Author's Note: Hey! I'm back in a day. Isn't it exciting? Okay, this
chapter's a little longer, very emotional, very soul-searching…actually, I
think it sucks, but I'll leave that up to you to decide. Don't worry, the
action is coming back. Just wait a couple more chapters…I have three more
major events planned before Eddie's revenge starts…
Disclaimer: If you really think it's mine by now…
Part VIII
"Home"
"Close your eyes."
"Why?" Helga asked, giving Arnold a quizzical look. He was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, with a goofy grin on his face, like he was bursting with an wonderful secret. They had been in Brooklyn for four days, now, and most of his cheerful, happy-go-lucky optimism had come back. There were times, however, when Helga caught of glimpse of the steel he had grown, the coarseness that imprisonment had brought to him.
"It's a surprise," Arnold replied, holding up a strip of cloth.
"Oh, no," Helga said, backing away. "If you think you're blindfolding me, you better think again, Football Head."
He made mock puppy-dog eyes. "Please? Pretty please? Pretty pretty please with sugar on top? And whipped cream and a cherry and sprinkles and hot fudge and…asparagus and chicken and…"
"All right, all right already! Just shut up!" Helga snapped, but there was no venom in it. Grinning, Arnold stepped behind her and placed the blindfold over her eyes, tying it securely behind her head.
"Come on," he said, taking her hand and leading her forward. Ordinarily Helga would panic, deprived of one of her senses, and she certainly wouldn't trust anyone else to lead her blind…but this was Arnold. Somehow she wasn't the slightest bit worried, and she knew he would never lead her into danger.
She could tell by the way they were heading that they were leaving the boarding house. "Arnoldo, where are you taking me?" she asked as they exited the building.
"You'll see," was all he'd say. "Careful. We're going down the stoop." They made their way carefully down the steps. "Okay, now we're getting into the car." She felt the gentle pressure of his hand on her head, making sure she didn't bump her head as she slid into Arnold's car. She heard the door close, and fumbled for her seatbelt as she waited for Arnold to get into the driver's side.
The car started, rumbling underneath her. "Arnold, are we driving somewhere?" Helga asked.
"That's generally what happens when one gets into a car," Arnold teased.
"Then why didn't you just blindfold me when we got into the car, instead of having to lead me out of the house?" she asked.
Arnold was silent for a minute. "Umm…"
Helga laughed softly. "So you won't tell me where we're going?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But it's not far. Just be patient." She heard a click, and then the radio came on, Dino Spumoni's voice crooning out of the speakers.
Helga sat back, letting out an inaudible sigh. What was he doing? Come to think of it, what was she doing? Living in Arnold's house, being treated as a heroine and a guest of honor by his family and the boarders, living as part of the family…but it was all a lie. Arnold hadn't expressed anything more than friendship towards her since he had kissed her in the cell before his planned execution. And even that might have been just a friendly kiss. Maybe there hadn't been anything since they were trapped in a cell together.
She was beginning to think that he might have been delirious at the time, or maybe she had been. He hadn't mentioned it, hadn't even given a hint that it had happened. And as much as she enjoyed his company, she knew that she couldn't stay with him indefinitely. Yes, she loved him. But she'd put herself through enough torture when she was younger to know what was healthy for her and what wasn't, and this certainly fell into the latter category.
She would leave tomorrow, she decided. She would thank Phil and Gertie for their hospitality, and then she would go home. Or maybe to her other planned destination. She wasn't sure. But she did know that she shouldn't stay in Brooklyn any longer, not unless Arnold…well, he wouldn't.
Lost in these thoughts, she was startled when Arnold turned off the radio and announced, "We're here." He got out of the car and walked around to her side to help her out.
"Okay, I'm taking off the blindfold now," he told her. She felt him untie the band from around her head, and the cloth fell away from her eyes.
She was standing in front of an old, middleclass brownstone, built in the vertical style of the day, crammed in with other buildings with stories stacked on top of each other. Yes, she knew where they were. Somewhere she'd sworn never to return to.
Home.
"Forget it, Arnold," she said, turning and heading back towards the car. "I'm not going in there."
He stopped her, blocking her path and placing his hands on her shoulders. "Come on, Helga. They're your family. You have to reconcile with them eventually."
