Chapter Twelve: What's Love Got to Do with It?

"Helga, you can't beat yourself up about it," Gerald said quietly as Phoebe slipped back into the booth, albeit at my other side so as she wouldn't have to sit next to him again. "Arnold didn't know the circumstances, and if he did, I'm sure he wouldn't have left..."

"Yeah, right," I mutter bitterly. "He wouldn't have left because he wasn't their first choice..."

"Helga, you can't think that way," Phoebe said gently, putting an arm around my shoulders; I fight to remain still—it was a comforting gesture, sure, but I didn't want their pity. "Arnold isn't that type of person, and you know it. You know all about Arnold—"

"Apparently, that's not true!" I cry out then, pulling away from Phoebe's arm. "I mean, no guy I was ever with would betray me like that—"

"Helga, are you playing the victim?" Gerald asked.

"No," I reply, even though I was painting myself pretty far into the victim corner as it was. "No, of course not."

Gerald sighed, knowing that there was no easy way out of this. "Look, if you just let me print a redeeming article about you—"

"Absolutely not," I reply, my eyes glued to the surface of the table. "You gave me your word, Gerald."

He nods. "I know—I understand, Helga. I mean, come on, even I know that there's a lot riding on this. But still—it could clear your name. And high school is brutal as it is..."

I scoff then. "Isn't it supposed to be?"

"What?" Phoebe asked.

I turn and look at her. "Come on, Phoebe. You know as well as I do that none of this was supposed to be easy."

"Well, of course not," she said quietly. "After all, we attend private school, and Hillwood Academy and Hillwood Preparatory utilize its students' high GPA's for the difficult curriculum—"

"I'm not talking about the curriculum," I cut across her then, my voice fringed with impatience. "I'm talking about the experience. What teenager can honestly say they had an easy time of it?"

"Jocks and cheerleaders," Gerald puts in quietly.

I shrug, turning to look at him. "Even you know that they could be secretly hating themselves," I tell him. "Besides, they frequently only integrate among themselves because they feel it's expected of them. Who's to say they couldn't be best friends with a nerd or a drama geek?"

"You're painting a pretty bleak picture of high school life, Helga," Phoebe puts in then, softly.

I lower my eyes again, to my lap, where my fingers are wrapped around one another due to my angst. "What life doesn't have bleakness touching it in some way?" I whisper.

. . .

"Who only says it once?" Olga demands, her eyes roving over my downcast face in The Enliven Éclair, trying to solve the mystery. "Which boyfriend in their right mind, who's been with their significant other for three years only says, 'I love you' one time?!"

I sigh. "Keep your voice down, Olga," I reply. "It's not like it really matters at this point, you know..."

"Of course it matters!" she says, exasperation in her voice. "Harrison may have beaten me to a bloody pulp whenever something went badly on the job, but at least he said it to me—"

I raise my eyes to hers. "That wasn't love."

"Helga?"

"That rat bastard beat you, Olga—he beat you," I say through my teeth, really hammering the point home. "What man claims to love a woman one moment and then wounds everything in his wake the next?" I shake my head, finally forcing myself to exhale my frustration. "He's a criminal, Olga, and he belongs in a jail cell with his name on it..."

Olga straightens herself out then, picking up her glass of wine and swirling it momentarily in her glass. "I can't press charges," she says softly before she lifts it to her lips and drinks.

I let out a half-gasp, half-scoff noise then. "I'm sorry. What?"

Olga sighs. "Harrison and I didn't have a prenup, but we did have...a contract of sorts," she tells me.

"What is this? Fifty Shades of Portman?!" I demand, my voice riddled with disgust and anger.

Olga turns white as the tablecloth and hastily returns her wine glass to it. "No, it wasn't anything like that."

"Then what was it like?" I demand, my voice hushed.

"If our marriage lasted less than five years, due to mistreatment or adultery, then I would get three hundred thousand dollars to live on, plus custody of any of our daughters," she replied.

I shake my head. "I don't understand."

Olga covered her mouth. "The conditions stipulated that I wasn't allowed to reveal any of the information," she says, her words seeping through her parted fingers. "I shouldn't even be telling you any of this..."

"Tell me," I whispered.

