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“That must feel painful.”
“I felt terrible when it happened, but it was months ago and now I’m mostly just steaming mad, which I actually prefer. It’s easier to be mad than sad.” Martha opened her bag and dropped her phone inside. “I’m mad with him. And with myself.”
Kathleen’s mouth was dry. “Why with yourself?”
Martha shrugged. “My mother has always said I’m not a good judge of character. I guess she was right about that.”
“Why would you blame yourself for something that was patently not your fault?” Yes why, Kathleen? Why?
“I should have been less trusting. And honestly I don’t get why he’s calling me. I mean he slept with someone else, so why would he want me back?” Martha’s voice rose and Kathleen could tell that although she might be mad, she was also deeply wounded.
And no one understood that better than her.
“I’m no psychologist but it’s probably something to do with the unobtainable.” Kathleen felt a little dizzy. Her mind had been swamped by a dark cloud and she could no longer see the sun.
“Kathleen? Are you okay? Have I shocked you?”
Kathleen made a supreme effort to pull herself together. This wasn’t about her. This wasn’t her story. “One of the few advantages of being eighty, is that not much shocks you. Apart from one’s reflection in the mirror of course. That’s always startling, particularly first thing in the morning.” A joke. Well done, Kathleen. “Shall we go inside? I think I’m ready for a lie down and a nap before we sample the local delicacies, whatever they may be.”
“Corn dogs,” Martha said absently.
“You should delete his number of course.” She’d close her eyes for half an hour and try and pull herself together. Kathleen gathered up the guidebook, her glasses and her bag. “Sooner rather than later.”
“I haven’t been able to do that, but I probably should. You’re a good listener. I was worried that if you knew the truth, you wouldn’t want me to drive you.”
“I can’t imagine why you would have thought that. We women must stick together.”
Martha slid her water bottle into her bag. “You probably think I’m a coward running away. I mean, you’re so bold. Fearless. You hit an intruder with a skillet when most people would have stood there frozen. And look at you now—eighty years old and crossing America. You’re not even daunted.” Martha gave a watery grin. “You’re incredibly brave, Kathleen.”
“You’re doing it again, Martha. Hyperbole.”
“Truth. You’re the bravest person I’ve ever met. I don’t expect you to understand how it feels to want to run away.”
Kathleen clutched her bag and stared through the window. She was a fraud. A damn fraud.
Martha frowned. “Kathleen?”
She could make some vague remark and change the subject. That was what she did. She never talked about that time. Even Brian had known it was off-limits.
So why, for once, did she feel like telling the truth? What was it about this young girl that made her want to pass on the lessons learned by her experience?
“I’ve spent my life running away.” The words emerged without her permission. “It’s fair to say I’m something of an expert. You’re not the only one with a scoundrel in your past, you know.”
Oh Kathleen. You foolish, foolish woman.
Now there would be follow-up questions, none of which she intended to answer.
“You?” Martha sounded incredulous. “But you have everything sorted. You’re incredible. No man would dare treat you badly.”
Martha wasn’t a relative. There was no obligation on her to offer advice, or the benefit of her experience.
She could leave the girl to her illusions.
She glanced at her companion, intending to do exactly that and saw Martha’s swimming eyes.
Kathleen felt something tug at her. She remembered feeling that same pain, and handling it all alone.
“No one has everything ‘sorted’, Martha, whatever that means. I’m a coward.” There, she’d said it. “After my encounter with a scoundrel I made sure I protected myself from pain. It’s a human response of course.”