"No, I don't," Helga replied stubbornly. "Now let go of me."
He didn't. "Look, Helga, you gave me my family back. This is my chance to return the favor."
"I don't *want* them back!" she snapped, frustrated. "And I'm sure they don't want me either!"
"How do you know?" he asked. "I talked to your dad, and he seemed like he wanted to see you."
"You talked to him?" she demanded, furious. "Why?"
He sighed. "Helga. You need to do this. Just talk to them. Five minutes. You don't have to stay any longer than that, if you don't want to. I promise."
Helga glared at him, but indecision was warring within her. He must have seen it, because he followed up on his advantage.
"Please, Helga," he said coaxingly. "I promised them you'd come. You wouldn't make a liar out of me, would you?"
She held the glare for a minute longer, trying to resist the urge to slap him or kiss him. "Fine," she spat out finally. "But five minutes. That's it."
To her surprise, he didn't gloat, or even smile. He just looked at her sympathetically. "I'm proud of you, Helga," he said. She didn't answer, just headed for the stoop.
"And who knows?" he asked as they mounted the steps. "You may just be surprised."
"I doubt it," she said coldly, as she rang the doorbell. Her mind was full of the years she had spent here, shivering in the shadow of her older, perfect sister while her parents shone the little warmth they possessed down on *Ooolga.*
God, her family. Big Bob, and his brusque, overbearing bellow. His bellicose growl. His materialistic money-grubbing and workaholism. His dictatorial commands and constant barrages of insults, calling her "Olga," or just "the girl." Mirium, her mother, with her alcoholism and her impotence and her bitterness and her inability to grasp even the simplest of motherhood skills. Helga had all but raised herself in that house.
No wonder I turned out so screwed up, she thought bitterly, staring at the door of her childhood prison. The only decent role model I ever had was a football-headed little boy.
And of course, there was *Ooolga.* Perfect in every way possible. It was hard to live your life as "Award-Winning Olga Pataki's Sister." Olga was smart, beautiful, talented, kind, married to a just-as-perfect-as-she-was man named Ned or something like that, had two perfect kids, and lived her life straight as a ruler. She hadn't colored outside of the lines in their coloring books since she was about one and half. Helga, on the other hand, had drawn goatees and devil horns on the people in the books, and then proceeded to draw her own pictures.
Olga's one redeeming quality, at least in Helga's eyes, was that she at least loved Helga, in her own way. But Olga's own way was stifling and selfish. Helga had long ago realized that Olga loved her "baby sister" because she felt that a big sister should, and it would have been a mark against her on her perfect slate if she hadn't. She didn't really know Helga, or understand her at all, and she was so completely dominated by their father, as was Mirium, that Helga hadn't heard from either of them in four years.
It wasn't that she missed them so much as it simply hurt to realize that they just hadn't cared enough to contact her. She should hardly have been surprised, though, that her absence hadn't really been felt in the Pataki family circle. Her presence hadn't been felt, either. That was what had marked her childhood, just two things—longing for Arnold, and coldness at home.
No wonder I jet around the world the way I do, Helga realized, staring at her door. The only home I ever knew was no home to me. Arnold was all the home I ever had, and I looked for him everywhere I went.
All these thoughts took but a few seconds, which was just as well, for Helga could hear footsteps approaching. Hurriedly, she stepped back, suddenly bashful and apprehensive. What if Bob threw her out? What if he slammed the door in her face? Why had Arnold even done this to her in the first place?
The door opened slowly, as if the person on the other side was just as afraid of this meeting as she was. And there stood her father, Big Bob Pataki, just the way she remembered him. Sure, his hair was a little grayer, and the wrinkles around his eyes were a little deeper, but he was still the big, hulking man she remembered. She had grown considerably since childhood, when he had towered above her, but he was still a giant to her.
She had never seen that look in his eyes, though, not once in the nineteen years she had still considered herself his daughter.
"Helga?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid it would break. She nodded, mildly surprised that he had gotten her name right. She wasn't sure what game he was playing, but she wouldn't let him win. The moment he showed his colors, if he tried to screw with her again, she would let him have it.
"My baby girl!" he said suddenly, pulling her into his arms crushingly and enfolding her in a tight embrace. Helga's eyes widened slightly. What was this? Her father, Big Bob Pataki, openly admitting affection?
