Author's Note: Okay, I went back and fixed it…I don't know why I copied it
like that, but now there is only one of this chapter. I hope.
Disclaimer: As I said before, Hey Arnold does not belong to me. Neither do "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" (Elton John) and "You Belong To Me" (Patsy Cline) from the last chapter.
Part X
"Friendship"
Helga didn't cry in the taxicab as they drove to the airport. She didn't cry on the entire flight to Boston. She didn't cry as she looked up the people she was looking for in the phone book, and she didn't cry in the cab on the way to their house. And she didn't cry, ringing the doorbell, standing on the front steps of an impressively large and elegant house.
But when her old best friend Phoebe Hyerdahl-Johansen opened the door and exclaimed "Helga!" she burst into tears.
"Helga, what happened?" Phoebe asked, pulling her into a hug, the past six years melting away until they were seventeen again, BFFs, P.H. and H.P., the Dynamic Duo. "Is everything all right?"
Helga sniffled, trying to get her emotions under control. "It's just…Arnold…and then I left…and I was kidnapped…and…oh, God, Phoebes, I missed you so much!" Something released inside of her, knowing that she was with the one person in the world to whom she could tell everything, who would never judge and always understand. She had a sudden, inexplicable feeling of safety.
"Phoebe? Who is it?" a familiar voice called from inside. Helga stiffened, and her tears abruptly ceased. She had never let herself show her true emotion in front of him, and her pride prevented her from starting now.
Phoebe didn't answer her husband, just leaned over and grabbed Helga's suitcase. "Come on in, Helga," she offered, leading her friend into the house. "Come say hello to Gerald."
Phoebe and Gerald's house was large and comfortable, full of cedar furniture and woodsy scents and thick red Oriental rugs. There were interesting knickknacks everywhere and stark, black and white photographs in russet frames on the walls—little girls, pine trees, city skylines. The house was like a larger version of Phoebe and Gerald's relationship—quiet, intense, durable, and right, like something that was simply supposed to happen. There was a peacefulness to it that eased some of Helga's anxieties.
As they walked through the house, Helga studied her old friend surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye. Phoebe looked much the same as always, still petit and elfin, with short, shining black hair whacked off unceremoniously below the ear and slightly tousled. She still stubbornly clung to glasses—Helga remembered the two-month fiasco in eleventh grade when Phoebe had attempted to switch to contacts. She had lost one almost every other day, been consistently late to school because it took her so long to get them in, and developed allergic reactions the doctors didn't even know were possible. It had all culminated in Phoebe getting a contact stuck behind her eyeball and almost requiring surgery to get it out. After that she had stuck with the old wire-rim spectacles, but they looked good on her, accentuating the lovely almond eyes that Helga had always envied.
They entered the family room, where Gerald was sitting, flipping channels on a wide screen TV. He turned as the women walked in, jumping up when he saw Helga.
"Helga!" he exclaimed, just as Phoebe had. Like Phoebe, he looked much the same as he had when they were younger, except for the hair, which he had tuned down after high school.
"Hello, Gerald," Helga replied, a little uncertainly. They had never been close.
To her surprise, Gerald came up to her and embraced her. "It's good to see you well," he said, hugging her stiffly, feeling the strangeness between them as acutely as she did.
"Arnold called us and told us what happened in Cairo," Phoebe explained as Gerald and Helga broke apart. "Obviously we knew you were safe, but we were still worried about your…mental health, after an ordeal like that."
"What happened?" Gerald asked earnestly. "I mean, getting kidnapped…who was this Edward Niles guy?"
Helga blushed slightly, feeling a little flustered. "It's…it's a long story, and I just really dropped in to say hello…I'll need to call a hotel…"
"Nonsense," Phoebe said, waving a hand. "You'll stay with us."
"I don't want to impose…"
"Helga," Phoebe interrupted, giving her a look. "It's us."
Helga smiled. "Oh, yeah. I forgot." Feeling better, she sat down on the couch and launched into her story. "Well, you see, I was kind of making my tour of foreign cities—I do that when I write—and…" She told them the whole story, every detail, from her kidnapping to seeing Arnold again, from meeting Arnold's parents to breaking out of jail, from the botched execution to the reunion at the Pataki home. The only things she left out were any romantic encounters between her and Arnold. She would tell those to Phoebe alone, later—besides, anything Arnold wanted Gerald to know about that he had surely already told him.
