She has tried to see what it is that holds me. In the first days she came to me in the garden and watched, very quietly, what I was doing and then knelt in a row across from me and began to help. She didn’t talk, just worked on in silence, so that she became part of the atmosphere and did not intrude. She is very wise, this Katie, in her way.

I failed to understand that she did not mean what she was doing, that she hated the garden and working in it, was doing it so that I would accept her. I did not realize because I assumed for some reason that she was like me, doing what she wanted.

She must have been crying for a long time, quietly and to herself, working her way along a row of beans, picking those that were ready to be eaten or frozen, casting aside the tiny shoots of weeds that would not give up growing. Then suddenly she was ripping out the beans, crying and incoherent, and of course I had to stop her, she was killing my food. I shouted at her, but still I was remote, not angry, did not feel shocked that this was happening.

She did not stop, out of control, and in the end I had to fight her, pull her away and hold her until finally, exhausted, dishevelled and dirty, she became quiet. I almost carried her to the cabin, put her on the couch in the living room and covered her with a blanket. She may or may not have been asleep when I went back outside, I couldn’t wait to be sure; I had to replace the plants, see how much damage had been done. It was considerable, there would be fewer beans this year, but I replanted what I could and kept a careful eye on them after that, giving them special care. Then I finished what I had been doing, and went off to cut the day’s quota of wood. I was not angry with Katie, or deliberately avoiding her, or being cruel by pretending to be angry; I was simply going on with the things that were to be done. She found that hard to understand, for where she comes from, where I came from, there are motives and angers everywhere. I can remember that. She doesn’t know anything about blankness.

She thought I must be furious, and was humble and embarrassed when I went back to the cabin to cook dinner. She was awake by then, red-eyed and puffy, and said she had slept all afternoon. She had tried to comb her hair, but it was still tangled around her face.

“God, Mother,” she said, “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what got into me, it was like something just burst. I’m sorry, you must hate me.”