Author's Note:
This is meant to take place between Christmas and early spring(ish) of Helga's fifth grade year. So, it's post-Helga's first confession to Arnold/pre-Jungle Movie.
Characters are of course Craig Bartlett's wonderful creations, not mine.
On Strength
There's something fevered about her little girl. Something frenzied and desperate and foreign. Something she'll never understand.
Sometimes, on purpose or not, Helga punches a hole right through the glass in front of her mother's eyes.
The world collapses in shards when that happens, and Miriam reels for a moment - sometimes two. Because those walls keep her safe and when they break she suddenly feels it: the iron weight of everything she hasn't done, and all her itching mistakes, and each of the pathetic cobwebs that have woven themselves into and over her chest in her heart's absence. Who are you, Miriam? she finds herself asking in the dusty space of these seconds. Her eyes are wide and fearful, hands trembling over the rim of her thermos.
But the question is too much.
She'll have to think about it later, she promises herself. Later when she isn't so tired anymore, and the kitchen windows aren't so slicked with ice.
"I'm going to be late again, Mom!" Helga is yelling. She's escalating into another one of her rants, the words growing less and less decipherable by the second.
"Honey, I'm sorry, Helga, sweetie," Miriam manages, groping for the plastic bag on the countertop. It's a sandwich. It has to be a sandwich, because she just knows she made her daughter a sandwich.
But Helga grabs the item with talon-like fingers, her face filled with a fury too hot and too unreasonable. "What am I supposed to do with this packet of double A batteries, Miriam?"
"What?" she says in surprise. "Oh, that's strange! Why are those sitting there?"
"I don't know," Helga snarls. "Why don't you tell me why they're sitting there?"
"Because… because..." she starts, vaguely remembering something Bob demanded them for. Maybe a razor. Or a nose hair clipper.
But her gaze turns toward the window again and the thread slips out of her grasp. She trails off, into the dark, into the endlessly falling snow outside.
"I'm going to school," Helga says, rolling her eyes.
She rips open the cupboard with so much force that cans of beans and peas come toppling to the ground. Tossing what appears to be a vacuum-sealed container of dehydrated meat into her lunchbox, she steps over the fallen items and makes her way towards the front hallway.
"Okay, honey," Miriam calls after her. "Have a good day."
The door slams shut.
Miriam looks down at the cans on the floor, wishing she had the strength to pick them up.
The snow doesn't stop.
She does like the Christmas decorations. Red and green lights; wreaths with blinking bulbs; blow-up Santas with permanent plastered smiles that wave their electrified hands on stoops and front lawns.
Of course, here in the city, there aren't many front lawns.
Sometimes - like now, when the streets turn muddied and gray and salt-covered - Miriam remembers how much she misses those. Lawns. She longs for grass. She longs for the tumbling hills and effervescent faces of her childhood: people who liked themselves, who liked their lives.
During winters past (she's talking about a whole lot of winters past, mind you) she used to do a lot of stuff. All these things.
Her daughters wouldn't believe her now, if she tried to tell them.
But she was so sparkly, back in those days. She rode horses. She read novels. She skied up in mountains and she danced down in pubs laden with warm spiked cider and human beings who loved being around her. They called her the talk of the town.
All those people were the kind you could leave your purse around without fearing you'd return to even a dime missing from your wallet. They'd never have survived on the streets of Hillwood. Just like her.
In the town she'd grown up in, everyone knew everyone. She was that bright bubbly Miriam, girl of many smiles.
That was a long time ago.
For the holiday season, Olga has an award-winning idea.
No, really. She won an award for thinking of it: her sorority's Most Charitable Something Or Other Winter Crown, if Miriam is remembering right.
"Mommy," Olga had announced grandly at the dinner table on her first night home for Christmas break, "Daddy. Baby sister. I have fabulous news for all of you."
She'd launched into an explanation of the December plans she had in store for the Pataki family: all four of them were going to spend a day volunteering at a soup kitchen. It would "expand their empathy." "Fill their hearts with gratitude." "Bring them closer together as a family." Things like that.