It was good to be back, among friends, people who knew her past and expected nothing of her. After her story, which left Phoebe and Gerald properly dumbfounded, they had dinner, which Gerald cooked, surprising Helga. It was very good, too—a kind of delicate beef dish, with something like a quiche on the side and a cold potato soup. Phoebe explained proudly that Gerald was a man of many talents.
They sat around the fire with glasses of red wine after dinner, reminiscing about the good old days in Brooklyn. Helga felt old, very old, and every time Gerald and Phoebe exchanged a glance or a kiss, she felt lonely. They were still newlyweds in love, these two, despite their years together, and she wondered why exactly she had left Arnold standing on the roof. Didn't she love him? Didn't she want to be with him, want to spend her life gazing adoringly into his green eyes and writing poetry full of worship and daydreams?
But no, that wasn't to be. She knew she had done the right thing. She would love nothing better than to have Arnold love her, completely, unconditionally, forever. But he didn't, and he couldn't. After all, she was Helga.
It grew late, and eventually Phoebe showed Helga to her room, a cozy little nook furnished in warm russets and yellow. "When you live in Massachusetts, you try to make everything feel as warm as possible," Phoebe explained, showing her where the bathroom and everything else was.
It was the perfect time to get something that had been bothering her off her chest, and Helga took advantage of it. "Phoebes?" she said softly.
"Yeah?"
Helga sat on the bed next to her open suitcase, hanging her head. "I…I'm sorry I didn't stay in touch with you better over these past few years. There were a lot of things, and I guess I just kind of got caught up in what I was doing and didn't…I don't know, reach out that hand. But I got kind of mixed up without you to steer me straight…you always kept me on track, and I needed that, I guess. It's just…I'm sorry. I should have been a better friend."
Phoebe sat down next to Helga, taking her hand. "It's okay, Helga. I'm just as much at fault as you are, anyway. It takes two to stop calling and writing…I'm sorry, too."
Helga smiled crookedly, and the two hugged. Somehow Helga knew that even if she left now and they didn't talk for the next seventy years, they would still be the best of friends. But she didn't see any reason to leave now.
Phoebe, sensing that something else was troubling Helga, broached another topic, one that she knew was tricky even in the best of times.
"Helga…" she began cautiously. "What happened with Arnold?"
Helga's mind flashed back to the few, sweet kisses, the night on the roof, his hand in hers…his eyes. Without warning, she burst into fresh tears.
"He…he said he loved me," she gasped out between sobs.
Phoebe's jaw dropped. Okay, so Arnold hadn't told Gerald everything. "What did you do?"
"I left." Chokingly, Helga explained all that had happened between the two of them, and her reasons for leaving. Phoebe nodded sagely as Helga narrated her tale of woe.
"Well, I think you did the right thing," Phoebe said finally. "I'm proud of you."
"You are?" Helga sniffled.
"Yes," Phoebe replied firmly. "Not many people would be mature enough and considerate enough to walk away like that. But I don't think…" She trailed off.
"What?" Helga asked. "What don't you think?"
Phoebe shrugged. "Arnold's not the type to rush into things, to not think things through. I don't think he would say anything he didn't mean. Maybe he was wrong, and if he was, you surely showed him that, and he can move on. But if he's not…if he really meant it, if he really does love you…then he'll follow you. And he'll figure out how to prove it."
Helga smiled through her tears. "You're pretty smart, Phoebes," she said.
Phoebe smiled back. "Yeah. No wonder I was the first person to get through Harvard premed and medical school in only six years." She patted Helga on the back and got up. "Sleep well, Helga. Get some rest. You look exhausted."
"Good night, Phoebe," Helga said, getting up to unpack her suitcase. "Oh, and Phoebes?"
Phoebe paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
Phoebe smiled. "You're welcome, Helga." With that, she disappeared down stairs.
Helga had barely unpacked a shirt when there was a knock on her doorframe. She looked up to see Gerald standing in the open doorway, looking uncertain. "Hey, Gerald."
"Hey, Helga. Can I come in?"
She spread her hands. "It's your house."
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walked into the room. "Is the room all right?" he asked.
"It's perfect," she replied. "You guys have a beautiful house."
"Thanks." He suddenly seemed to decide to cut to the chase. "Look, Helga…I've been meaning to apologize to you for a while," he said.
Helga gave him a look. "About what?" she asked.
He sighed. "Well…I guess it's partially my fault that Phoebe didn't really try to keep in touch with you during college," he admitted. "I didn't always give her your messages, I tried to discourage her from contacting you…I just kind of tried to put a wedge in the friendship. I was…jealous, I guess. Jealous of the hold you had on her, of how much she respected you and wanted to emulate you."