"I missed you so much," he admitting gruffly into her ear, not letting go of her. She noticed a break in his voice. Was the Beeper King actually crying?
The smell of him, Yahoo soda and pipe tobacco and woolen sweaters, suddenly came at her in a rush. She had a vivid flashback, as clear as if it was happening right now. It was nighttime, and she was standing in a tree house with Arnold and some of the others, watching as a bulldozer headed uncompromisingly towards them, ready to destroy the tree, with them in it. And her father, rolling on the ground with the scumbag who was willing to kill them to get rid of this tree—his clothing ripped, his nose bloodied, but fighting…fighting to save her life, his daughter's life. She felt sudden, unexpected tears spring to her eyes.
"I missed you too, Daddy," she told him, hugging him back. All thoughts of berating him to protect herself flew out the window. Her father loved her. He loved her. She knew it. He didn't have to say it, and he might not, but he had shown her—and when it came down to real, true emotions, showing them was the Pataki way, when words were too hard.
After all, hadn't she shown Arnold she loved him, when she saved his life? It was his own fault if he didn't get it. She, as a Pataki, needed no translation.
"Come inside," Bob said, pulling away. "Your mother's waiting. You too, Andrew."
Helga rolled her eyes, smiling. Good old Bob. "Arnold, Dad."
"Right, Arnold."
Arnold, looking not insulted in the least, followed them into the house.
They went into the trophy room. Helga caught a glimpse of several people in the room before she was enfolded, this time by two sets of arms.
"Helga, oh, my little girl!"
"Baby sister!"
Helga hugged her mother and sister back, and now she was crying, really crying, as bad as Olga when she was on a crying jag, but a happy crying jag. "Mom! Olga!" she sobbed, laughing through her tears.
"Oh, Helga, I'm so glad you're finally home!" Mirium said, when they had calmed down enough to break away and talk.
"Let me look at you," Olga said, holding her at arm's length. "Oh, you're beautiful, baby sister!"
Helga smiled, a little ironically. "I finally look like you, Olga," she teased.
"Oh, you must meet Nathan!" Olga squealed, switching gears in the way she had. She beckoned, and a handsome man came forward. Oh, that was his name. Nathan. He looked like he had just stepped out of the pages of GQ, with chiseled good looks and a perfectly pressed suit. He looked like he lived in suits, like he took showers in them.
"Hi, Nate," Helga said cheerfully, sticking a hand out.
"Nathan," he corrected a bit dryly, giving her a thousand-watt grin. "It's so nice to finally meet Olga's sister. She's told me so much about you."
"And these are the twins," Olga said, gently pushing two angelic little blond cherubs in matching sailor suits forward. "The boy is named Robert, after Daddy, and the girl is named Helga, after…well, you."
Helga bent down to the children's level, flabbergasted. Olga had named her daughter after her? The poor child—Helga was an atrocious name. She studied the children. Except for sex, they were practically identical, with round chubby faces, thin, pale hair, and serious, earnest blue eyes.
"Are you our Aunt Helga?" the boy, Robert asked in a clear, piping voice.
Helga nodded. "Yes, I am."
"Do you hate your name, too?" asked the girl, her namesake, looking at her with innocent eyes.
"Helga!" said Olga sharply.
The older Helga looked back at the little girl, whose eyes suddenly twinkled mischievously. "Yes, I do," she replied with a little smile.
"Helga!" said Mirium, just as sharply.
The two Helgas grinned at each other, and the older one stood up, glancing idly at the trophy shelves as she did. What she saw there almost made her fall down again.
"What…?" Slowly, she walked over to the shelves. Olga's trophies had been shoved aside, crammed in on top of each other, to make room for books, books she thought she recognized.
Coming closer, she was sure she knew these books—they were hers! And not just one copy of each—no, there were Spanish translations and French and German and Dutch…there must have been at least a dozen copies of each of the six poetry books she had written. And she knew her parents didn't speak any other languages. Her father used to say that if someone didn't know how to speak English, they probably didn't know anything else useful either, so it was no use trying to talk to them. But here were her books, in a dozen translations, in her parents' house.
Below the books were binders, like the photo albums they had had of Olga. These had her name on them, though. "Helga I," "Helga II," and so forth. She pulled one out, aware that everyone behind her was silently watching her every move.