Olga shuddered, the tears escaping her eyes resembling finely cut diamonds. "I once caught Harrison in the nursery, blackout drunk..."

I found myself gripping the edges of the table. "Olga," I whispered, my voice shaking, "what are you telling me?"

"He was leaning over Eilis's crib," she whispered, her voice shaking and choked as she did her best to hold back her sobs.

"Olga..." I whispered.

"He said that if I didn't give him what he wanted—what I was required to give him as his wife—then he would take what he needed from...Eilis..."

"She's a baby!" I hissed in disgust, rage bubbling just beneath the surface. "What the hell was he thinking?!"

"I wanted to kill him," Olga whispered. "But Harrison got so paranoid that people were watching us that he hid spy cams all over the house..."

"Why didn't you go to the spy cam room then?" I whisper. "Why didn't you just go to the spy cam room and delete footage of you killing him and then just make up a story about a robbery gone wrong?"

"Because his family wouldn't have believed me, and they would've found a way to dig up the footage eventually," Olga replied. "And besides, the servants and Harrison only knew where the spy cam rooms were, and they were under strict orders not to tell me..."

"What did you do?" I whispered then, my fingers knotting around themselves again as anxiety got the better of me. "When Harrison threatened to do god knows what to Eilis, what did you do?"

"I couldn't let him do it," she whispered. "I told him to come to bed... I told him I would let him do whatever he wanted to me. As long as he didn't touch Eilis, I knew things would work out..."

"You let him...?" I say, unable to say the word.

Olga nods. "Yes."

"Why?" I whispered.

Olga raised her eyes to mine, a sad smile upon her face as her tears continued to fall upon her cheeks. "When you're a mother, you'll do anything to protect your children," she replied simply. "I couldn't let him hurt Eilis... I just hope she doesn't remember any of what could have happened, or what did..."

"Did Harrison ever—?"

"No," Olga replied. "No, I always got there in time to make sure he did whatever it was he wanted to her, to me."

"You took the abuse to protect Eilis," I whispered. "But wait... Wouldn't Harrison ever hurt Osias?"

Olga shakes her head. "No. He's never too blackout not to ascertain what Osias is —a son. He would never hurt his son."

I nodded, although I was not entirely sure Olga really knew her soon-to-be ex-husband at all.

. . .

Christmas break was an altogether lonely experience; I'd not been so lonely since the Christmas of my fifth-grade year, back at P.S. 118. The notion that I'd had several good Christmases in a row was enough to sustain me until halfway through vacation, when the day arrived and I was given an individual packet of crackers and a canister of squeeze cheese. I thanked my parents and left the house, walking along the snow falling streets.

Passing by the other homes around me, the streets and sidewalks slick with ice and cluttered with snow around their edges, I looked into the windows of the homes. I saw a massive Christmas tree in all the front rooms, with various parents and children in new pairs of flannel pajamas. The parents sit upon their couches, drinking their morning coffee, while the children kneel upon the floor, tearing into their presents. There is frequently a fire roaring in the fireplace, its embers would snap and pop in celebration, almost as if cementing the family tradition in warmth and comfort.

The thought that I am alone again affects me greatly as I continue down the sidewalk and onwards. I don't know where I'm going; all I do know is that I have to put as much space between myself and my own house as possible. It was not a home, I saw that now; I was only fourteen-years-old, and never had I ever had a home of my own. Continuing through town, hands stuffed into my pockets and feet wriggling inside my boots, I found I was physically warm but emotionally, I was cold, very cold.

I found I came to an automatic stop before the boarding house, and forced my eyes not to fill with icy tears at the notion of what I had lost. I remembered the countless birthdays and holidays I had spent underneath that roof. And then I barely heard the door open, and my heart leapt momentarily, hoping beyond hope that Arnold had been the one to open it. I felt my face fall when I saw that Mrs. Shortman stood there and, without any form of hesitation, descended the stairs and made her way towards me. When she finally stood before me, wrapped in an oversized coat that could have been her husbands', she gave me a small smile and pulled me into her arms quickly.

"What are you doing out here by yourself?" she asked me, not letting me go, and I felt warmth flowing through me once more.

"Long story," I managed to get out, and it was then that I realized that my teeth were chattering.

