It's nearly the 50's before you venture back to Toronto. You're touring with a company and you guess you're a little spoilt these days; but after such a bad beginning, who could blame you for your little luxuries.
It's in the supermarket that you meet Gladys. You didn't think you'd run into the old crowd while you were here for a few nights but you've just been proven wrong. She looks a little thin and harried, smaller and somehow shabbier but for all that no less gorgeous than you remember her.
"Kate!" She cries, and greets you with delight, like it's been a mere weekend since she last saw you rather than years, dragging you outside the store to speak to you properly.
Out of anyone you could have run into, you're glad it was Gladys. She's got her finger on every pulse around here and in less than ten minutes you're all caught up on everyone from the factory's lives since you last saw them. Everyone, that is, except Betty.
You're just about to ask about her when Betty comes out of the supermarket, small child carried on one hip and a sack of groceries in her free hand. She, too, looks a little sleepless, a little thinner than you remember.
"There you are!" She says, and hands the child over to Gladys.
"I just ran into an old friend," Gladys says, and then Betty looks at you.
You can almost see the memories flick behind her eyes before she reaches out a hand. You look at it dubiously before she slips it in yours to shake. It feels too formal but not formal enough and you don't really know what's happening. Why is there a child? Whose is it? Why are Betty and Gladys shopping together?
"Come over for tea," Gladys urges, her hand on your elbow. You can't even remember what you wanted from the store so you let yourself be guided onto a streetcar (by God, you've missed those). The child looks at you with a hand full of her own hair in her mouth. You can tell it's a girl now, lovely dark hair and deep deep eyes.
"Kitty, here's your Aunty Kate," Gladys says quickly, once she notices the slightly confused eye contact on both sides. Before you know quite what's happening a damp hand is on your arm and the slight weight of a child moves onto your lap.
You're more confused than before, looking between Gladys and Betty, trying to find an identifier in one of their faces that matches the child's. You can't tell who she belongs to. You can't ask, not on a streetcar.
"So what's bought you to town," Gladys asks as she puts the kettle on the stove. Betty starts putting groceries away and you can tell by the familiarity of both of them that they live here together and have done for a while. Betty slips past Gladys, moves her closer to the stove with a soft hand on a hip. They're familiar with each other too.
"My company insisted on a show here. It's the first time I've been back..." You trail off because Betty and Gladys know better than anyone the circumstances of your leaving Toronto.
You're still not quite sure where babies come from, but you're pretty sure that neither Betty nor Gladys is the father of this child, this child that's staring up with solemn eyes from your waist, arms looped around your neck.
"She's mine, in case you were wondering," Gladys chimes in from the kitchen. You sit yourself at the table, and the child leans her head against you, puts her hand back in her mouth. You haven't had much to do with children since your brothers were small (they grew up too fast; all three of you did, but also too slow in other ways) but this one seems to instinctively trust you and you're glad. If she screamed, you might not be in this nice suburban house with two very old friends. "But the house is Betty's," Gladys continues, unaware of your internal musings.
"And the father?" You eventually dare to ask, since no answer to this question seems to be forthcoming without the question. You can see a little of Gladys in her now, if you look closely.
"An airman. Or a soldier. Lost at sea." Gladys says quickly and cheerfully. You notice James' engagement ring still on her hand. She looks down at it when she notices. "Makes things easier," she says with a shrug. You think of Gene Corbett then, squint at the child's face again but give it up when she giggles and burrows into you.
Betty still hasn't said a word to you. She's leaning back against a kitchen counter, drinking in the sight of little Kitty on your lap. You turn back to Gladys because even after all these years you still don't know what you can say to Betty. You sent a few letters to Gladys, over the years, but none to Betty. You can tell yourself it's because you didn't know if she was still living in the boarding house when you left, but you try not to lie to yourself any more. Especially about Betty. She feels you watching her, meets your eyes and pulls out a few mugs and a bottle. Gladys turns at the movement and starts moving things around in the kitchen. Betty sits in a chair that's not next to yours and eyes you warily.
"Why are you really back?" She asks, eyes narrowed. You can see Gladys freeze behind her in the kitchen.
"Like I said, the company booked a tour," you say quietly. "I'm not here to cause trouble," you say, raising your hands off the child's back in a movement of surrender. She looks up at you, giggles again and just burrows in further. Gladys starts moving again in the kitchen. You know Betty well enough that you can tell she's relieved. You put your arms back around the child, jog her on your knee a little nervously. Betty's always been protective of who she loves, and right now you feel like the only thing saving you from being kicked out is that the child she's so protective over seems so fond of you.
Gladys puts a bottle in the little girls hands and she squeals with joy and starts drinking. She spills a little over the front of your dress.
"Kate!" Gladys chastises, and both of you look up at the sound of the name. Betty looks like she wishes she could be anywhere but here when Gladys snaps "It was Betty that named her," at your look of confusion. Betty ducks her head, walks into another room. Gladys reaches to take little Kate from you (it hasn't really sunk in yet, that Gladys' child is your namesake. You don't understand how this works, two women living together with a child. You don't know, yet, if Gladys has replaced you as far as Betty is concerned.) and points you in the direction of the washroom.
Betty meets you in the hall with a damp washcloth. She reaches out to pat you down but hesitates when she realises that it's most of your... chest.. that needs patting down. She hands it to you instead without meeting your eyes.
"It's rather sweet, really," you say as you dab. It's only milk, after all. "I don't mind." Betty looks up then.
"Why should you mind? If I'd named her after you, I'd have called her Marian." And that stings, just a little, but the way you left must sting her more.
"I'm sorry," you start, but she raises a hand, brushes away any apology you could make.
"I am too," she says.
"You don't have anything to be sorry for," you try again, but she cuts you short again.
"I shouldn't have assumed..." she says, scuffing the carpet with her shoe.
"I led you on," you say, because you can see now that you did, that you needed her to love you back then more than you needed anything in your life before or after, you needed her so much that you made her believe something rather cruel. You let her believe you would live with her, then you disappeared in the night because you knew you couldn't. You don't know if she ever looked for you; you never got any mail back from Gladys, but you presumed Betty knew you were safe and happy. "I shouldn't have, but Christ, Betty, I was just a kid!"
"Language!" You hear Gladys chastise you from the kitchen. You don't know how she feels about this conversation; about any conversation between you and Betty. You don't know if she's worried you'll usurp her or if this really isn't what it looks like.
"But I was old enough to know better," you admit. "I couldn't stand the thought of owing you so much. For the house, for the jailtime, for... everything. I had to see who I was without you."
"You seem to have done alright for yourself," she says, with no hint of malice as she eyes you in a dimly-lit hallway. "I guess... I just..." She looks at you properly then, and shrugs.
"Me too," you tell her, and slip the washcloth back into her hand.
Gladys is pouring the tea when you return and the domesticity of this little house, this little scene, makes you ache.
'It could have been you,' a little voice chants in the back of your head. 'If you weren't so stupid, this could have been you.' You remind the little voice of the awards you've won, of the places you've been, of all the things you've done that you never would have gotten around to doing if you'd descended into Toronto life like Gladys and Betty. Your little victories don't measure up as well as Betty's hand on Gladys' forearm as she pours, or as well as Kitty's little hand slipping into yours.
Author's note: just a little plot bunny that won't go away. This hopefully won't interfere with Surfacing. More to come when I'm not uploading on an iphone outside a library in the middle of buttfuck nowhere.
