AN: This is the prequel to End to Begin, gifted to Roadie N-60 who fancied the fix-it.
This story picks up about two years after the show ends, when Helena returns to South Dakota by order of the Regents. They decided that, as a human artefact, she needs an agent to be her handler.
Myka volunteers for the job, but getting back into the habit of being around each other may not be so simple.
Thank you for reading.
(If you read End to Begin, the beginning of Chapter One may be familiar – it's one of Helena's memories from the other story. It's kind of a cheat, but it has augmented slightly.)
I am sitting in a booth at the Univille Diner on Main Street. I am facing the door, Irene Frederic is sitting opposite me. The air is hot, dry and still. Summertime in South Dakota is not a forgiving place for an Albion refugee, who strongly prefers drizzle, fog and mist.
My heart is pounding in my chest and my head feels heavy. It could be the heat or the onset of dehydration. Or it could be because the door that dominates my field of vision will open any minute now and she will walk through it.
Or so I hope.
Irene sips her tea and I sip mine - in silence. She wears an expression that is uniquely hers, revealing nothing about her state of mind or intentions. I am rather relieved it is her opposite me and no other Warehouse representative. Irene truly values silent reflection. Not many Warehouse associates value it as much as she does. I have strong evidence to support this observation as I've grown to know so many of them more intimately than I ever wished to.
After the troubles with Sykes and Paracelsus, the Regents realised that I am an artefact: my knowledge, skills and mere existence too dangerous to be left loose in the world. As such, a means of containing, monitoring or governing me must be put in place. The Janus coin proved too risky a method; the use of Bronze has been put into question, as have the uses and the consequences of other mystical means of confinement.
With physical confinement as a last resort, much to my mirth, the Regents experimented with other means of securing me: first it was surveillance, then regular handling meetings - which frequencies increased - until I had been effectively chaperoned. Each new phase introduced me to another Regent's aide, then another Regent, until arrangements became intolerable for all parties involved.
"What, on earth, do you think you are doing?" I whisper harshly towards the lanky, shaking young man. I reach for the .22 calibre he barely manages to hold up but he pulls back. I hold my palm outstretched and gesture for him hand the weapon over.
"I'm, uhm," he stammers and shakes his head, "uhm, I was," he stumbles backwards, narrowly finds his footing, not without reaching his right hand – the one holding the weapon – back, all too fast, to seek purchase on the wall behind him, "securing the… uhhh…" the gun hits the wall and his grip on it loosens.
"Oh, for heaven's sake," I leap towards him, remove the small-yet-deadly-firearm from his hand, make it safe and hand it back to him.
He picks the weapon and magazine from my palm. "You shouldn't," he whispers as I place a sure hand below his trembling shoulder blade and push him back towards where he had come from.
We turn back into a street, a hive of activity around us. I usher him into a busy café, get him a fruit smoothie and sit him at the back of the room. "Call Mrs. Pascual, if you please."
He clasps his smoothie tightly, squeezes life out of the rigid plastic container with one hand, and reaches for his phone with his other. He appears less pale than he did a minute ago, but still shakes like a leaf in a violent storm. I cannot believe this is the personnel they are assigning to assure my safety. Or the world's, for that matter. Just another adjustment, I suppose, to a reality in which I am an artefact.
He hands the phone to me and I give him a rather pitiful smile.
A woman answers.
"Your young aide here nearly shot himself in the foot just now," I start while turning my back to the recovering youngster, "quite literally."
"Ms. Wells, I can assure you he is trained and licensed to use the firearm," a cool, slightly annoyed voice crackles with a soft Italian accent.
"He may be trained and licensed, but he is terrified out of his wits," I hiss into the small hand-held device, "and this was a social call he was allegedly securing on my behalf. Nothing dangerous about it."
"What social call would you be conducting in an alley, Ms. Wells?" the lady questions.
I sigh. I have long grown out of the habit of excusing my whereabouts or explaining my activities to others. Upon reflection, I am quite sure I was never in this habit in the first place. "This is an urban scavenger hunt," I disclose, "or was, rather."
Mrs. Pascual is silent, yet her silence rings with her disapproval. "Perhaps, Ms. Wells, you may wish to engage is less audacious activities," she winds up saying.
"Perhaps it is time we discussed an arrangement that would not have me being treated like a criminal," I retort, "or worse. A teenager."
Mrs. Pascual hums on the other side.
"I would very much hate if one of your assistants injured himself one of these days," I glace at the young lad, slurping the dregs of his smoothie as loudly as he possibly could. A childish smile graces his cheeks, smooth and pink virgin cheeks, yet to have been touched by a razor.
"I will discuss this with Mr. Kosan when I next speak to him," she relents.
"Thank you."
"In the meantime, I would ask that you adopt a homely pastime, Ms. Wells. I hear knitting is fashionable."
After two and a half years of Regent supervision, which tallied a handful of messy incidents and a fistful of messier near-misses, it was clear that I had to be handled by a more capable Warehouse representative. I was told I am being handed over to an agent.
This is new territory for them and for me; neither of us are entirely clear about the meaning of being handled by an agent. I just know that there is one agent whose company would be much preferable to any other.
I look into my teacup and swirl the dregs in slow circles when the bell above the door rings. I look up and see her face for the first time in nearly three years.