Mrs. Shortman pulled back then, her eyes filled with concern. "Come in," she said and pulled me up the stairs. Pulling me inside, she immediately took off my coat and hat, hanging my scarf up in one pull and bringing me automatically into the common room. She proclaimed with joy to the scattered company that I was there, and Mr. Shortman stepped forward and embraced me, before leading me to a chair beside the fireplace.

"Sit down," he said gently, and I sat. "It's good that you're here—we were just about to call you."

"Me?" I asked. "Why?"

"Even though you're not seeing Arnold anymore, it certainly doesn't change anything between us," Mrs. Shortman said with a smile. "You helped save our lives, Helga, and you're the love of our son's life."

I shake my head. "Not after I ended things the way I did..."

"Yes, we saw the papers," Mr. Shortman said. "Believe me, I had it out with Arnold on the phone as soon as I did."

I sigh. "I'm sorry... So sorry, for how I ended things with him. It shouldn't have happened that way, I know that..."

"It's none of our business," Mrs. Shortman said gently. "I probably would have done something similar. Besides, you're both so young—a long-distance relationship isn't something you needed."

I nodded. "Well, still... I'm sorry the information got out..."

"It never should have been made public," Mr. Shortman declared. "After yelling at Arnold for a good twenty minutes on the phone, he admitted that the report had been written by Gerald, and it was too late to call it back, although he claims that he did try to do so..."

I sigh, leaning back against the chair. "He did," I affirm.

"What?" Mrs. Shortman asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, he did. Gerald saved the voicemail—I guess he wanted to confront me on it later for a reply article."

"Are you going to do it?" Mr. Shortman asked.

I shake my head. "No. Gossip columns don't belong in credible newspapers anyway, although after the Preparatory Periodical printed one, I think it's safe to say that they're not a credible newspaper."

"Here-here," Mrs. Shortman said with a chuckle.

"That's not even the worst thing about it," I say quietly.

"What could be worse than having your explicit dirty laundry written about for all to see?" Mr. Shortman asked.

"The voicemail," I reply.

"What was so bad about the voicemail?" Mrs. Shortman asked.

I locked eyes with the two of them. "Arnold told me he loved me in the voicemail, and he didn't say it before then," I reply.

. . .

"What are you thinking?" Olga asked.

I raised my eyes to hers. "What do you think?"

"I wouldn't have asked you if I already knew."

You got me there, I thought to myself. "Nothing, just the last Christmas I had in Hillwood," I say softly, chuckling darkly. "You know what Mom and Dad gave me last year?"

"No."

"An individual packet of crackers and squeeze cheese," I reply. "I know it's the thought that counts, but here it was so obvious that there was virtually no thought put into me whatsoever."

"What did you get them?" she asked.

"I got Mom a necklace and I got Dad one of those desk trinkets that everyone goes nuts over," I reply, shrugging. "Nothing special."

"They sound special."

I sigh. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess they were pretty special."

"That can't be all you're thinking."

I nod. "You'd be right."

"Tell me."

I'd been staying with Olga for almost two months, and sunny California had rejuvenated me to the point where I was as close to happy as I could be. I turned to look at my sister, who was no longer physically riddled with bruises, although her tan certainly helped. Looking up at the palm trees in the distance, as well as all around us, I knew that, conceivably, I could get used to the atmosphere of this new and exciting place.

I leaned forward upon my lawn chair, bringing my knees to my chest and clasping my hands around them. "Lots of things," I admitted.

"You can tell me, you know."

I nodded. "I know."

"Do you want to tell me?"

I sighed. "Yes and no."

"You're afraid to hurt me, aren't you?" she asked.

I lowered my eyes, which were invisible, due to the sunglasses I wore. "A little bit," I said quietly.

"Tell me. I can take it."

"I'm afraid for Osias," I replied.

She nodded. "So am I."

"Then why didn't you attempt to take them both?" I ask her. "I mean, you could have declined the money in exchange..."

"Don't you think I tried to do that?" Olga asks me quietly. "I tried everything I could think of to get Osias and Eilis out here with me. It didn't do any good, Helga, any of it."

"Would he hit you?" I ask.

Olga leaned back in her chair. "Among other things."

