Runaway

her
possessions.
”
    Sometimes Juliet has felt, in the middle of an interview, that the person she faces has reserves of hostility that were not apparent before the cameras started rolling. A person whom Juliet has underestimated, whom she has thought rather stupid, may have strength of that sort. Playful but deadly hostility. The thing then is never to show that you are taken aback, never to display any hint of hostility in return.
    “What I mean by growth is our inward growth, of course,” Joan says.
    “I understand,” says Juliet, looking her in the eye.
    “Penelope has had such a wonderful opportunity in her life to meet interesting people—goodness, she hasn’t needed to meet interesting people, she’s grown up with an interesting person, you’re her mother—but you know, sometimes there’s a dimension that is missing, grown-up children feel that they’ve
missed
out
on something—”
    “Oh yes,” says Juliet. “I know that grown-up children can have all sorts of complaints.”
    Joan has decided to come down hard.
    “The spiritual dimension—I have to say this—was it not altogether lacking in Penelope’s life? I take it she did not grow up in a faith-based home.”
    “Religion was not a banned subject. We could talk about it.”
    “But perhaps it was the way you talked about it. Your intellectual way? If you know what I mean. You are so clever,” she adds, kindly.
    “So you say.”
    Juliet is aware that any control of the interview, and of herself, is faltering, and may be lost.
    “Not so
I
say, Juliet. So
Penelope
says. Penelope is a dear fine girl, but she has come to us here in great hunger. Hunger for the things that were not available to her in her home. There you were, with your wonderful busy successful life—but Juliet, I must tell you that your daughter has known loneliness. She has known unhappiness.”
    “Don’t most people feel that, one time or another? Loneliness and unhappiness?”
    “It’s not for me to say. Oh, Juliet. You are a woman of marvellous insights. I’ve often watched you on television and I’ve thought, how does she get right to the heart of things like that, and all the time being so nice and polite to people? I never thought I’d be sitting talking to you face-to-face. And what’s more, that I’d be in a position to
help
you—”
    “I think that maybe you’re mistaken about that.”
    “You feel hurt. It’s natural that you should feel hurt.”
    “It’s also my own business.”
    “Ah well. Perhaps she’ll get in touch with you. After all.”
    Penelope did get in touch with Juliet, a couple of weeks later. A birthday card arrived on her own—Penelope’s—birthday, the 19th of June. Her twenty-first birthday. It was the sort of card you send to an acquaintance whose tastes you cannot guess. Not a crude jokey card or a truly witty card or a sentimental card. On the front of it was a small bouquet of pansies tied by a thin purple ribbon whose tail spelled out the words
Happy Birthday.
These words were repeated inside, with the words
Wishing you
a very
added in gold letters above them.
    And there was no signature. Juliet thought at first that someone had sent this card to Penelope, and forgotten to sign it, and that she, Juliet, had opened it by mistake. Someone who had Penelope’s name and the date of her birth on file. Her dentist, maybe, or her driving teacher. But when she checked the writing on the envelope she saw that there had been no mistake— there was her own name, indeed, written in Penelope’s own handwriting.
    Postmarks gave you no clue anymore. They all said
Canada
Post.
Juliet had some idea that there were ways of telling at least which province a letter came from, but for that you would have to consult the Post Office, go there with the letter and very likely be called upon to prove your case, your right to the information. And somebody would be sure to recognize her.
    She went to see her old friend Christa, who had lived in Whale Bay when she herself lived there, even before Penelope was born. Christa was in Kitsilano, in an assisted-living facility. She had multiple sclerosis. Her room was on the ground floor, with a small private patio, and Juliet sat with her there, looking out at a sunny bit of lawn, and the wisteria all in bloom along the fence that concealed the garbage bins.
    Juliet told Christa the whole story of the trip to Denman Island. She had told nobody else, and had hoped perhaps not to have to tell