So that's how Miriam finds herself standing in Helga's room on the Saturday before Christmas, helping her into the precious little outfit that Olga has picked out for her sister for the occasion. It's a white dress with ruffles on the shoulder, tiny gold stars embroidered around the waist.
"You look so sophisticated, sweetheart," Miriam says, tying the ribbon at the nape of Helga's neck. "You're growing up so fast. You won't be nine forever, will you?"
"I'm almost eleven, Mom," Helga growls, and Miriam blinks. When did the years start bleeding into each other in a watercolor painting, splotches of dull color where there used to be distinct shapes?"
"Well, you look precious," Miriam says.
"Don't," Helga snaps through gritted teeth, "Ever. Call. Me. Precious. Miriam."
"But why, honey? You are!"
"Why the heck are we wearing these stupid dresses to a soup kitchen, anyway? Are we gonna save the hungry children with our fashion-forward ensembles?"
Miriam ignores the question, letting one hand fall onto Helga's shoulder and using the other to force her daughter's face up towards the full-length mirror in front of them. She cradles Helga gently on the cheek.
"See, honey! You're adorable."
Helga glances into the mirror for half a second before wrenching out of her mother's grasp, crossing her arms over her chest. "I look like an exploded wedding cake."
"Well, you see now, that's perfect! I think that's the look your sister was going for!"
Helga's angry splutter is interrupted by a familiar wind chime voice tinkling through the hallway.
"Let me see you, baby sister!"
Olga appears in the doorway with clasped hands. She's a true vision, as radiant as ever in a velvet dress that accents her slim figure. Miriam used to have a figure like that, a long time ago.
"How perfect! I can't wait to have one of the sweet little impoverished children take our family photo so I can send it to the girls of Kappa Kappa Chi."
"Sounds wonderful, honey," Miriam tells her.
Olga starts fishing around in her sequined purse as Bob appears, peering his face into the small pink room.
Miriam's throat suddenly feels scratchy, metallic-tasting. She clenches her mug and takes a long swig.
"Would ya look at that!" Bob thunders proudly at his older daughter. "You're stunning, Olga!"
Olga flashes her glittering white smile.
"Now hurry it up in here, you three. We gotta hit the road before traffic gets ugly."
Helga turns toward the wall, her scowl deepening, arms still crossed.
"And Helga looks beautiful too, doesn't she, B?" Miriam says.
"What?" Bob says, blinking. "Oh, yeah! You look great, all of you. Three peas in a pod."
They set out while it's still early, white sunlight splintering across the windshield in triangles.
"Damn sun is going to screw us up completely," Bob laments as the car roars to life.
"It's cold, B," Miriam says. "We should give the car a minute to defrost—"
But Bob's foot is already on the gas pedal, catapulting the car down the driveway while the girls fumble with their seat belts in the back.
Something about the highway - about sitting in the passenger's seat while Bob careens through at ninety miles an hour - makes her feel more awake. The truth is, she doesn't get out much.
The scenery whirls by in flashes of gray buildings and frosted railings. She almost has the chance to wonder.
She wonders where everyone else is going, whether the cars the Patakis speed by have families inside of them. She used to play this game a lot, back when she was young. She liked thinking about people and their stories. About the lives they led, the children they had. About whether they might be anything like her.
When they finally arrive in a quite crowded parking lot, her breath spirals out in white clouds in the cold.
Olga pulls her trays of homemade lasagna out of the trunk and they pile into the maze-like building, where families are lining up for food and sitting with each other at long tables. There are children chasing each other up and down the tiled floors.
"Bonjour, little one!" Olga calls immediately to a small child standing near the doorway. She kneels down onto her knees, somehow graceful even in her tight dress. She takes the boy's hands in hers. "We are so thrilled, so inspired, so très content to serve you today."
"Oh," the boy replies. "Uh. Merci."
Olga's mouth falls open. "He knows French!" she says in excitement. "Would you believe it, Mommy, Daddy! What a sweet little angel! Will you take a picture with me, mon gentil garçon?"
"Um," the boy says, shrugging. "Sure."
"Helga!" Olga cries happily. "Take out my camera! Snap our picture, baby sister!"