I shake my head. "And he's from this big, impressive, old money family so he pretty much has everyone in his pocket, right?"

Olga nodded. "Pretty much."

"And lawyers?" I ask.

Olga doesn't move. "Them, too," she replies.

I raise my eyes skyward, a plane flying overhead, leaving me feeling more and more anxious for the future. "It's helpless, then, isn't it?"

"At this point?" Olga asks.

"At this point," I reply.

"Completely," she replies.

"And it's not like you can just take him," I say, gritting my teeth. "You get twenty-five to life in New York for kidnapping, even if it's your own kid."

"Did you look that up?"

I shrug. "I may have."

She nods. "I did, too. I even managed to find a third-party lawyer anonymously and she said that I could take Osias and Eilis, but that I couldn't go to California and take my job."

"What did she say?"

"She said I would have to take them somewhere that the United States can't extradite from, like Russia, and there's no way I'd take my kids there," she said in a disgusted tone.

"So, you're stuck?" I ask her.

She nods. "For now."

I knock my head back into the lawn chair in frustration. "Even if you go a new identity and could start over—clean slate, no questions asked—would you do it? I mean, if you could have Osias and Eilis with you..."

Olga bit her lip. "I don't know, Helga. And that's an honest answer." She raised her eyes to mine, lowering her sunglasses. "I can't just drop everything now—I have a good job, a home of my own, and my daughter is safe."

"But at what cost, if your son is not?"

Olga brings her sunglasses back up. "The cost to live is everything, Helga. I'm not ready to die yet."

. . .

After opening my new, personalized notebook from Mr. and Mrs. Shortman, and thanking them—letting them know I would be by at the end of the week to give them their own gifts—I was stopped before leaving. They told me that I had one more gift upstairs, and I felt a lump rising in my throat. I knew instinctively where to go, without Arnold's parents telling me, and trudged up the staircase, my feet suddenly very heavy.

Opening the door to Arnold's bedroom, it squeaked ever so slightly as I shut it behind me. I walked over to his dresser, opening one of the drawers, and found his hat from the fourth grade, tucked away among his socks. Taking it out didn't take much effort, and the notion that it still smelled of his perfect hair sent shivers down my spine. Dashing the tears from my eyes, I remembered being told that my other gift was in the closet, and I turned to open the doors, seeing a massive cardboard box upon the closet floor. Two envelopes lay upon it; the first said, "Do Not Open Until 12/25/20", while the second said, "Do Not Open Until 03/23/24", which was my eighteenth birthday. The second date was written several times upon the cardboard box at my feet, and I felt my heart skip a beat when I looked at the letters—it was Arnold's handwriting.

Picking up the first envelope, the one that stated to open it on Christmas Day of this year, I immediately opened it effortlessly. I hesitated before removing the paper from it—other than the monotoned words I'd spoken to Arnold a month ago, and our breakup at the airport in August, I knew that once this new form of correspondence ended, it would be my job to reply. With shaking hands, I removed the folded-up piece of paper from the envelope, scanning the words.

Dear Helga,

First and foremost, I need to apologize to you for what I did—contacting Gerald and giving him the information about our breakup. Breakups are meant to be private affairs, and I pretty much blew that code of honor in that respect. I'll never forgive myself for doing that to you, nor do I expect you to forgive me. I could say that Gerald has the persuasiveness of a journalist—and he does, don't get me wrong—and that he said you deserved it. Since he is my best friend, in the heat of the moment, I was inclined to believe him.

I was angry and hurt at the way we left things in August, when I was about to get on the plane to New York. I guess all I wanted in that moment was for you to be supportive and happy for me—I thought, after all my hard work of getting into the competition, that's the least you could do. I guess I didn't understand how much it was going to hurt you—my leaving. All I saw was my dream in front of me, and I wasn't thinking about anything else. That was wrong of me as well.

I'm not asking or begging your forgiveness here, Helga; would I like it, sure. Do I expect it? No. No boyfriend should treat their girlfriend the way I treated you the day I was due to leave. It was wrong of me to automatically assume that you would be happy for me that my dream was coming true. It pains me to say it, but I was glad when I got word that I won the competition. I mean, what kid wouldn't be glad to get such a prize? I guess, in so doing, I hurt what we had, and while I don't know if we can get it back, I'm willing to try.