I stand up to greet her, whispering her name.
She walks over, sure stepped, straight backed, agent-like.
"Helena," she says. "Mrs. Frederic".
"Myka," Irene calls her by her first name. "Please sit," she gestures to the seat opposite her – next to me.
I scoot down in the booth to sit next to the wall and Myka smiles at me as she sits down. For the second until she settles I study every detail in her profile, comparing it to the details in my memory.
She gets in the utility vehicle and turns to me as Peter it drives off, flashing a sad smile, waving goodbye. Her eyes, welled with tears of heartache and – quite possibly – regret, sparkle in the dim light of the streetlamps. I assume those are heartache and regret for I feel them too.
This time, like so many others, we perfected our practice of stolen glances, unseen touches and unspoken words.
Maybe next time it will be different. Maybe coffee, maybe save the world. We'll see.
She hadn't changed much.
"I appreciate the both of you being here," Irene starts. "I realise this is, perhaps, slightly awkward given the history you two share, but it is because of your… history… that we believe this will be the easiest way to formulate how an arrangement such as this could work."
Myka presses her lips in a tense smile and looks down.
"What's your expectation?" she asks when she raises her head.
"The same as that of a Warehouse agent, Myka," Irene answers calmly. "Protect the Warehouse and its artefacts, and by that, protect the world from their danger."
She nods.
Irene is quiet, looking intently at Myka, then me, then Myka again.
"We always said we should meet for coffee," I start somewhat clumsily attempting to break the silence.
She turns to meet my eyes. "Yes," she smiles crookedly. "Coffee."
As if possessing magical timing, the waitress comes along and pours Myka a cup.
"I'll be honest, though," she chuckles and waits for the waitress to return to her station, "if the purpose of us getting together was coffee, I'd've picked someplace that serves better stuff."
We've shared many silences in our time, Myka and I, none quite as awkward as this one. Irene has long since disappeared, it's just her and me now.
"So…" she starts without intending to finish.
"So." I answer. "What would you like to do now?"
She frowns, considering the limited options Univille has to offer. She then tilts her head and fires a sideways glace in my direction. "Do you wanna walk on it?" she asks, nudging her head towards the door.
I nod excitedly and get up. She leaves the table and I leave a twenty Dollar bill on it. We walk out in silence. The sunlight is harsh and I wish I had some protection from it. Myka, ever ready and a proper local, has sunglasses on.
We walk the length of three blocks, nearing the end of Univille's shopping precinct, when she speaks: "I'm really glad to see you, Helena." She stops and turns to me. "Even though it may not feel like I am."
I look at her and smile, adjust the strap of my shoulder bag and point in the direction of the riverside park. We head towards it.
"They chose you?" I ask tentatively
"I volunteered." She responds, somewhat coldly, giving very little away.
"They convinced you?" I try again.
"I volunteered."
"How did they persuade you?" I press harder, with considerable less patience.
"I volunteered," she asserts.
"Myka, be honest with me," I look at her, pleading, "that's the only way this is going to work."
"God, you are so stubborn, it's tiring," she grabs hold of my right arm with her left and turns me so we are squarely in front of each other. She pushes her sunglasses up and past her forehead until they rest in her curls, a dark tiara. She bends down slightly so her eyes are level with mine: they bear a greyish tint and her pupils are small in the bright light of day. Their size reveals them to be encircled by a ring of gold. "I volunteered," she enunciates. "And honesty only works when we trust each other."
She lets go of me and we continue walking. I contemplate her words and their meaning for a few moments: when we trust each other.
"Well, not nearly as glad as I am to see you, Agent Bering," I say and pick up the pace, overtaking her. "And I am not stubborn." I throw back.
Myka loosens a bit once we reach the river. Perhaps it is the proximity to flow of water that helps our conversation flow as well. She asks me how I had been and what I had been doing. I don't need to tell her an awful lot. After all, we had been in contact – occasional emails and text messages. I even called her on her birthday once, attempting to take on this century's obsession with aging. I do not believe it bode very well.
I am looking over downtown Portland, Oregon, from the terrace of my newly rented apartment in Kings Heights. The city lights up in the slowest, most spectacular fireworks display I had ever seen.
I look down at my phone and scan the message I intend to send, contemplating its content once more:
Happy birthday, Myka. Maybe next year we can celebrate over coffee. Love, Helena.
I am not pleased with this message. It's both simplistic and cryptic. It conveys too much and nothing at all at the same time. My finger hovers over the delete button.
I aborted this mission in the past two years and I'm adamant to not abort again. Congratulating one for their surviving one more circling of the earth round the sun is a common custom these days, and – apparently – one tends to place great stock in those who remember to congratulate them.
It is high time I got over whatever it is that's holding me back, I convince myself, and consider pressing Send at the exact same time as downing the remainder of a glass of wine; just so in the future I may excuse it on a multi-tasking mishap.
I down what's left of my wine but delete the message. Before any part of me can protest, I call her.
I take two, deep steadying breaths while the phone rings.
"Hello?" she answers.
A smile spreads across my face at the sound of her voice, "Hello, Myka," I greet her in return.
"Helena?" my call obviously takes her by surprise.