There's an angry shuffle of bags and some muttered exclamations of profanities.
And then, somehow - Miriam isn't really sure how - three Patakis are standing shoulder to shoulder, Olga's hands around the little boy, while Helga stands photographing them.
"Oh, it's perfect," Olga gushes as she takes the camera back. "It's the perfect day."
Bob goes to stand in the corner, yawning, while Olga removes something else from her purse: sheets of stickers shaped like angels and fairies with smiling faces, glittering wings.
"Now, baby sister," Olga instructs, "I'm going to get started carving up the lasagnas, and you hand these out to the children. You need to do it with joy and love. Tell them they've all earned a treat. Tell them they're good boys and girls. Tell them they—"
"No," Helga hisses. Her voice is low and flat, a balloon losing air. "They're people, for crying out loud. Not dogs."
Olga blinks. Hurt spreads across her delicate features.
"I know that, baby sister. I never said—"
"Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're saving the world. You're giving all the poor little children the encouragement they need."
Olga's trembling lower lip quickly bends up in a beaming smile.
"Exactly."
"Oh, just give me the freaking stickers," Helga snaps.
She rips the items from Olga's hands and disappears into a throng of kids.
Miriam doesn't see her again until two hours later, when it's time to go home because Olga's camera roll is all out of film.
They have dinner a few nights later with Redmond Something or Other: one of the sharks involved in a plethora of money schemes with Big Bob's Beepers. He gives money. Or gets money. Or steals money. Something like that.
In any case, B likes him, and wants to impress him. So Miriam orders beef pies and pierogies from their favorite takeout restaurant rather than cooking, due to the likelihood of accidentally burning the meal up.
Redmond has met Olga before. But never Helga, apparently.
He's not shy about his surprise, when the five of them sit down to eat.
"Her? Her?" Redmond says, grinning almost maniacally as he stares across the table. "That's little Helga Pataki?"
Olga, in the middle of an extensive story on the week she spent in Bangladesh trading life secrets with the Dalai Lama, stops in her tracks. No one spotlights Helga, when Olga Pataki is in the room.
Bob coughs over his plate. "Yeah, that's her."
Redmond chuckles roughly. "Funny how that happens sometimes, I guess," he says casually. "Couple of my nieces, they're exactly the same way. One got all the looks in the family, and the other, well..." he trails off, still laughing.
For a fraction of a second, Helga has the look of someone who's just been slapped across the face. She blinks, forkful of mashed potatoes paused in midair, while the other Patakis just stare at her.
Miriam can feel her heart crashing sideways in her chest, blooming with anger and rupturing with sadness. She wants to yell. She wants to fly across the table and shower Redmond with the meat in his hand.
But the moment passes as it came. Bob laughs shortly, shaking his head, waving the stillness in the air away.
And she looks down into her glass of wine, swallowing. Because the truth is, no one can hear her anyway.
He was perfect for her, her own mother had once told her.
Her whole family was impressed by Bob Pataki. He was the kind of man who inspired awe. He had a loud voice. Strong opinions. Money. And talent, lots of it.
They were going to make a nice couple: a successful young businessman and a pretty young woman. By his side, she might grow to do any number of things.
Miriam remembers those days very clearly. What she doesn't remember is how she got from there to here.
Dreams get lost in increments, she thinks. You don't wake up one day and feel different.
No, it's not like that at all.
The days bleed into one another. They bend and snap and pour. They turn you old in snaking rivers, rushing waterfalls. No clearly defined shapes. Just an endlessly shifting series of stomachaches. Of bags of beepers, of endless yelling, of bottomless pits of demands that drain you clear before you've even had the chance to see it coming.
"Miriam!" Bob is yelling again from the bedroom closet, his voice heavy like a thundercloud. "Where in the hell is my new sweater vest? I need it today!"
For a moment, she just continues to lie there, still.
"It's going downhill, Miriam. The beeper business. It's all going downhill. We might have to sell the house soon."
She can taste the edges of her heartburn: throbbing, empty, black.
Later that day, as Miriam is arriving home from a trip to the grocery store (her arms laden with paper bags of frozen chicken and surreptitiously wrapped bottles of vodka and gin), she opens the door to find her little girl sitting with a boy in the kitchen.