As for the box you're inevitably looking at, as well as the envelope on top of it, I do expect you not to open them until the instructed date. Yes, I know that waiting for that date will prove to be agonizing, but I hope you will do me this last favor and wait. Promise me that at least, Helga. I know I'm the last person to expect any favors my way, after everything, but I hope that you can do this for me.

Thanks for reading.

Your friend,

Arnold Shortman

I crumpled up that letter.

I crumpled up that letter like there was no tomorrow.

I threw it into the wastepaper basket and felt the sobs coming up from my throat before I could stop them. I offhandedly remembered Arnold's address in New York, and wrote it on every surface imaginable of that box, opening it quickly and shoving the envelope inside without checking its contents. I grabbed a piece of paper from his desk, my vision blinded by tears, and quickly scrawled, I don't want anything from you, Football Head, before shoving that into the box as well, before heaving it up onto his bed.

I left his room and slammed the door behind me, I could feel the eyes of Arnold's parents upon me as I stood there in the hallway, gripping the notebook. "Nothing upstairs is for me," I said quickly to them both. "I left what you thought was for me on the bed," I manage to get out before making a grab my hat, coat, and scarf before fleeing the boarding house as fast as I could.

. . .

"Are you still mad at him for leaving?" Olga asks me as we make the drive back to the Los Angeles International Airport.

I sigh. "I guess...a little..."

She nods. "And the letter he gave you for Christmas?"

I shrug. "It was a letter."

"It hurt you, didn't it?"

I lean back against my seat then, pulling down my sunglasses over my eyes as we hit a particularly sunny spot. "Yes," I reply.

Olga sighed. "You can't hold it against him forever."

I nod. "I know. I don't plan to."

"Then stop punishing him, and yourself."

I shake my head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Do you still love him?" she asks.

I shut my eyes. "I never stopped," I reply.

"Well, then maybe you could do something about that," Olga says gently as we get closer and closer to the freeway exit.

"What do you mean?" I ask her.

My older sister turns briefly to smile at me as we approach the exit. "I don't know, Helga. Maybe you could write him a letter."

"Write him a letter?!" I demand. "Are you kidding me?!"

"Well, he wrote you a letter," Olga said, unaffected by my sudden outburst. "I mean, no harm in replying."

"Of course there's harm in it," I reply. "He could think I'm leading him on as revenge for leaving me."

"He went to go get an education that will pertain to his dream job," Olga said simply. "He didn't leave you, he just moved away."

"Same difference," I reply, crossing my arms.

"Not really," Olga tells me. "Sure, he wanted to leave to achieve his dreams, but I don't think he wanted to leave you, too."

"It's not like he could've brought me with him," I mutter. "You think I didn't consider that when they picked me for it first?"

Olga immediately lets out a gasp and pulls the car over. Thankfully we are off the freeway by this time, and close to an area that is not used as a bus stop so as we can momentarily park legally. "What did you say?"

I roll my eyes, not wanting to get into this discussion again; I hated re-explaining myself. "Doesn't matter."

"Of course it does," Olga replies, attempting to keep her temper with me. "What did you just say, Helga?"

I continue staring dead ahead. "Do you really want to know?"

"I really want to know."

"Okay," I reply, turning to look at her and removing my sunglasses. "The competition picked me first but I decided against going."

"When did they pick you?" she asks.

"I found out when I had mono," I reply.

"Why didn't you say anything?!" she cries out. "They wanted you?!"

I sighed. "Yes. Yes, they picked me." I took out my phone and went to the folder I'd created on my email, where I'd saved my correspondence with the judges. "Read it and weep."

Olga takes my phone then and scans the words of the judges, praising my honest and open approach to the entire thing and that they believed I would be a perfect candidate for the program. "Wait," she says, handing it back to me, "if they picked you, why aren't you in New York?"

"I already told you—I turned it down," I reply, taking my phone back and putting it into my purse.

"Seems like a pretty big coincidence that they picked Arnold after you turned it down," she says.

I bite at my lips, annoyed. "That's because I told them to pick Arnold instead of me," I reply.