"Happy birthday, darling," I speak my rehearsed line, the term of endearment falling from my lips naturally.
She is silent for a few seconds, "Thanks," she says eventually, somewhat laconically.
I had not calculated a monosyllabic, tonally-ambiguous response and I'm unsure as to how to continue. "Are celebrations underway?" I ask, choosing to replay the behaviour I observed in others over the years.
"Uhm…" she stammers silently, "Yeah," she adds in the end.
I pause, hoping she contributes something to the conversation. She does not.
"Perhaps next year we can celebrate over coffee," I revert to the rehearsed lines.
"Sure," she says.
I am aware of how I press the phone to my ear, how hard and uncomfortable it feels. For a device designed to enable communication, it seems to fail to achieve its objective. I suppose the silence so carefully constructed by the people using it is of no help, either.
"Uh…" she starts, "thanks for calling, Helena."
"My pleasure," I whisper.
"'Bye," she says quietly.
"'Bye," I return, and disconnect the call.
I remain seated on the terrace long after the sun sinks behind the hills upon which my new home is built, long after the city lights up completely and then darkens some after most offices and businesses closed for the night.
I look at my phone occasionally, and it remains silent and still, taunting my abuse of its purpose earlier.
I sigh and decide to turn in for a short night's sleep, given the sun will be up in less than five hours, and I will have 364 days to forget about this call and about Myka's birthday.
Our riverside conversation seems to be flowing remarkably well. I tell her about the two jobs I had had since we last caught up, I tell her about the friends I left in Portland, the last place where I had attempted to pitch my tent, by which point we had circled back and emerged at the other end of Univille's Main Street. She is pointing us in the direction of the diner, where her car is parked.
"How about you?" I ask.
She breathes an airy, wry laugh. "I think we'll need to save that for another time," she says with a careful smile and reaches for the driver's side door to open it.
I step into the space between her and the car, place my hand forcefully and flat above the handle and push the door shut. I search for her eyes behind the sunglasses.
"I'm not shutting you out," she attempts to appease me.
I feel her fingers wrap around my hand on the door and my eyes dart to them. My heart skips a beat because her touch is gentle and warm. And lingering. I look back up at her, she has removed her sunglasses, and she is blushing, a proper, deep red hue engulfing her cheeks.
"I just need a little time to get used to this," she pulls my hand from the door.
We stand by the car, near the driver side door, my hand in hers, looking into each other's eyes for the first time in three years. The air between us is thick with unspoken yet heard words, unexpressed yet felt emotions, unexplored but oh-so-present needs. My lips feel dry and I want to wet them.
No.
I want to wet hers.
"Do you want to drive?" she breaks the tense moment with a practicality.
For a moment I ponder what she means, exactly: is she asking me to assume the position behind the wheel and get us from Univille to the bed and breakfast – the literal offer; or is she asking me to assume control of what goes on between us – the figurative offer?
"No," I croak and clear my throat. "No, I do not." I say it clearly, so there is no misinterpretation of my words or their intent. "I know how much you love driving." I mean what I say, because she does love driving, literally and figuratively. I also believe she should drive our new relationship – artefact and handler. Initially, at least.
She beams her crooked, adorable grin, her green eyes sparkling. I missed this grin. I missed these eyes. She opens the door and nudges her head towards the car.
I take my cue and walk around the vehicle. By the time I climb in and buckle up she started the car and silenced the music that started playing.
"We'll start out at the B&B," she says, "everybody's dying to see you," excitement is bubbling in her voice. "Well…" she muses.
"I wouldn't think Peter is thrilled," I throw my two pennies in.
She chuckles and shakes her head. "Not as much as everyone else, no," she looks at me with patience only she has for a moment, then snaps into action and adjusts her seat and mirrors.
I reach my hand out to touch her right arm.
She stops and looks at me.
"Is this a good idea, Myka?"
"What is?"
"Going to the bed and breakfast?"
"I don't know if it's a good idea," she shrugs, "but that's the plan," she gives me a reassuring smile. She pulls out of the car park, and after merging into the late afternoon traffic of the tiny town in the middle of nowhere, she says "we'll go house hunting tomorrow."
Claudia is the first to greet us at the bed and breakfast. She is excited, excitable, chatty and, well, Claudia. She has grown up so much, but hasn't. I size her up, such a remarkable young woman. I realise and acknowledge that while humanity has not changed a great deal while I was in bronze, it had changed enough to allow Claudias to come into their own; and – my – what a beautiful and inspiring thing it is to behold.
The rest of the group is assembled in the drawing room, the patio doors wide open, allowing a light summer breeze in through them. Steve and Arthur greet me amicably and politely, then introduce me to Abigail, who immediately admits her hero worship. I smile graciously and bite my tongue, not responding with the myriad of utterly cocky quips I have in my arsenal.
Peter is the last one to bid his welcome. He does not look his usual self, and for very good reason. I know he and Myka were together. I know they no longer are. I recognise a hint of jealousy in his voice, a dollop of defensiveness in his body language.
There is no evidence to support his jealousy, given Myka's response to my presence earlier. I can imagine there may be speculations as to the reasons she and I were assigned to one another, and further speculations as to where this assignment might lead us.
