problems and the complications and the responsibility.
“I rang my brother,” she said. “Dorian. I told him what I’d done. He’ll take off work tomorrow, come and get us.”
“I’ll take you,” I said. “First thing in the morning.”
“Mm,” she said. “We’ll talk about it later. And what will I do? I’ll help the girls get something new to wear, first of all, because the sooner they’re out of those dresses, the better. I wish we could start that today, but tomorrow will have to do, when I’ve got myself a new EFTPOS card. We’ll do trousers, because trousers are a big step. Pretty shirts, maybe a couple of cute little tees, and possibly even a skirt. One that stops above your knee. They have pretty legs. They should know it.”
“If they’re like you,” I said, “I’m sure they do.”
“Razors as well,” she said. “Shaving your legs, your underarms, or better yet, later on, waxing. Waxing’s brilliant, when you’ve never done it. It hurts so much the first time, but afterwards, you look like you never imagined you could. So smooth. So clean. So beautiful. You could think that’s unfeminist, but I like to think feminism is about choice, and choice is one of my favorite things. And I choose smooth.”
I didn’t say anything, because I couldn’t think of anything one bit appropriate to say on the subject. I remembered what she looked like naked. Perfectly. Smooth worked for me.
“Cute little canvas trainers, too, maybe,” she went on, “the kind with a bit of edge to them. With toe caps, in a bright color that they can choose. And something with a heel. A little bit high, if they want. I want to show them that they can have some style. You can only wear one kind of shoes at Mount Zion, if you’re a woman. You saw them. You can only wear one kind of dress, too, and you’ve seen that as well. You’re covered neck to wrists to ankles, all day and all night, and nobody can really tell what’s under that brown dress and that apron. I want them to see that their shape is beautiful, and that being beautiful isn’t wicked or prideful, it’s enjoying the body God gave you. If you believe God did give it.”
“You don’t?” I was still following her, if somewhat hazily.
“I don’t know what I believe anymore.” Her fingers were still on my temples, and they helped so much, the relief made me want to weep. Weakness, and no mistake. She went on, “Except that I do, I guess. I believe in kindness, mostly. In service given from a glad heart, not because you’re being made to. I believe in using all my gifts, in enduring what I have to. In being as happy as I possibly can, and sharing that happiness. Somebody told me, after I left Mount Zion, when I was trying to sort out what I did and didn’t believe once all the punishment and fear were stripped away, that if you substituted the word ‘Good’ for ‘God,’ you could say almost any prayer. So that’s what I believe. I believe in goodness. I believe in compassion, and in human dignity. I even believe in forgiveness. Technically, anyway. I haven’t managed it yet, but I also believe in trying, so … maybe someday.”
“They say,” I said, “that holding onto hatred only hurts the hater. Some things may be beyond forgiveness, all the same.”
“Yeh,” she said. “That’s my problem. Especially if you don’t just hurt me, you hurt other people, too.”
“People you love.”
Silence for a minute, then she said, “Can you love someone, though, who you don’t know anymore? And …” She trailed off.
“And what? You can tell me. After what we’ve been through, surely you can do that.”
I heard the breath she took, and I heard the pained honesty in her next words, too. “What if the answer is no? And you’ve taken it on anyway?”
I reached a hand up and took her wrist, and her fingers stilled. I couldn’t see her, but I could feel her, the strength and the tension in her. I said, “Love’s a skill, maybe, not just a feeling. And you’ve got that skill.”
Another frozen moment when I wished I could see her, and then her fingers started up again and she said, “You’ve only just met me.”
When you hurt enough, when you’re tired enough, your defenses fall away and you’re left with nothing but the emotions curled up inside you, naked and vulnerable as