Around them couples and families, parents with children of all ages, bundled in winter sweaters and flannel, sat over coffee and cocoa and soup and grilled cheese sandwiches and chatted or laughed and whispered. It all seemed so normal. And so very far away from the drama of the table she and Pam sat at.
'But I have to tell you, Amelia. Nothing's changed. We're leaving in a month.'
'A month?'
'The semester.' Pam wasn't going to be drawn into a debate beyond that. 'Amelia. Please. This is good, what we're doing. I'm happy.'
'And I want to make sure you stay that way.'
'Well, we're doing it. We're leaving. India first, we've decided.'
Sachs didn't even know if Pam had a passport. 'Look.' She lifted her hands. The gesture smelled of desperation and she lowered them. 'Are you sure you want to ... disrupt your life like that? I really don't think you should.'
'You can't tell me what to do.'
'I'm not telling you what to do. But I can give advice to somebody I love.'
'And I can reject it.' A cool sigh. 'I think it's better if we don't talk for a while. This is all ... I'm upset. And it's pretty clear that I'm pissing you off totally.'
'No. Not at all.' She started to reach for the girl's hand but Pam had anticipated her and withdrew it. 'I'm worried about you.'
'You don't need to be.'
'Yes, I do.'
'Because to you I'm a child.'
Well, if you're fucking acting like one.
But Sachs held back for a moment. Then thought: Knuckle time.
'You had a very hard time growing up. You're ... vulnerable. I don't know how else to put it.'
'Oh, that again. Naive?. A fool.'
'Of course not. But it was a hard time.'
After they'd escaped from New York following the terrorist plot Pam's mother had orchestrated, the two of them had gone underground in a small community of militiamen and 'their women' in Larchwood, Missouri, northwest of St Louis. The girl's life had been hell - indoctrination into white supremacist politics and bare-butt whippings in public for being disrespectful. While militia homeschooled boys learned farming, real estate and construction, Pammy, as a girl, could look forward to mastering only cooking and sewing and homeschooling.
She'd spent her formative years there, miserable but also resolute in defying the ultra-right, fundamentalist militia community. At middle school age she'd sneak out of the enclave to buy 'demonic' Harry Potter books and Lord of the Rings and the New York Times. And she wouldn't put up with what many of the other girls were expected to. (When one of the lay ministers tried to touch her chest to see if 'yer heart's beatin' for Jesus', Pam delivered a silent 'hands off' in the form of a deep slash to his forearm with a box cutter, which she still often carried.)
'I told you, that's in the past. It's over. It doesn't matter.'
'It does matter, Pam. Those were very hard years for you. They affected you - in ways you don't even know. It'll take time to work through all that. And you need to tell Seth everything about your time underground.'
'No, I don't. I don't need to do anything.'
Sachs said evenly, 'I think you're jumping at the first chance for a normal relationship that's come along. And you're hungry for that. I understand.'
'You understand. That sounds condescending. And you make me sound desperate. I told you, I'm not getting married. I'm not having his baby. I want to travel with a guy I love. What's the big fucking deal?'
This was going so wrong. How did I lose control? This was the same conversation they'd had the other day. Except that the tone was darker.
Pam pulled her hat back on. Started to rise.
'Please. Just wait a minute.' Sachs's mind was racing. 'Let me say one more thing. Please.'
Impatient, Pam dropped back into her seat. A waitress came by. She waved the woman away.