These are, however, speculations and nothing more. It has been a long time since Myka and I spent more than a few hours in each other's presence, and even longer since we shared time that was not entirely designated for Warehouse business. That gap and lack of practice it has inspired in our ability to be in each other's presence are making themselves rather salient.
Yet, jealousy is hardly fuelled by logic. I smile politely at him, and he smiles politely back. For a few seconds, we do nothing but smile at each other. But then, Peter Lattimer wraps his arms around me and takes me back into the fold with a hug that has as much cordialness as he can rally. And as he does, I admit to myself that he has good reason to be jealous.
I admit that there is something unmistakably noticeable between Myka and myself. There is something that I feel, something she feels as well, because she needs time to get used to it – whatever it is. I cannot account for my reluctance to name the thing or the it.
He gives me a gentle squeeze before we break the hug, and I know he has good reason to be jealous. As we step back from each other, I look at him. He looks at Myka, who looks at me but quickly turns to exit the room.
I would be dishonest if I did not concede to myself, in the presence of these wonderful people, that I truly wish for my relationship with Myka Bering to grow from the ethereally palpable to the corporeally tangible. And as honesty appears to be the order of the day, I hereby concede.
The look Peter grants me now is both alarmed and defeated, as if he knows what had just acknowledged.
The group spends a few hours catching up and I am so grateful to them because they make it so, so easy for me, regaling tall tales of Warehouse woes. Throughout the whole evening Myka is at least one person away from me. We are never next to each other. I know she notices my noticing, so when the group decides to disperse to their quarters, I choose to stay behind with her, wait for her instrcutions.
We are standing an arm's length apart.
"You okay?" she asks tentatively.
I smile at her and nod. "I am. It is wonderful to see everyone again."
She smiles back, and the air thickens with those words and emotions and needs.
"…so I got HG's room back from the DAV…" Claudia exclaims as she walks back into the room with her nose stuck in one of her gadgets. She looks up and acknowledge the two of us, awkwardly not-intimate, not-communicating. "Sorry," she cringes. "Did I spoil a moment?" she asks with a whisper.
Myka's smile widens at me, then she turns to Claudia while straightening her posture and sighing. "You didn't, Claud. It's fine."
Six years' worth of beating about some bushes and burning others spoil this moment, I think. Then I thank evolution for crickets, otherwise this silence will have truly roared.
"So…" Claudia starts again, her glance darting between Myka and me, gauging our responses to her words, "I have HG's room ready for her," she drawls, "unless…" she hints with the subtlety that graces a bull in a china shop.
I bite my lip as I cannot help the smirk that takes to them. Myka blushes again, slumps her shoulders and traps the bridge of her nose between her fingers.
"Will you stop, please?" she sounds irritated.
Claudia looks at me, raises her hands in surrender and pulls a rather innocent face. She then comes to my side, laces her arm in mine and takes me out of the drawing room, towards the staircase. "Let's get you settled for the night, missy," she squeezes my arm and squeals quietly through the widest smile.
As we walk up the stairs I hear Myka's heavy sigh and recognise the sound of her body falling into the settee.
I missed those sounds.
/ /
I wait for the sound of footsteps to stop upstairs and for the doors to shut before I exhale and start breathing normally. I've been controlling pretty much every aspect of myself since lunchtime today, because I was afraid something would betray the heap of confused, messed-up emotions that sparked the minute I walked into that Diner.
Only now, after the excitement has died down, after everyone's gone to bed, I dare to relax and breathe normally.
Only now I dare to go through what's happened today.
The first thought that crosses my mind is 'What, on earth, were you thinking, Myka?!', and for a long, long time I can't shake it off because it didn't take seeing Helena to awaken my feelings for her. Seeing Helena just turned them up to eleven.
That's something Pete would say.
Ugh, Pete.
I sigh and let my head fall back.
Since he and I broke up everything has been so weird. It's weird between him and me, it's weird for the whole team. If something were to happen with Helena, it would mess things up even more.
Okay. Hold up.
I call the rioting emotions to settle down, because it feels like I shouldn't be thinking what I'm thinking. I'm obviously too close to having ended things with Pete.
How long has it actually been, though? Seven months since we ended it, and nearly a year since we knew it was over.
So how long is long enough get over the breakup?
And how long will be long enough before I can start something new?
Anyway, all this is all hinged on the assumption that Helena is even interested… I stop this thought before it goes any further, because I recognise my insecurities a mile off. I start collecting evidence from the afternoon, evidence that she is interested: looks, smiles, touches, the number of times she called me 'darling'. The number of times we almost kissed; when I told her she's stubborn, when I told her I needed time; before Claud walked in.
A small, half lascivious, half self-satisfied smile tugs my lips up. She's in.
Really, Myka Ophelia Bering, I chide myself. This is not the time to jump into bed with Helena Wells. I sigh heavily – again – and roll my eyes at the crass admission of my carnal needs.
Besides, I want so much more than that with her.
So this is not the time to jump into anything with Helena Wells, I correct my admission, but it doesn't feel any better. Or any lighter. It feels just as complicated and just as badly timed as it did about an hour ago, when I started unpicking today.
Really. What was I thinking?
I spend some time coming to terms with my being a world class idiot for agreeing to babysit Helena, because – right now – it feels like it was a really, really stupid idea.