"Why would you do something like that, Helga? You could have gotten out of Hillwood and made a good life for yourself—"

I shake my head. "I didn't want to do it."

"Why not?"

"Because I..." I feel my eyes fill with tears then as I consider the potential outcome of me going to New York in Arnold's stead, and know immediately what my greatest fear was. "Because I was afraid," I whisper, not looking at my older sister —I couldn't, not now.

"Afraid? Of what?" she asks.

I sigh then, the sobs not going away. "I was afraid that Arnold would go to New York and love it and never want to come back..."

"That's not all of it, is it, Helga?" Olga says quietly.

I shake my head then. "No... No, that's not all of it..."

"What's is, then?" she wants to know. "What's the full story?"

"The full story is that I was afraid that Arnold would meet and fall in love with someone else," I reply. "Someone more suited to his needs... Someone soft and pretty and girly..."

"You sound like you're describing Lila Sawyer," Olga tells me.

I shake my head. "Maybe I am. She was Arnold's first crush, and I guess I was afraid that maybe someone like her would be in New York and that Arnold would use the excuse of the long-distance thing to find another girlfriend..."

"But you broke up with Arnold," Olga stipulated.

I nodded. "I know."

"But you didn't want to?"

I shake my head. "Not in a million years."

"Then, why did you do it?" she asks.

I scoff then. "Hell if I know..."

"You know," Olga says, squeezing my arm. "Say it."

I let out a sob then, turning to her and throwing myself into her arms—all I wanted, in that moment, was a hug. "I ended it myself because I thought it would hurt more if he ended it," I sob into her shoulder. "I just thought if I did it on my own terms that I wouldn't feel any pain, but I was wrong. It hurts—it hurts more than anything in the world," I cry out.

Olga's arms are tight around me then, and, at last, I feel safe. "I know, Helga, I know," she says quietly to me. "It always hurts..."

"I did it for him," I whisper then, the last of the truth finally escaping my lips. "I did it for him..."

"What?" Olga asks, releasing me and pushing me back from her to catch my eye as I force myself to speak. "What do you mean?"

"I thought he would want to date in New York, and not be stuck with some hometown honey who called the shots several states away," I say as she wipes the tears from my eyes. "I thought that if Arnold was single, he would finally feel fulfilled..."

Olga smiles at me. "Clearly, he wasn't, given that he wrote to you over Christmas," she tells me gently.

I shake my head. "What am I gonna do?" I whispered.

"Doesn't hurt to tell the truth," she replies.

I shudder then. "But I'm not ready to tell him," I say, recalling when I first told Dr. Bliss about my love for Arnold.

"You don't have to tell him now," Olga replied, and my eyes lock themselves onto hers. "You can do it when you're ready."

I sigh, checking my watch then and pulling away from her. "I don't want to miss my plane..."

"Oh. Right. Yeah," she says, sticking her key into the ignition and pulling away from our makeshift parking spot.

"Hey, Olga?" I say as we continue towards the airport.

"Yeah?" she asks.

"Thanks," I say softly.

"Anytime, baby sister," she replies gently.

I said goodbye to Olga at the airport and slept for most of the plane trip back to Hillwood, where my father surprised me with a ride home. He spent the entirety of the drive wanting to know all about Olga, so I knew then why he picked me up in the first place. I made small talk about it until we arrived home, where I went straight to my bedroom to unpack, shower, and throw my clothes into the to-do laundry pile.

After my shower, I approached my desk then, lowering myself into the chair and picking up a piece of paper from the stack, as well as a pen. Thinking for a moment, I began to write...

Dear Arnold,

Ever since you moved away for high school, all I can think about is that you're going after your dreams. Miles and Stella bring me comfort, and we often meet up for lunch, dinner, or for a walk to pass the time. I know that you did what was right, and even though things ended between us the way they did, I am pleased that you still want to keep in touch...

I stopped writing then, staring down at the piece of paper. I knew it was the right thing to do, yet in that moment, it did not feel right to me. Opening the top drawer of my desk, I slipped the one paragraph letter into it, before I found myself smiling down at it. Nodding to myself, I shut the drawer then, patting it as I did so.

"Not time yet," I said quietly, "yet it will come soon enough."