She pauses for a second to watch them.
They're working on a school project, she thinks. They don't see her yet. They're bent over a table scattered with construction paper and pencils with thick pink erasers.
That boy, Miriam muses.
There's something about him that looks so familiar. Something about that head, the strange shape of it. Why does she know him?
"I already told you, Football Head, I'm working on the drawing, and you…"
Football head.
Football head - that's it. She recognizes him from the back of her daughter's closet. From journals filled with scotch-taped photos, from mysterious stashes of videotapes. From strange shrines carved out of watermelons.
"Oh hi, Helga, honey," Miriam greets the two of them as she enters the kitchen, resting her bags on the counter.
The kids look up at her, the boy smiling kindly, Helga scowling darkly.
"You must be…" Miriam starts, mustering all her memory, trying as hard as she can. "…Archibald, is it?"
"Arnold," he tells her.
She turns toward her daughter. "That's him, Helga, isn't it? The one you always had the crush on?"
There's a pause for a moment. Both of them are just staring at her, eyes wide.
And then, suddenly, eerily, she hears a noise like an angry cat hissing at its prey.
She has half a second to ponder its source before her girl, her own baby girl, is inches from her nose and gripping the collar of her dress with two hands. Her face is a shade of red Miriam has only ever seen before on Bob during his worst temper tantrums.
Miriam freezes up, stunned, a deer in headlights. The world around her seems to shift away. All she can see is Helga's fury, and it fills her with dread. It fills her with regret and fear and pain, so much of it that her lungs swell for a moment, rife with her sorrow.
"Helga!" Archibald cries in the background, sounding far away and somehow removed from the heat of the moment. "Helga, let go of her."
Even though the boy is a good inch or two shorter than her daughter, and scrawnier to boot, he manages to pry Helga's hands from Miriam's dress in one swift movement.
Helga stumbles backwards into his arms. The two children fumble for a moment, balancing awkwardly against one another, before Helga leaps out of his grasp with the speed of someone escaping burning hot coals.
"Uh… sorry… Mrs. Pataki," Archibald begins earnestly.
He glances back and forth, rubbing the back of his shoulder.
"Well… anyway…" he mumbles, his gaze turning towards the floor. "I guess I should… you know, get going soon so I can… feed Abner. We can work more on this tomorrow, okay, Helga?"
Helga says nothing. Her face is still dark red, arms crossed and eyes glued furiously to the ground.
Archibald hesitates for a moment, but before anyone can say anything else, Helga storms off and up the staircase.
"You get home safe now, Alfred," Miriam manages, straightening out her glasses and rubbing her eyes.
Two hours later, Miriam is headed upstairs too. She has her bottle of Vermouth tucked in between the rolls of socks and underwear in her laundry basket.
She'll figure out how to make it better soon, she promises herself.
Just not right now.
As she's passing by Helga's room, she hears something strange. It sounds like a soft wailing: like an animal with an open wound moaning in pain. Cautiously, she peeks her face through the doorframe.
Helga is lying facedown on her bed, her body wracked with sobs.
"Helga," Miriam gasps, the sorrow coursing through her again in electric rivulets. "Helga, honey."
Helga's back stiffens at the sound of her mother's voice, but she doesn't move.
Inhaling heavily, Miriam creeps as slowly and quietly as she can towards her daughter. She sits down at the mess of hastily arranged purple blankets at the end of the bed, next to Helga's gangly feet.
"Just leave me alone," Helga spews, voice muffled in her cotton pillowcase.
"Helga, I can't hear you, sweetie," Miriam says. Tentatively, she reaches out one hand. She begins rubbing it up and down her daughter's back, combing her fingers through strands of matted hair. She feels slightly encouraged when Helga stays put instead of bouncing up in another bid to viciously attack her.
"I made a mistake," Miriam says, her own eyes beginning to well up. "I'm sorry. I didn't know the thing with your little friend Alfie was a secret."
There is silence for a few moments.
Then, slowly, Helga lifts her head and starts to sit up.