I just need to find a way to manage it.
I don't know where it comes from, but 'one day at a time' creeps into my mind. It works for people with much bigger issues. Maybe it can work for me and my errant emotions that refuse to remain pent up.
So how would that work for me, then?
I spend the next hour letting today go and planning tomorrow: I think back through personal safety protocols from the academy, I read back through the Warehouse manual to see if there is anything in there worth contextualising to a human artefact.
I make a quick list on my phone, a bunch of tasks for tomorrow: Helena's expectations; agree protocols; discuss do's and don'ts; search for apartments online/newspapers; check apartments out(?).
Okay. That's one day, then. I'll do this again tomorrow. This feels doable.
One day at a time, one day at a time, I repeat the mantra in my head over and over again while running the pads of my thumbs on the phone's keypad.
"One day at a time," I whisper, stand up and head upstairs, to my room. Alone.
The first few days are hard. It's like we can't even talk to each other anymore. Every conversation feels like an interview, one of us asks the questions, the other one answers. Sometimes we swap, sometimes we don't. It's so stiff and forced I constantly feel the need to crack my neck and Helena constantly plays with her ring or her locket.
When we do talk, it's about Warehouse business, about her work or about mine, about protocol and security. We don't talk about anything else. I don't think I'm ready for anything emotional or deep, but I could definitely go with the easy stuff, like literature or art or philosophy. But even that feels out of reach.
This is the first time we've had to travel anywhere. She has a day-long meeting in Chicago with one of her clients, so there was a very early morning drive to Rapid City, an early morning flight to Chicago and rush-hour traffic to get into town. That's a lot of one-on-one time, in a small, intimate spaces to not be talking.
I hope we get it back. I really want us to have it back. Even if it means just being friends, because right now it doesn't feel like friendship. Right now it just feels awkward.
The fact I'm kind of terrified of being too close to her doesn't help. This is Helena, after all, she lives to invade personal space, and I'm being very conscious about keeping my distance. I'm staying away because touching her does something to me; something that I really like. But I don't trust myself to be feeling it and not want more. And then do more. I'm usually very good with self-control, but for some reason I'm not trusting myself with her. Maybe because I know I want her.
I think she feels it too – both the something and the worry, because she seems to be absorbed and introspective when we're too close, and more of her usual, flirtatious, cocky self when we keep our distance.
So for now, I do the security guard thing, where I am always two steps behind her.
It's actually kind of fun. I haven't done it since I joined the Warehouse and I forgot how much I loved it. I get to study people and situation and locations, take in and analyse a lot of information relatively quickly, pay attention to details. Doing the security guard thing definitely plays to my strengths, and I could do with a comfort zone and a confidence boost.
I also get to watch Helena from eight to ten feet away – a lot – without it being creepy. I know I can't touch her, so watching is a great substitute. I get to appreciate the curve of her waist-into-hip as she walks; how her hair cascades and falls behind her shoulder when she turns around; her profile: sculpted nose, rounded lips that jot out ever so slightly, the shallow dimples in her smile. It actually pays off to hang back a bit.
When we get back to the B&B there is a lot of Warehouse work on my docket, so Helena and I agree that when I'm away she stays at the B&B with Abigail – who doesn't seem to mind spending time with one of her favourite authors.
The little time that's left, between her work and the Warehouse, Helena and I spend looking for a place for her to live, because nobody (and by that I mean Artie, Mrs. Frederic and Helena) thinks that embedding Helena in the Warehouse is a good idea at this point.
And at the end of every day I get a to-do list together, at the beginning of every morning Helena and I go through it together. We coordinate calendars, but don't lock plans down for more than two or three days in advance. I don't plan farther than that because then it gets complicated.
Keeping it close is keeping it simple: no what ifs. No maybes. No just-this-one-times.
Two weeks in, and "one day at a time" seems to be working well.
/ /
The first three weeks of my assignment to her care, Myka is more of a shadow than a companion. She spends her time watching and listening. She is almost invisible to me, always two steps outside my field of vision, interested, but not engaging. We speak little beyond pleasantries and necessities.
Although this is difficult as it is frustrating, I have actually found her insistence on keeping her distance a great help in my adapting to her presence again. For every time she enters the room, every time we stand too close to each other, it is as if the weight of our story – with its umpteen glances, subtle innuendos, fleeting touches, missed opportunities – comes alive in a thunderstorm that sparks too closely to primed wood all too eager to become ash.
So for the sake of the future I wish us to have, whatever form it may take, I try to remain on my best behaviour, for I truly would like to stay true to my promise to her, to be a friend she will never lose. And while not too much had happened in my life since I made that promise to her in Boone, enough had happened to make me truly appreciate what I had shared with Myka. My time with her had certainly made my tenure with Warehouse 13 rather special, and her company had – and still has – the tendency to lighten me in a way I am yet to fully comprehend.
This is the talk with which I convince myself when I wake up at the bed and breakfast; when I catch a glimpse of her on the way to or from the bathroom in her night clothes, still ruffled from sleep; when we drive places silently; when she reaches out to turn my attention to a situation; when she steals a glance or catches me steal one in kind.
