I could see the tears but her voice was steady. "My other life was . . . like nothing Julie or any of my friends could even comprehend. If they knew about it, they'd want to know everything about it and that's all we'd ever discuss. It's easier to not mention it. That's all."
I put my arm around her shoulder. "That's fine. I understand. Kids are curious and they'd want all the gory specifics. It's fine to keep your feelings to yourself and hold back details you don't want to discuss."
"I promised you I'd try not to lie. I'm really trying. It's easier to be like my friends and it isn't my fault I wasn't, before . . . now."
"I'm just pleased you're happy with your new life."
"I really am happy but sometimes it's not always easy. I have to watch myself; what words I use. Someone skipped school and I mentioned malingering and the girls laughed because no one knew what the word meant. Stuff like that makes me not want to discuss the past."
"Screw the past, but don't invent another one. Your old life is nobody's business but yours. Just tell them so. Tell them how happy you are right now, having them as friends. You may be surprised how understanding they are. Julie is a good friend and a thoughtful girl who deserves the truth. It's nice to have friends your own age you can to talk to."
"I have you," she said, making my day.
I was being hard on Karen and her adjustment into this new life. Her progress was unbelievable but I felt an obligation to monitor her advancement every step of the way. Dr. Mason asked me about our progress together in our next session.
"Have you had any bumps in the road?" he asked.
I considered mentioning the episode with Julie but felt it was Karen's place to discuss it, not mine. "No." I answered, quickly. "Has Karen spoken to you of any problems?" I added, "That you can discuss."
"No, but knowing young people as I do, some are sure to occur." The good doctor was correct in his prognostication.
I swished the dust mop around Karen's room late one September afternoon, in a perfunctory way, stirring more than picking up the motes and fuzzies that fled before me. In between my cleaning lady's biweekly visit, my conscience forced me to make a half-hearted attempt at domesticity. My mind was on the store and not what I was doing. I bent to my knees and gave a pass under the bed for good measure but was surprised when I hit an obstacle. Bending further and reaching, I pulled out the obstruction, a damp bathing suit.