I was in the backseat, I was the only one to survive.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Grieving is abstract when you barely knew
someone.” Helen leaned against the metal siding of the auditorium, still
keeping her hand in Jenny’s. “Anyway, my uncle brought me to live with his
family, but he was…well, he wasn’t a nice man. I don’t think he and my father
were ever close. As soon as I was old enough to pack a bag, I was running away
on a regular basis. I stayed on the street or in foster homes, but then I’d be
taken back to his house. We lived in a small town, so the cops got to know me
well enough to recognize me and I never got far. Once I turned eighteen and
graduated from high school—barely—I got the hell out of there.”
Jenny sighed and propped her shoulder on the
wall next to Helen. She felt a current of excitement being this close to her,
their hands joined and their thighs barely touching, but she put her own
responses in the back of her mind. This was a time for a different kind of
intimacy, and she didn’t want Helen to stop talking. Jenny lived her own story.
When she went to disaster sites to work, the focus was always on the
present—how to deal with the crisis of the moment. Rarely did she stand still
long enough to listen to someone else’s life unfold through their words and
expressions. Rarely had she ever wanted to hear.
“What did you do once you left?”
Helen shrugged and Jenny felt the friction of
the movement against her own shoulder. Her fingers tightened on Helen’s
reflexively, and Helen returned the squeeze.
“I was directionless. For most of my life, I
had been straining to get away, but I never had any idea where I was headed to . I didn’t have the
best support system in place. Most of my friends were runaways, too. Ditching
school, leaving home, getting into trouble. I managed to stay clear of the
worst parts of street life, but I was on a downhill slope. I was crashing with
some people I knew and couldn’t seem to get a decent job, let alone hold on to
one if I managed to get hired.”
Jenny shuddered to think of the direction in
which Helen’s life could have gone. She realized the sharp edge she had seen beneath
Helen’s surface had been honed by survival. The added dimension made her even
more attractive to Jenny, but it scared her, too. She wasn’t accustomed to
seeing depth—just names and faces that blurred together and faded from her mind
once she moved on.
“And now you’re a pastry chef and
entrepreneur. I’m impressed. What made you turn your life around?”
Helen looked at her with an appreciative
smile, as if Jenny’s compliment actually meant something to her. “I got a job
washing dishes in a diner. Not exactly the dream career for most people, and it
didn’t pay much, but I got a hot meal every night. It was owned by a huge
Italian family, and I loved watching them fight and laugh and run their
business together. They were everything a family should be, and nothing like
the one I had. At first I figured
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