Seeing her again, facing her, being so close; knowing that we may share anything from a number of days to a lifetime in each other's company as artefact and carer, makes every slumbering seed of emotion I had ever felt for her – from admiration to longing, reverence to decadence, passion to submission – awaken into vibrant life. There is nothing I want more than to explore the orchard these seedlings are growing into.
But Myka asked for time.
For now, she, and the emotions she evokes in me, are a forbidden garden: to see but not touch, and it is possible that that, in itself, makes their appeal greater.
Whether or not that is the case, I struggle to contain the pangs of need that tug at me when our eyes meet, when she stands close enough that I can feel her warmth, when she responds to my quips with as little as a gentle smirk.
On the third weekend since my return she is waiting for me in a very casual summer outfit on the patio with breakfast. I join her at the table for some coffee, which we sip in relatively comfortable silence, enjoying the chirp and hum of birds and insects in the bed and breakfast's garden.
"I haven't had a weekend in, like, six years," her eyes are smiling. They are beautiful. She is beautiful.
"Is that so?" I reach for the newspaper she placed between us.
She nods emphatically. "It's so great to have a weekend," she collects her mug, consumes caffeine through scent. "Thanks to you," her green eyes sparkle playfully at me from above the lip of the mug.
I smile back at her. It is possibly the first time she'd shared something personal with me since my return. Those pesky tugs seem to be more intense, more frequent and considerably more distracting. Subduing them is a truly difficult task, bordering on futile; so I choose to change the subject. I scan the newspaper in front of me. "I take it the hunt for a permanent abode continues?"
"Yup," she responds and I'm already engrossed in the options she highlighted for me.
I can feel her gaze burning into me as I read the entries circled with thick red marker on the thin, grey paper. "I beg your pardon to be bringing this up in this manner, but isn't searching for accommodation in a newspaper a little old fashioned?"
She laughs, loudly; the first laugh I heard of hers since my return. This morning seems to be that of firsts. I look up at her and grin.
"It is," she answers with a slow blink. "But Claud has already cross referenced these with realtors and the CraigsLists of this neck of the woods."
I chuckle. "I'm surprised we yet to have exhausted the rental market in Featherhead."
She laughs again. "I think we're not far off."
Some of the entries seem more interesting than others, and I assign them priorities. In my peripheral vision, Myka is still smiling, looking at me. I do my best not to show I've noticed, because she will stop if I she knows I notice.
I do not want her to stop staring.
She does, eventually, put her mug down and gets up. "I'm going to get my stuff," she pats her pockets for keys and phone and Farnsworth. "Ten minutes?"
I fold the paper and look up at her, "Five will see me well." I get up to have a quick walk around the garden, to prepare for the day. This is somewhat of a ritual now – a quick walk in which I remind myself of my truths: there is something between Myka and I, we both acknowledge it in our own way; I hope it grows and blossoms; and I hope it grows to Myka's pace, as well as my own.
Lastly, I remind myself that she, with her mane of curls, inquisitive eyes, sweet smile, brilliant mind and intriguing nature, is worth every minute of waiting. Worth every second.
I know that that every second that passes, every minute, every day – we both change. Nothing in this world is made to remain as it is, nothing is made to last. Everything changes. Even the sturdiest of beliefs can crumble under the right circumstances; even the sturdiest of emotions. As I take in the fresh warm air around me I account for my thoughts and feelings. Today, I declare, I am unchanged enough to sustain the wait.
I make my way to the front porch just as Myka walks out the door. She hands me the folded newspaper and walks, determined, to her car. I take one last deep, calming breath, preparing myself for another day of Myka's ghostly presence.
"I'm guessing…" she starts the car, "Rapid Valley first, then the one on Parkview, then Fifth and Cathedral, then Madison."
I am impressed she pegged my priorities to a tee, even though I clearly shouldn't be. It is Myka, after all. "You know me so terribly well," I smirk at her. "It's disconcerting."
She smiles back, pulls her sunglasses down and we head off to Featherhead.
"How was the retrieval in Mexico?" I ask after ten minutes of relative silence.
"Pete was in heaven," she answers, matter of fact, "I didn't enjoy it half as much as he did."
"Did my suggestion for identifying the artefact abuser work?"
"Like a charm," she smiles briefly.
Another ten silent minutes pass, during which I marvel at the never-ending vastness of the South Dakota horizon. There is something spellbinding in the straight that stretches all around us, as far as the eye can see – and far, far beyond.
"I have a medical next week," she breaks my semi-meditative state.
I tear my eyes from the infinite landscape and turn to face her. A medical means her remission will be brought up, hoping remission is still the status. She is not looking concerned or worried. She is simply driving, same as always. I wonder why she brings this up.
She answers me without my asking. "I saw something in your diary on Thursday afternoon and wanted to check if we needed to be out or if you could stay at the B&B."
Ah. Scheduling. "Neither, actually. It's a reminder to do some research," I keep watching her for signs of anything other than the equilibrium she is in.
I would like to enquire further, but I am concerned. Of all the things that have come to pass between us, my absence during her battle with cancer is outranked only by holding a gun to her head. Remaining silent does not seem to be reaping any rewards, so I contemplate a different strategy, one that involves stepping outside the confines of present discomfort. I take a breath and ask, "Would you like me to join you?"