"It's not," she mumbles, folding her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them. Her face is wet with tears, bloodshot eyes staring determinedly down at her lavender sheets. "Not anymore."
"I—I didn't mean to—"
"I told him, Miriam. Awhile back now."
"Well, good for you, honey!"
"I didn't mean to," she spits out furiously. "It's just, I don't know, he was all, You're Deep Voice? and I was all Duh, you idiot, cause he's such a bonehead sometimes, you know? And he was all, Well, why would you do this and I was… I was being stupid and it just came out. And that's not good for me, Miriam, and it never will be."
Miriam runs her fingers anxiously along the bed sheets, pretending she understands any of this. "Well, why not?"
"Cause…" Helga's voice trembles. Her eyes are starting to fill with fresh tears. "Because he doesn't like me, alright?"
She wipes her nose quickly on the sleeve of her shirt and then collapses onto the pillow again, her hair falling across her face and shielding her expression from view.
"And how do you know that?" Miriam asks gently. "Is that what he said to you?"
"No," she mutters angrily.
"I don't get it."
"He didn't say it. Of course he didn't say it. He's not gonna just… just put it out there like that. He's Arnold."
"So?"
"So he's nice. He doesn't tell people stuff like that. He'd rather just leave me hanging... pretend like it never happened."
"Well… you told him how you felt, now didn't you? So why shouldn't he do the same?"
Helga just sighs in misery.
"Look, honey," Miriam says, shaking her head. "Maybe he likes you back, maybe he doesn't. But I want you to remember something, little lady."
She takes a deep breath.
"You, Helga Pataki, are special. You're special, and funny, and smart. And I think Archibald sees that. I do, honey, because anyone who knows you does. But if he doesn't, then that's his loss, not yours."
She pauses again, wringing her hands.
"You're not going to make the mistakes that I did. You know why? Because you're strong. The strongest little girl I know, in fact. And you should tell that Alfred… you should just lay it down for him, Helga. Give it to him straight. Tell him he's gotta love you or lose you, because you're worth loving, and you know it… for a fact, because your mama told you so."
She stops. Helga, she thinks, isn't crying anymore, because her body is still now - no longer shaking.
"Miriam," comes Helga's muffled voice finally, and she lifts her head again from the pillow. Strands of hair are glued to her damp cheeks.
"That was the stupidest, cheesiest crap you've ever said to me."
Miriam rubs her shoulder with one hand. She hangs her head slightly as she starts to lift herself from the bed.
"Mom?" Helga says then, her voice a little higher than usual. "Thanks."
Thanks, Miriam repeats in her head, hope spinning like spider webs across her ribcage.
Thanks.
It's five thirty P.M., so she opens the bottle of Vermouth. She stares at it for a moment.
Then she screws the cap back on, collapsing onto the living room couch instead.
There are twelve steps to recovery, the man who answers her call tells her. He has a voice like oil: hot, slick, and laden with empty promises.
He's a salesman, Miriam knows. She can always tell when someone is a salesman. That's what happens when you're married to one.
And really, the stuff he's rattling - it all sounds like just a little too much. She imagines Bob standing next to her, listening in, even though he's long since gone to work. That's boloney, Miriam, he'd say, groaning and rolling his eyes. Listen to this guy, with his New Age bullshit. Total crap.
But her body sways anyway. And she leans into the kitchen counter, listening.
"Alright, ya bunch of chuckleheads! I'm gonna say this and I'm only gonna say it once, so get your butts over here and listen up!"
Beaming, Miriam clasps her hands together and smiles widely at the girl screaming out on the baseball field. That's her daughter out there. Her tender-hearted, sweetpea of a little girl.
"GET YOUR ACTS TOGETHER OR GO HOME! You're draggin your lazy butts around out there and you're all an embarrassment to this team! Every last one of you!"
There are murmurs of dissent among the kids. Helga begins pacing back and forth on the outfield, her pigtails swinging in rhythm with each step.
"The next one of you to even think about choking gets chopped from the team, pronto! And if you think I'm kidding, take it up with the bench your fanny will be warming for the next three months!"