Slowly, she opened the heavy binder. It was a scrapbook, filled with articles on her, book reviews, little clippings—anything that mentioned her name. There were even adds, and a cartoon the New Yorker had run on her a couple of years ago. Some of the references were so minute she could barely find them, but everything was there. Her mother must have spent hundreds of hours putting these together.
There were video tapes on the shelf, too, labeled "Helga on Oprah," "Helga on Late Show," "Helga on Rhonda." There was even a tape labeled "Helga in School Play, 4th Grade, R&J." Helga smiled nostalgically, remembering that.
All this stuff—there had to be at least as much as they had ever had on Olga, if not more. She turned back to her parents, astonishment clearly written all over her face.
"We've got every stinkin' article you were ever in, every show you were ever on," her father told her, reading her face.
"We're so proud of you, Helga," her mother said softly.
"Yeah, you've done real good, girl," Bob added gruffly.
Helga felt tears gathering in her eyes again. Her parents were proud of her. They were proud of her! Not Olga, her. Helga.
"Why didn't you come back to us, Helga?" her mother asked.
Helga blinked away the tears that were threatening to spill over. "I wanted to," she said, realizing that her words were true as she said them. "I wanted to so badly. But you told me that I wasn't a Pataki anymore." The last comment was directed at her father.
"I never said that!" Bob said, looking shocked. "I would never!"
"You did, Dad," she said, looking at him. "You said that I was no longer your daughter."
He shook his head. "You just think I said that," he contradicted. "But I didn't. You were just being stubborn. Why would I say that you weren't my daughter? You are my daughter. You're my baby girl. I love you."
She could have argued more, but she knew that it wouldn't do any good. He would just be stubborn, as stubborn as he had been about contacting her before. But he was right about one thing—she had been just as stubborn as he. And what did it matter, anyway? He had said he loved her. Her father, Robert "Big Bob" Pataki, the Beeper King, had just said that he loved his youngest daughter, Helga Geraldine Pataki. Why be stubborn any longer?
For the first time in four years, Helga G. Pataki was home.
Aww….I love Helga's family so much, I really do. They're so stupid! Lol. Anyway, reviews, please…I'm aiming for a hundred by the end of this story.
Disclaimer: If you really think it's mine by now…
Part VIII
"Home"
"Close your eyes."
"Why?" Helga asked, giving Arnold a quizzical look. He was bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, with a goofy grin on his face, like he was bursting with an wonderful secret. They had been in Brooklyn for four days, now, and most of his cheerful, happy-go-lucky optimism had come back. There were times, however, when Helga caught of glimpse of the steel he had grown, the coarseness that imprisonment had brought to him.
"It's a surprise," Arnold replied, holding up a strip of cloth.
"Oh, no," Helga said, backing away. "If you think you're blindfolding me, you better think again, Football Head."
He made mock puppy-dog eyes. "Please? Pretty please? Pretty pretty please with sugar on top? And whipped cream and a cherry and sprinkles and hot fudge and…asparagus and chicken and…"
"All right, all right already! Just shut up!" Helga snapped, but there was no venom in it. Grinning, Arnold stepped behind her and placed the blindfold over her eyes, tying it securely behind her head.
"Come on," he said, taking her hand and leading her forward. Ordinarily Helga would panic, deprived of one of her senses, and she certainly wouldn't trust anyone else to lead her blind…but this was Arnold. Somehow she wasn't the slightest bit worried, and she knew he would never lead her into danger.
She could tell by the way they were heading that they were leaving the boarding house. "Arnoldo, where are you taking me?" she asked as they exited the building.
"You'll see," was all he'd say. "Careful. We're going down the stoop." They made their way carefully down the steps. "Okay, now we're getting into the car." She felt the gentle pressure of his hand on her head, making sure she didn't bump her head as she slid into Arnold's car. She heard the door close, and fumbled for her seatbelt as she waited for Arnold to get into the driver's side.
The car started, rumbling underneath her. "Arnold, are we driving somewhere?" Helga asked.
"That's generally what happens when one gets into a car," Arnold teased.
"Then why didn't you just blindfold me when we got into the car, instead of having to lead me out of the house?" she asked.