She looks surprised, opens her mouth to say something, but stops. Then starts again, then stops. "Are you serious?" her tone is doused in scepticism.
"I am," I answer, remaining persistent with my strategy and my unwavering in resolve to be there for her if she'll have me.
She raises her eyebrows while weighing the options. "It's in Sioux Falls," she states.
"In the field office, I know."
"That's the other side of the state," she notes.
"I know."
"That's a four hour drive," she is not letting go.
"I know," I'm not letting go either.
"The medical is a couple of hours, at least…" she is assiduous in her attempt to deter me from going.
"That is perfectly alright."
"It'll be a waste of a day."
"Hardly," I can be assiduous as well.
"Helena…" her tone suggests she is losing her patience.
"If you do not wish for me to be there, Myka, simply say so. I will not take offence."
She sighs heavily and taps her fingers on the wheel. She inhales deeply, and exhales slowly and loudly. She clears her throat once. Then again a few minutes later. "Thank you for the offer," she says and glances quickly in my direction.
A part of me is relieved, because as much as I would like to think I can be of use to her there, I am not sure I know how to. The other part of me, possibly bigger than the first, is disappointed; heartbroken, even.
"I'd love for you to be there," she says quietly and how quickly a broken heart mends, "but I don't want you to waste your time."
It'll be my pleasure, Myka, darling. I don't say it out loud, though.
"And I don't know if I'll be able to have you in there with me," she nearly whispers, "not because they won't let you, but because I am not sure I'd want you to."
I can wait. I'll be there before. I'll be there after.
She remains quiet for a while, mulling things over. "I don't want you to waste a day sitting around waiting for me," she concludes.
Wasting a day waiting for her will be a sheer pleasure. Truly. After a moment's consideration, I decide to tell her that. "This will be the best sort of a wasted day, Myka, the pleasure will be all mine."
She steals a glace in my direction again and smiles. "Will you be able to do your research on the road?"
"Yes," I consider what I want to say next carefully, "but I may not want to. I may just want to be there with you. Or for you." I correct myself.
A shy smile is creeping up her cheeks. "Can I think about it?"
"Of course you can," and we spend the rest of the drive listening to a local radio station.
/ /
There's an MRIs and two ultrasounds and an echocardio and a whole lot of blood tests on top of the usual stuff they do on an annual medical. Three hours in, at 2pm, the doctors send me to the cafeteria to wait for the results.
I walk down to the atrium on the ground floor and see Helena sitting at a table with her laptop and two cups of something hot.
"You expecting someone?" I ask, leaning into the back of an empty chair next to her.
She smiles up at me, "Only you," she adjust her chair so it is turned towards the one I'm leaning against.
Her smile calms me. "How did you know I was coming?" I sit down and pick the cup up, take its lid off and smell it. It's a herbal tea of some sort.
"That male nurse over there," she gestures to a tall young man behind a desk, "has been keeping me appraised of your movements."
"Has he, now?" I take a sip from the cup and scrunch my face. It tastes like boiled water and dried sticks.
"Do you not like it?" she asks, "Apologies, darling. I thought you would do, given rose bush tea has a very unique and strong taste, like your coffee," she takes the cup from me and smells it. "Perhaps I brewed it too long," she muses. "He noticed us arriving together this morning and proposed to keep me informed. I could not decline his offer."
She looks entirely absorbed in what I'm growing to understand is her way of taking care of me. It's sweet. Very very sweet. "Thank you," I take the cup back from her and take another sip. It doesn't taste as bad, I suppose.
"What next?" she sips her own tea.
"Now we wait," I say and feel the anxiety and worry begin to rage. "Do you want to eat something?"
"I'd love to," she answers and moves to get up.
I place a hand on her shoulder, "I'll get us something," I smile at her. Sitting and waiting is frustrating enough, I need to fill this time with as much normality as I can. I go to queue up with the rest of the agents and get us some grilled cheese sandwiches and a salad bowl.
"So what're are you researching?" I ask as we start eating.
"Models for improving efficiencies," she answers.
"Big topic," I comment with a smile.
"Rather," she doesn't seem amused by it, she's on a mission. "There are many variations on similar themes, all of which seem to have been adapted from manufacturing environments," she explains.
I look at her intently. I'm not sure I will be able to stay focussed for the whole of it, but it will sure make for a good distraction. I chew on my sandwich and stare at the patterned tablecloth.
"From the sixties of the previous century onwards there has been the surge of modelling improvement, from Lean to six sigma to TQM. I find it fascinating that at the same time, on a decisively parallel track, there has been a similar surge in leadership modelling, yet the twain never seemed to have met. To top that…" she trails off.
The fact she stops talking yanks me out of my state of distraction. I look at her, then around the room quickly, to assess if she had noticed something – a risk or a danger, then back at her. "What?"
"I should not be labouring you with this," she whispers.
"You're not," I assure her.
"I am happy to be silent," she offers.
I shake my head.
"I am happy to listen if you wish to talk," this time her offer is more of a hesitant question, like she's not sure she wants me to talk.
"I don't want to talk, really," I say and finish chewing my mouthful. "I'm a little nervous," I take a sip of the tea to wash down the sandwich, "really nervous, actually, so learning about improving efficiency sounds great to me."
