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189 pages, Paperback
First published April 14, 2007
Della was raised in a small town near Quebec City by a French father and an English mother*. Her mother insisted on putting her on a two hour bus ride every day to get to an English school so she'd have a "hope in hell" of getting out of said town. She showed me photos of her and her brother holding hands on a country dirt road smiling on their first day of school. They are little dots in a field with no signs of other human life, no houses, just trees and hay.
Her father disagreed but was never one to fight. Only after her mother's death did her father take up separatism like a religious zealot. Della went along for the ride, despite her eventual Concordia arts degree, her fluency in English, her place in both communities. Della never seems to say much about her mother at all. I didn't press. Della had stories she was comfortable telling, and I'd hear them told again and again at parties, and I'd feel slightly smug that I already knew the endings, the punch lines. She told them with a similar inflection each time. She spun a beautiful sparkling string of yarn. (pp. 55-6)
I, on the other hand, haven't had the requisite rebound love affair. It's been three months of solo sleeps and erotic malaise. Jenny is busy with her boyfriend. Della's friends weren't my friends. Rachel is married to her books and thesis. Melanie takes me out for drinks sometimes. And there are the girls from the women's centre I go to actions with. But I guess if I'm going to concentrate on friends I should try to make some more or connect more intensely with the ones I have. I feel lonely for the first time in my life. (p. 102)