Arnold was silent for a minute. "Umm…"
Helga laughed softly. "So you won't tell me where we're going?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But it's not far. Just be patient." She heard a click, and then the radio came on, Dino Spumoni's voice crooning out of the speakers.
Helga sat back, letting out an inaudible sigh. What was he doing? Come to think of it, what was she doing? Living in Arnold's house, being treated as a heroine and a guest of honor by his family and the boarders, living as part of the family…but it was all a lie. Arnold hadn't expressed anything more than friendship towards her since he had kissed her in the cell before his planned execution. And even that might have been just a friendly kiss. Maybe there hadn't been anything since they were trapped in a cell together.
She was beginning to think that he might have been delirious at the time, or maybe she had been. He hadn't mentioned it, hadn't even given a hint that it had happened. And as much as she enjoyed his company, she knew that she couldn't stay with him indefinitely. Yes, she loved him. But she'd put herself through enough torture when she was younger to know what was healthy for her and what wasn't, and this certainly fell into the latter category.
She would leave tomorrow, she decided. She would thank Phil and Gertie for their hospitality, and then she would go home. Or maybe to her other planned destination. She wasn't sure. But she did know that she shouldn't stay in Brooklyn any longer, not unless Arnold…well, he wouldn't.
Lost in these thoughts, she was startled when Arnold turned off the radio and announced, "We're here." He got out of the car and walked around to her side to help her out.
"Okay, I'm taking off the blindfold now," he told her. She felt him untie the band from around her head, and the cloth fell away from her eyes.
She was standing in front of an old, middleclass brownstone, built in the vertical style of the day, crammed in with other buildings with stories stacked on top of each other. Yes, she knew where they were. Somewhere she'd sworn never to return to.
Home.
"Forget it, Arnold," she said, turning and heading back towards the car. "I'm not going in there."
He stopped her, blocking her path and placing his hands on her shoulders. "Come on, Helga. They're your family. You have to reconcile with them eventually."
"No, I don't," Helga replied stubbornly. "Now let go of me."
He didn't. "Look, Helga, you gave me my family back. This is my chance to return the favor."
"I don't *want* them back!" she snapped, frustrated. "And I'm sure they don't want me either!"
"How do you know?" he asked. "I talked to your dad, and he seemed like he wanted to see you."
"You talked to him?" she demanded, furious. "Why?"
He sighed. "Helga. You need to do this. Just talk to them. Five minutes. You don't have to stay any longer than that, if you don't want to. I promise."
Helga glared at him, but indecision was warring within her. He must have seen it, because he followed up on his advantage.
"Please, Helga," he said coaxingly. "I promised them you'd come. You wouldn't make a liar out of me, would you?"
She held the glare for a minute longer, trying to resist the urge to slap him or kiss him. "Fine," she spat out finally. "But five minutes. That's it."
To her surprise, he didn't gloat, or even smile. He just looked at her sympathetically. "I'm proud of you, Helga," he said. She didn't answer, just headed for the stoop.
"And who knows?" he asked as they mounted the steps. "You may just be surprised."
"I doubt it," she said coldly, as she rang the doorbell. Her mind was full of the years she had spent here, shivering in the shadow of her older, perfect sister while her parents shone the little warmth they possessed down on *Ooolga.*
God, her family. Big Bob, and his brusque, overbearing bellow. His bellicose growl. His materialistic money-grubbing and workaholism. His dictatorial commands and constant barrages of insults, calling her "Olga," or just "the girl." Mirium, her mother, with her alcoholism and her impotence and her bitterness and her inability to grasp even the simplest of motherhood skills. Helga had all but raised herself in that house.
No wonder I turned out so screwed up, she thought bitterly, staring at the door of her childhood prison. The only decent role model I ever had was a football-headed little boy.
And of course, there was *Ooolga.* Perfect in every way possible. It was hard to live your life as "Award-Winning Olga Pataki's Sister." Olga was smart, beautiful, talented, kind, married to a just-as-perfect-as-she-was man named Ned or something like that, had two perfect kids, and lived her life straight as a ruler. She hadn't colored outside of the lines in their coloring books since she was about one and half. Helga, on the other hand, had drawn goatees and devil horns on the people in the books, and then proceeded to draw her own pictures.