She looks at me with what looks a lot like pity, but could also be concern. I've never seen her express either, so I'm not sure.
"Seriously, Helena," I take another bite from the sandwich, "keep talking."
So she does. She's not convinced at first, so she stops every minute or so, but soon enough she is in a flow or explaining what she's been reading. She condenses it, compares it and overlays it with a bunch of other stuff. What she comes up with is complicated. Even if I were able to pay her my full attention I would have probably struggled to follow.
Without really noticing, I smile as I watch her construct her own model, which is a bizarre amalgamation of most of the models she explained to me, I think, and she is completely absorbed and excited. She's inventing something, and it's beautiful to watch. She's beautiful to watch.
It isn't until the male nurse comes by to call me back upstairs that I realise just how well her distraction worked.
She stops speaking and looks at me.
I can feel the blood drain from my face and I exhale a shaky breath, and I look back at her.
She places a reassuring hand on my arm. "I'm here," she says.
I nod and bite my lip. Then get up and start clearing the table.
She reaches for my wrists and gently stills my hands.
I nod again, taking her cue to leave the mess be. "I'll be back," I straighten and look down at her.
"I'll be here," she smiles.
I turn back to the stairs and run up, steeling my resolve to be able to deal with whatever it is that the panel has to say.
I leave the medical panel's room after 15 minutes. I run both hands through my hair and breathe deeply – once, twice, a third time. I start pacing to help ease the constricted feeling I have in my chest because I can't quite stomach what they've told me.
Two years after end of treatment and I'm still in remission.
My cheeks are burning and I well up. I feel wrung out, exhausted. I just want to leave here, go back to Univille and sleep today off.
I walk down the stairs, Helena's sitting by the same table, but the table is clear. No signs of lunch or her stuff. Her briefcase is packed up by her feet and she's sitting very still.
I walk up to her, "You ready?"
She gets up and turns around. She looks like she wants to ask me how it went, what they said, but she says nothing.
"Are we okay to get going?" I ask again.
"Of course," she picks up her briefcase.
I begin a firm march towards the exit, and check that she's behind me.
When we are out of the building, inside the car, I cross my arms on the steering wheel and collapse on it with a harsh exhale. It comes out as a laugh that turns to a sob and then a laugh again. God, I'm a mess.
She's sitting still, sort of avoiding eye contact, but not.
I groan a laugh and bury my face in my palms, "I'm still in remission," I say and groan again, "and I'm sorry I'm not much of a bodyguard today."
I feel the heat of her palm at the base of my neck. "I did not – for a minute – expect you to be my bodyguard today," she answers. "And that is excellent news," she adds and I think her voice is shaking.
I tilt my head back, wipe my cheeks with my sleeve and put the keys in the ignition, "Let's get out of here," I start the car.
"Will you let me drive?" she asks.
Helena drives us back from Sioux Falls to Univille. It feels much quicker than the drive up this morning, firstly, because the way back always feels shorter than the way to. Secondly, I fell asleep once we were on the interstate. Thirdly, Helena was driving, so I'm willing to bet pretty much anything she drove faster than she should have.
She wakes me up when we are 20 minutes away from the B&B and warns me that everybody is eagerly anticipating our return. I spend the twenty minutes trying to think how to tell them, try to think what their reactions will be. I must have gone through about a hundred different scenarios in my head when Helena pulls the SUV into the drive.
Whoever said that sharing good news is easier than bad was an idiot.
When we walk in, the troop is assembled in the sitting room around Artie's cookies and Twizzlers and two buckets of ice cream.
Claudia walks up to me and gives me a tight hug. "Whatever it is," she mumbles into my shoulder, "we're ready for it."
I can't bring myself to look at any of them, because Claudia is biting on her thumb, and Pete looks hurt, and Steve is jittery. There is too much tension and nervousness and anticipation, and I had too much of those today already, so I just blurt it out, unceremoniously, that I'm still in remission.
Claud, who didn't walk too far, jumps on me again, and Steve is not far behind her. Then Pete comes up and gives me a tight squeeze, then Abigail. Even Artie gives me a hug. Then all the intensity dissolves and they start talking excitedly over each other and turn to celebrate my health with what is quite possibly the unhealthiest meal I've ever shared with them.
I'm relieved they are relieved.
Helena turns to leave the room and I follow her. I call her name and reach for her but stop myself from actually touching her. I'm not sure I could handle looking into her eyes and say what I want to say, because I need to say something that means lot more than what the words actually are, "I just wanted to say thank you," I say quietly.
It's probably not her eyes I'm worried about, but mine. She has a way of reading me when she looks at me. My eyes always give me away. So I drop my gaze for a second when she turns around. I look back up and I forget to breathe, because her eyes are soft and kind and grateful.
"How you were with me today…" I start, but my throat closes up. I feel like she found me out. She can see right through me – how grateful I am, how she is what held me together. So I look down to my hands that busy themselves with meaningless movement. "You really helped." I whisper. "Thanks."
And for the sake of showing her I trust her, for the sake of being honest, I look back up and let her read me.
"The pleasure is all mine," she smiles.
Then I smile.
Then I close the gap between us and wrap her in my arms.
