Betty shrugs, like it's no big deal that you lived half your life in the shadow of a brute, that she rescued you. From him as well as prison. She just shrugs. She just shrugs, and you just sip your tea. There's so much about her you don't know. She never spoke a word about the prison time, just shrugged off any questions you were brave enough to ask.
You decide not to tell them how you got where you are now from that night on the cold Toronto street; sleeping in unlocked cars and once, a tree (people don't look up). You don't tell them how it tooks months of shelters and endless piles of clothes that you mended at night for a few dollars, head close to the lamp, the smell of singed hair and bleach, the shared beds, the screaming children, the crummy meals. You don't tell them that you wanted, a thousand times, to go back to where you felt you had a home; a little room in a boarding house and a best friend across the hall.
You'd made your choice by then, and burnt your bridges. No matter how badly you wanted to return, those first few months, you knew you couldn't.
You'll let them believe that you walked into the life you live now from the moment you left. It was all a long time ago, anyway, and you tend to think the hard times made you a better person. You've seen the way some singers treat their entourage and you're confident that you'll never treat anyone as shabbily.
You'll never treat anyone as shabbily as you treated Betty, anyway.
"I should get back to the hotel. I have a show tonight and quite a few people will get anxious if they can't get hold of me. Thank you for the tea." You stand, rather desperately hoping that they will let you leave without questioning the tears you can feel wending through your foundation. You don't fit here, and the evidence of that, right in front of you, Betty's hand still entwined with Gladys', is a cruel reminder. You used to fit here, between the two of them and now it feels like you've outgrown your favourite dress.
You left your friends behind; you didn't expect them to leave you behind too.
"Betty..." Gladys starts. Betty turns to her as you stand. "I think Betty would like to come, one night." Betty shrugs again, and once again there is movement under the table. Someone's being kicked again; probably Gladys by the pained look on her face.
"I have some passes. If you write down your address, I'll have them sent here this afternoon," you say, making it very clear that at no point have you ever had this address. Trying to convey that that's probably why you haven't sent letters here.
"That will be lovely." Gladys retrieves a pencil and some paper, keeps them out of Kitty's grasp as she writes. She hands it to you and you fold it into your purse. Your hand remains on the paper as you step backwards, toward the front door.
"Betty will see you out, I'm going to get all the milk off this little animal," Gladys says, then picks up the child, who again squeals and apparently has no qualms about being carried sideways and headfirst through doorways.
You let go of the piece of paper and rest your hand on your purse once you're in the hallway at the front of the house. It's just private enough that you feel like Gladys or the neighbours can't overhead you. You fumble with your purse, pull out some money and press it in Betty's hand.
"There's no debt here," Betty says, eyes flashing angrily. She pushes the money back at you. She's always been proud.
"It's for Kitty. I'm fairly sure I've missed a birthday or two."
Betty hesitates at that, then curls her hand around the bankroll.
"She has had her eye on a doll," Betty says slowly. She'd turn you down, but it's clear she wants the best for the child she's raising. She wouldn't accept anything from you, but on behalf of Kitty, she'd sell her morals.
"I'll always be indebted to you," you tell her quietly, "but I'm not foolish enough to think I could pay you back with money."
Author's note: Generic note about using an anchor rope when sleeping in trees.