Olga's one redeeming quality, at least in Helga's eyes, was that she at least loved Helga, in her own way. But Olga's own way was stifling and selfish. Helga had long ago realized that Olga loved her "baby sister" because she felt that a big sister should, and it would have been a mark against her on her perfect slate if she hadn't. She didn't really know Helga, or understand her at all, and she was so completely dominated by their father, as was Mirium, that Helga hadn't heard from either of them in four years.
It wasn't that she missed them so much as it simply hurt to realize that they just hadn't cared enough to contact her. She should hardly have been surprised, though, that her absence hadn't really been felt in the Pataki family circle. Her presence hadn't been felt, either. That was what had marked her childhood, just two things—longing for Arnold, and coldness at home.
No wonder I jet around the world the way I do, Helga realized, staring at her door. The only home I ever knew was no home to me. Arnold was all the home I ever had, and I looked for him everywhere I went.
All these thoughts took but a few seconds, which was just as well, for Helga could hear footsteps approaching. Hurriedly, she stepped back, suddenly bashful and apprehensive. What if Bob threw her out? What if he slammed the door in her face? Why had Arnold even done this to her in the first place?
The door opened slowly, as if the person on the other side was just as afraid of this meeting as she was. And there stood her father, Big Bob Pataki, just the way she remembered him. Sure, his hair was a little grayer, and the wrinkles around his eyes were a little deeper, but he was still the big, hulking man she remembered. She had grown considerably since childhood, when he had towered above her, but he was still a giant to her.
She had never seen that look in his eyes, though, not once in the nineteen years she had still considered herself his daughter.
"Helga?" he said, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he was afraid it would break. She nodded, mildly surprised that he had gotten her name right. She wasn't sure what game he was playing, but she wouldn't let him win. The moment he showed his colors, if he tried to screw with her again, she would let him have it.
"My baby girl!" he said suddenly, pulling her into his arms crushingly and enfolding her in a tight embrace. Helga's eyes widened slightly. What was this? Her father, Big Bob Pataki, openly admitting affection?
"I missed you so much," he admitting gruffly into her ear, not letting go of her. She noticed a break in his voice. Was the Beeper King actually crying?
The smell of him, Yahoo soda and pipe tobacco and woolen sweaters, suddenly came at her in a rush. She had a vivid flashback, as clear as if it was happening right now. It was nighttime, and she was standing in a tree house with Arnold and some of the others, watching as a bulldozer headed uncompromisingly towards them, ready to destroy the tree, with them in it. And her father, rolling on the ground with the scumbag who was willing to kill them to get rid of this tree—his clothing ripped, his nose bloodied, but fighting…fighting to save her life, his daughter's life. She felt sudden, unexpected tears spring to her eyes.
"I missed you too, Daddy," she told him, hugging him back. All thoughts of berating him to protect herself flew out the window. Her father loved her. He loved her. She knew it. He didn't have to say it, and he might not, but he had shown her—and when it came down to real, true emotions, showing them was the Pataki way, when words were too hard.
After all, hadn't she shown Arnold she loved him, when she saved his life? It was his own fault if he didn't get it. She, as a Pataki, needed no translation.
"Come inside," Bob said, pulling away. "Your mother's waiting. You too, Andrew."
Helga rolled her eyes, smiling. Good old Bob. "Arnold, Dad."
"Right, Arnold."
Arnold, looking not insulted in the least, followed them into the house.
They went into the trophy room. Helga caught a glimpse of several people in the room before she was enfolded, this time by two sets of arms.
"Helga, oh, my little girl!"
"Baby sister!"
Helga hugged her mother and sister back, and now she was crying, really crying, as bad as Olga when she was on a crying jag, but a happy crying jag. "Mom! Olga!" she sobbed, laughing through her tears.
"Oh, Helga, I'm so glad you're finally home!" Mirium said, when they had calmed down enough to break away and talk.
"Let me look at you," Olga said, holding her at arm's length. "Oh, you're beautiful, baby sister!"
Helga smiled, a little ironically. "I finally look like you, Olga," she teased.
"Oh, you must meet Nathan!" Olga squealed, switching gears in the way she had. She beckoned, and a handsome man came forward. Oh, that was his name. Nathan. He looked like he had just stepped out of the pages of GQ, with chiseled good looks and a perfectly pressed suit. He looked like he lived in suits, like he took showers in them.
