Warnings: Trigger warning for abuse and internalised homophobia. Please let me know if I should add any more.
Notes: I acknowledge here and now that other people have done this wayyyy better than me, but I thought I'd have a crack at depicting Kate's thoughts after she returns to her family. This chapter in particular leads on from my other fic, 24 Hours ('Til the End of the World), making reference to several things that happened in that story.
Disclaimer: All characters and environments belong to Michael Maclennan and Adrienne Mitchell/Shaw Media.
Marion Rowley is a preacher's daughter. She was brought up to love God and do right by her family. It's all she's ever wanted out of life. Yet somehow, despite all her father's care and devotion, the devil ensnared her. She saw fit to stray from the path of righteousness for four awful months, running off to Toronto to lead a sleazy, degraded life. She painted herself like a whore each day, frequented nightclubs and dances, sang sinful jazz music. Worst of all, she willingly consorted with loose women, scoundrels, even sexual deviants.
Though Marion made him suffer so terribly, her father rescued her from that awful place. Despite everything she's done, he still loves her enough to help her rejoin the flock. Those months in the city were a dark period in her life, but the memories won't bother her, now that she is back where she belongs.
Kate tries to keep busy. If she keeps herself occupied, she won't think. It's not difficult to wear herself out, with washing and cooking for her entire family, nursing Mother and spreading God's word alongside her father and brothers. It never feels like enough, though. She wants to fall asleep before her head hits her pillow, but no matter how late the hour, her eyes snap open.
Her mind runs like a freight train, unstoppably towards the thoughts she spends all day trying to ward off. Towards memories, which are so much more dangerous than wishes. Wishes are, by definition, impossible. Memories, on the other hand, have already come to pass.
She remembers a different Kate, not the shadow version she is now, but one who was born the moment she pushed her father to the ground and took off running to the big city. That Kate tied her hair up under a blue turban and worked six days a week to help Canada and the Allies win this war. That Kate learned to smile open-mouthed and genuine, learned to stand tall. She found her voice and sang the blues. That Kate never stopped running, not for a moment.
The Kate she was a few weeks ago had lots of friends. She even had a best friend: Betty McRae, the most decent, upstanding woman at Victory Munitions. Everyone thought so, not just Kate. Betty didn't stand for any guff from the floor boys, who were just the worst for making dirty remarks about the women. With men who respected her, like Marco Moretti, the factory's materials controller, Betty could joke and banter without a trace of self-consciousness, never blushing or stuttering, never failing to think of something to say. She stood up for people who needed protection.She was a hero. She was Kate's hero.
The Kate she was a few weeks ago can't exist any more, and it's all because of a kiss.
Kate did not go to church when she heard that the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor. She went to her singing lesson with her friend Leon, as though nothing had happened and nobody had died. Kate desperately needed to feel like nothing had happened, like there could still be quiet drinks with good friends in a world at war.
She had been horribly on edge all that day, since she had found her father waiting for her in her bedroom the previous night. It was so like one of her nightmares: Father blocking the door, showing no reaction when she begged him to let her leave, ignoring her when she swore she'd jump out of her window if he didn't move aside. It was only when Betty strode into the room to rescue her that Kate knew for sure it was really happening. It was the way she always wished those bad dreams could end, with someone she cared about coming to her aid. Yet, after her father took his leave, Kate couldn't get the metallic taste of fear out of her mouth, couldn't stop her hands shaking and going numb at odd moments.
From the moment Father left, Betty tried her best to lift Kate's spirits. Kate let her believe it was working. Sometimes it actually did, at least a little. Yet there are things inside Kate that she doesn't think she'll ever let anyone see, no matter how highly she thinks of them. Still, she loved Betty for trying. Kate was so grateful to Betty for being so sweet, so caring, so invested in her. Before she knew how bad the day would get, she asked Betty to go for a drink with her that afternoon, just the two of them.
During their shift, some live bomb casings smashed into Betty while they were working the stencil line. When people she cares for are in danger, it's always been Kate's instinct to hurl herself in front of them like a shield. She figures God was trying to tell her that she was wrong to abandon her family. To show her she'd done wrong, He refused to let Kate offer herself in her best friend's place. Instead, she could only watch.