"Come on, Helga, you're not being fair," Aristotle says calmly amidst the growing rumbles from the rest of the group. "Those guys are a lot bigger than most of us, and faster. They're seventh graders. All of us are doing the best we can out there!"
"Oh, what an inspiring motivational speaker you are, Arnoldo," Helga snarls. "Well how about this: you stop being a bunch of wusses and make your best BETTER!"
"Well, I'm with Arnold!" another boy with a green cap pipes up, wiping the sweat from his brow, as his team members begin to chime in with their assorted statements of support.
"Yeah, Helga!"
"Some captain you are!"
"Quit being such a blowhard, would ya?"
"Fine," Helga spits. "Fine! You wanna humiliate us in front of all these…" she motions towards the bleachers, which are completely empty except for Miriam. "…In front of these… my mom…"
"Hi honey!" Miriam calls, upon hearing her name. "You're doing great, sweetheart!"
"…Then be my guest!" Helga continues, and begins rattling off the names of children to take the bases.
It's a grueling twenty-five minutes: a heady show of blood, sweat, and tears from the group of fifth graders, who are, in fact, a whole lot smaller than the middle schoolers they're matched against. One boy, a wide child in blue, gets hit with the ball in the forehead and is relegated to the sidelines, whimpering and clutching an ice pack from the first aid kit.
By two thirty, the seventh graders are gone and the fifth graders are beginning to trickle out of the diamond, covered in dirt and starting in on chatter over the rest of their Saturday plans.
Helga and Arkansas are the last ones to leave. They move infield carrying the bats, softball, and sticky orange bases. Their arms and faces glitter with sweat.
"Hi, Mrs. Pataki," the boy calls up to her. His eyes are round and sweet.
"Hi Mom," Helga echoes. She looks slightly taken aback, like she'd forgotten Miriam was sitting there, or hadn't expected her to stick around.
Miriam stumbles down the row of bleachers, almost tripping over the last step but catching herself before she falls on her face. "You did great, honey."
Arlington nods in agreement, smiling. "You did, Helga," he says, and reaches out to place a hand on Helga's upper arm in a gesture of support. Miriam watches her daughter's face visibly redden for a moment before she shoves him away.
"Quit touching me, ya little weirdo," she says.
"Did you drive here?" Archibald asks Miriam, and she shakes her head wistfully.
"My license is still suspended," she admits. "For now."
So they walk home together, the three of them.
"I'm trying, you know," Miriam says.
She doesn't mean for her voice to shake. She wants to be strong for her daughter.
But Helga was always the strong one. Both of them know it.
Helga looks up from her bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, spoon halfway to her mouth. Her eyebrow is raised, face heavy with her usual skeptical sideways frown.
"I'm trying, Helga," Miriam says again. She clenches her cup of coffee with nervous hands. "Can you tell?"
Helga stares at her for a long moment, eyes piercing and fierce. Miriam tries not to shrink back - tries not to wither under her gaze. Her younger daughter's looks have always been so fearsome; always so heated. Less delicate and less pretty than Olga's ever were.
Then Helga shrugs. She shoves the spoon to her lips. Her crunching noises are loud and purposeful. Aggressive cereal-eating is one of her strengths.
"That's mean," Miriam tells her boldly.
Helga swallows. "Are you going to drag me to that stupid group with you?"
Miriam hesitates for a moment. "Maybe."
"What does maybe mean?"
"It just means maybe."
"Maybe what?"
"Maybe yes, Helga! If you're willing to go… then I am too."
Helga pushes her bowl away from her, anger darkening her features. "Well, I don't know if I am or not. I have to think about it."
Miriam stares at her, biting her lip.
"Okay. That sounds fair."
"I'll think about it. And I'll let you know."
She nods in agreement. "You'll think about it. And you'll just let me know."
Her little girl looks so peaceful when she's asleep: miles softer and gentler than she is in her waking state. She breathes raspily into her pillow, yellow hair splayed out in sunshine fragments across the sheets.
"I love you, Helga," Miriam whispers into the darkness. "You know that, don't you?"
She inches close to the bed. She kisses her daughter's cheek lightly.
Helga stirs for a moment, eyelashes fluttering, before rolling over and ducking under the quilt.