"Hi, Nate," Helga said cheerfully, sticking a hand out.
"Nathan," he corrected a bit dryly, giving her a thousand-watt grin. "It's so nice to finally meet Olga's sister. She's told me so much about you."
"And these are the twins," Olga said, gently pushing two angelic little blond cherubs in matching sailor suits forward. "The boy is named Robert, after Daddy, and the girl is named Helga, after…well, you."
Helga bent down to the children's level, flabbergasted. Olga had named her daughter after her? The poor child—Helga was an atrocious name. She studied the children. Except for sex, they were practically identical, with round chubby faces, thin, pale hair, and serious, earnest blue eyes.
"Are you our Aunt Helga?" the boy, Robert asked in a clear, piping voice.
Helga nodded. "Yes, I am."
"Do you hate your name, too?" asked the girl, her namesake, looking at her with innocent eyes.
"Helga!" said Olga sharply.
The older Helga looked back at the little girl, whose eyes suddenly twinkled mischievously. "Yes, I do," she replied with a little smile.
"Helga!" said Mirium, just as sharply.
The two Helgas grinned at each other, and the older one stood up, glancing idly at the trophy shelves as she did. What she saw there almost made her fall down again.
"What…?" Slowly, she walked over to the shelves. Olga's trophies had been shoved aside, crammed in on top of each other, to make room for books, books she thought she recognized.
Coming closer, she was sure she knew these books—they were hers! And not just one copy of each—no, there were Spanish translations and French and German and Dutch…there must have been at least a dozen copies of each of the six poetry books she had written. And she knew her parents didn't speak any other languages. Her father used to say that if someone didn't know how to speak English, they probably didn't know anything else useful either, so it was no use trying to talk to them. But here were her books, in a dozen translations, in her parents' house.
Below the books were binders, like the photo albums they had had of Olga. These had her name on them, though. "Helga I," "Helga II," and so forth. She pulled one out, aware that everyone behind her was silently watching her every move.
Slowly, she opened the heavy binder. It was a scrapbook, filled with articles on her, book reviews, little clippings—anything that mentioned her name. There were even adds, and a cartoon the New Yorker had run on her a couple of years ago. Some of the references were so minute she could barely find them, but everything was there. Her mother must have spent hundreds of hours putting these together.
There were video tapes on the shelf, too, labeled "Helga on Oprah," "Helga on Late Show," "Helga on Rhonda." There was even a tape labeled "Helga in School Play, 4th Grade, R&J." Helga smiled nostalgically, remembering that.
All this stuff—there had to be at least as much as they had ever had on Olga, if not more. She turned back to her parents, astonishment clearly written all over her face.
"We've got every stinkin' article you were ever in, every show you were ever on," her father told her, reading her face.
"We're so proud of you, Helga," her mother said softly.
"Yeah, you've done real good, girl," Bob added gruffly.
Helga felt tears gathering in her eyes again. Her parents were proud of her. They were proud of her! Not Olga, her. Helga.
"Why didn't you come back to us, Helga?" her mother asked.
Helga blinked away the tears that were threatening to spill over. "I wanted to," she said, realizing that her words were true as she said them. "I wanted to so badly. But you told me that I wasn't a Pataki anymore." The last comment was directed at her father.
"I never said that!" Bob said, looking shocked. "I would never!"
"You did, Dad," she said, looking at him. "You said that I was no longer your daughter."
He shook his head. "You just think I said that," he contradicted. "But I didn't. You were just being stubborn. Why would I say that you weren't my daughter? You are my daughter. You're my baby girl. I love you."
She could have argued more, but she knew that it wouldn't do any good. He would just be stubborn, as stubborn as he had been about contacting her before. But he was right about one thing—she had been just as stubborn as he. And what did it matter, anyway? He had said he loved her. Her father, Robert "Big Bob" Pataki, the Beeper King, had just said that he loved his youngest daughter, Helga Geraldine Pataki. Why be stubborn any longer?
For the first time in four years, Helga G. Pataki was home.
Aww….I love Helga's family so much, I really do. They're so stupid! Lol. Anyway, reviews, please…I'm aiming for a hundred by the end of this story.