All those months that Kate was in Toronto, God tried to tell her that He would keep her special people safe if only she would do right by her family and return home. It took Kate such a long time to realise what God wanted of her. But even then, even as she saw her best friend in danger, Kate was selfish. When Betty cried out in pain, Kate's entire being begged, Oh, please, God-! She has a feeling she might have even shouted it aloud, but she can't remember. It was all a blur.
God granted Kate's prayer. Betty was only bruised by the bomb casings. Kate should have walked straight out of the factory, then and there, praising God with all her heart and never looking back. But when she held Betty's hands in hers, she faltered again. Fool that she was, Kate thought she could keep Betty safe by being with her. After all, if Kate hadn't been there, who would have darted forward to steady the swinging projectiles? In her arrogance, Kate supposed God wanted her on the floor of a factory which worked to kill people's children, all because she happened to care very much for someone on that floor.
When Betty and Kate arrived back at the rooming house, worn thin by their day and deeply shaken by the news of the Pearl Harbor attacks, Kate told Betty to stay home and rest her injured shoulder. She was very insistent about it, ordering Betty into bed and singing to her until she lay still. Kate can't begin to explain why it was so crucial that Betty do as she said, but she honestly felt like she would scream if Betty didn't heed her. Yet when Betty appeared at Tangiers an hour later, announcing herself with a sarcastic quip, swaying from too much drink, Kate couldn't have been happier to see her friend. Betty joined her at the piano, and for a moment, all was right with the world.
Kate took a chance, then. She told Betty, "I used to sing to feel something. Now, it's more like I feel something and I sing."
Kate worried that maybe she sounded silly, that she wasn't saying it right. Still, she had to let it out, had to tell someone about this part of herself she had just recently discovered. To be able to sing a happy song because she was already happy, and not because she needed to keep herself from despairing, was one of the biggest things that had ever happened to Kate. She could sing happy songs because she was happy, and love songs because she knew what it was to love somebody. Kate loves her mother and brothers, she reveres her father, and she – well, she felt a lot for Betty, before Betty betrayed her. Even singing a sad song when felt down was exhilarating, because at last, Kate could be purely honest with herself. For the first time in her life, she didn't have to be frightened of her own feelings.
When Kate told her that, Betty looked at Kate like Kate was just exactly right. Just as Kate was thinking that she had made the right choice, the perfect choice, in telling Betty this thing she'd realised about herself, Betty brought Kate's palm to her lips and gave it a gentle, reverent kiss.
It was strangely intimate, Betty kissing her hand like that, but Kate hadn't known to be wary of it. She just assumed that Betty needed to comfort someone, in the wake of everything that happened, to feel useful, to feel in control. Kate could certainly understand that.
Somehow, Betty managed to emphasise every single word as she said,"I really like you, Kate." Which was, again, rather odd – they were the best of friends. Of course Kate knew that Betty liked her. Perhaps Betty, in turn, needed reassurance that everything was going to be okay. Kate could understand that, too.
"I like you too, Betty," Kate replied. They were such inadequate words for what Kate felt for her that she had a mad urge to giggle.
Perhaps it was tempting fate, to grin incredulously and wonder how much more precise she could be. Five words floated to the top of Kate's mind, devastatingly clear and unambiguous. I want to kiss you. Not I want to hold you close, I want to be near you so badly, the niggling but soothingly vague impulses Kate has had around beautiful women since she was twelve or thirteen. There, sitting at the piano in the Tangiers Club, Kate's mind left nothing up to interpretation. It said, plainly as anything, I want to kiss you.
Kate's mind embroidered on the thought: I've never kissed anyone on the lips in my life, but I want to kiss you right now. Not a glancing cheek kiss, not even a lingering one. Her mind was frighteningly specific about wanting to press her mouth to Betty's, like people – men and women – did in the movies.
I want to kiss you, Kate's mind insisted. Her smile faded from her face as she hoped desperately that Betty would not read her thoughts.
Only it seemed Betty did. Her expression became euphoric and intent, all at once, as though she were about to do the most important thing of her life. Her eyes fluttered closed. Before Kate knew what was happening, Betty's lips were on hers, dry from the chill winds outdoors but soft and warm.
It was so bizarre, Kate thinking this thing and Betty doing it a moment later, that Kate just sort of … let her keep doing it, for an instant. Just so she could be sure that it was really happening. Just so she could know how it felt.
She felt nice, against Kate. More than nice, actually. Sort of – wanting and giving, at the same time. It's just a fact. Betty being nice to kiss doesn't mean anything about Kate. Why else would men want to kiss women, if it didn't feel good? If women felt dreadful to kiss, nobody would ever fall in love or get married.
As they kissed, Kate's lips parted, and she could taste Betty, as well as feeling her. Betty's mouth tasted like gin and tonic. Gin and tonic is Kate's personal favourite drink, perhaps even more than champagne. She likes how sophisticated she feels, drinking it, how tart and cool it is. Betty is a devoted whiskey drinker, knocking it back neat with barely a reaction. What was she doing, tasting like Kate's favourite drink? It was as if Betty had ordered herself Kate's drink of choice so that Kate would enjoy it when they kissed.
Well, of course that's what Betty did. Of course she knew. People don't accidentally seduce each other. She probably planned it that way from the start. Isn't that the way it always happens in stories?
The only reason anyone would ever want to be around you is so they could take advantage of you, says a mocking voice in Kate's brain. Why fight it? It's what you want, secretly. Given half a chance, you'd have your legs open to every man, every woman who looks your way. You act so innocent, but on the inside, you're a harlot and a pervert.
… She liked it. Oh, God in Heaven, she liked it when Betty kissed her. It's not fair. How is Kate supposed to know when something is loathsome if it feels good? It makes Kate want to sob, makes her want to break things. How could Betty declare that their entire friendship was a calculated ploy to get Kate to do God knows what with her – and have the audacity to make the declaration feel good? How is Kate ever meant to feel good again, after that?
Father has spent Kate's entire life warning her that people outside their family only wanted to ruin her. She always thought he meant men. She supposes he did too. Father's always told her to be careful, to be vigilant, not to lose her head. Kate lost her head over Betty, all right. She thought anyone would. Kate didn't know that women aren't supposed to notice those sorts of things about their friends. Women aren't meant to practically swoon when their best friend chews out the male floor workers for making smutty remarks, or eagerly anticipate seeing their best friend in a newsreel because they'll get to stare at her just as much as they want without looking funny. For everything that's said about women being hysterical, illogical, slaves to their emotions, the fact is that women aren't supposed to feel anything at all unless it's about men.
You did this to me, Kate thinks furiously. She would punch her pillow if she didn't know what a light sleeper her father is. The slightest suspicious noise wakes him, whether it comes from across the trailer or two towns over. You made me think that you were my friend, and all the while you were trying to make me like you. You told me all you wanted me for was my body, and I liked hearing it. What does that say about me?
Father has always said that women are base and lustful creatures, and that it is their responsibility to pray for the strength to overcome their natural licentiousness. That's just what she'll have to do. There's no sense in wondering what could have been. It's over. She has to be Marion again. And it should be easy. It should. She was Marion for twenty-four years. Kate recoils against what's happened, against what she's become, with everything she's got. She doesn't want to be a woman any more. She doesn't want to have her own life. She tried, and it all went so wrong. She wants to be the dutiful daughter again, but ... she fears she's changed too much.
And so Kate spends her days trying to make herself so tired that she can't think. She cleans and re-cleans the trailer until her hands are raw, and she prays to be forgiven. She doesn't tell God about any of her real feelings. She knows He doesn't want to hear them. Nobody would want to, if they knew the kind of person she really is.
Very occasionally, Kate is overcome by a vivid memory of Betty's kiss. The way she bit her lip before she closed the space between them, as though she was excited and nervous about kissing Kate. The way she melted into Kate so completely despite the kiss only lasting a matter of seconds. Kate is filled with warmth every time she relives it. It's the kind of warmth that makes Kate stop in her tracks and close her eyes. When she thinks about how women aren't supposed to do that together – when she remembers bold, brave, proud Betty choking back tears and fleeing the bar when Kate spat the word disgusting at her – it is like being doused in ice water.
Drifting into fitful sleep offers no reprieve. Kate dreams herself back onto the piano bench at Tangiers. Leon is gone, Roy and Frankie the bartenders are gone, but Betty is there. They kiss and kiss, murmuring sweet nothings, whispering secrets, making plans and promises. There is no ice water feeling there.