Helga scoffed. "Phoebe's the one to emulate," she said. "She's perfect. Smart and nice and…"
He gave a small chuckle. "Yeah, don't I know it," he said. "But you've got some qualities too." He blew out a big breath of air. "But like I said, I was a little envious of how much of her time worrying about you took up. It was like Arnold all over again."
Helga's gaze hardened. "What about Arnold?"
Gerald shrugged. "When we were younger, even in elementary school, but really all the way up till graduation, he was always fretting over you, thinking about you, wondering, trying to figure you out. I got so sick of hearing about you…I used to tease him, ask him if he had a crush on you, and he'd get all red in the face and huffy and change the subject. It wasn't like his other crushes, on stupid people like Ruth McDougal and Lila, so I didn't know, but he was definitely more concerned with you than anyone else we knew."
Helga looked down at her hands. "I didn't know that," she said softly.
"Of course not," Gerald replied. "He's good at keeping secrets. Almost as good as you." He let that sink in before continuing. "Anyway, when Phoebe and I got serious…well, I always thought that you were a bad influence on her…you know you and I didn't have a very good relationship in school…and so I kind of pulled her away from you. And I just wanted to say that, well…I'm sorry. I'm sorry because it wasn't right to do to you or her, whether it was good for her or not. But I'm also sorry because it was wrong, because you are and always have been a great influence on her and you've always brought out the best in her, and I just…I'd like to bury the hatchet. I'd like to try and be friends, real friends, for once."
Helga smiled slowly. "I'd like that," she said. "I mean, I don't blame you at all for what you did. I wasn't exactly the greatest to you when we were young. And I know you were doing it for Phoebe. But Gerald, I always supported your…suit with her, I guess." Gerald chuckled at the archaic term. "I always thought you were right for her. I was so happy when I heard about your wedding. For both of you."
"Thanks," Gerald said. They stood there awkwardly for a minute, then hugged, even more awkwardly—but in a pleasant, fresh kind of awkward, not the distance they had suffered through when she first arrived.
Gerald turned to go. Halfway to the door, he stopped. "Helga?"
"Yeah?"
"Arnold told me what happened between you…some of it. And how brave you were in Egypt, and strong, and wonderful, and…well, you know Arnold and his superlatives. And he's my best friend, and I love him, and I'm almost as grateful as he is for saving his life, and his parents and all…"
Helga felt herself flushing slightly. "Yeah?"
"Well, I just wanted to say…" Gerald paused. "You're a bold kid, Helga. A bold, bold kid."
Helga smiled. "You too, Geraldo." Gerald grinned, and walked out the door.
Helga went back to her unpacking, feeling much better now that the air was cleared with both residents of the house. She had gotten almost to the bottom of the suitcase when she felt something small and hard in it, stuck under the lining. She worked it out and held it under the light.
It was a small, grubby piece of paper, folded many times into a triangle, the edges bent from being tossed around for the past few days. 'Helga G. Pataki' was written on it in Arnold's untidy scrawl. She held it tightly, feeling the blood pounding in her ears. Arnold's letter. His last, staring-death-in-the-face, final confession letter. Should she read it?
Well, it was for her. She might as well. With shaking hands, she opened the intricately folded football, smiling faintly as she got the joke. She smoothed it out, and began to read.
Dear Helga…
Disclaimer: As I said before, Hey Arnold does not belong to me. Neither do "I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" (Elton John) and "You Belong To Me" (Patsy Cline) from the last chapter.
Part X
"Friendship"
Helga didn't cry in the taxicab as they drove to the airport. She didn't cry on the entire flight to Boston. She didn't cry as she looked up the people she was looking for in the phone book, and she didn't cry in the cab on the way to their house. And she didn't cry, ringing the doorbell, standing on the front steps of an impressively large and elegant house.
But when her old best friend Phoebe Hyerdahl-Johansen opened the door and exclaimed "Helga!" she burst into tears.
"Helga, what happened?" Phoebe asked, pulling her into a hug, the past six years melting away until they were seventeen again, BFFs, P.H. and H.P., the Dynamic Duo. "Is everything all right?"
Helga sniffled, trying to get her emotions under control. "It's just…Arnold…and then I left…and I was kidnapped…and…oh, God, Phoebes, I missed you so much!" Something released inside of her, knowing that she was with the one person in the world to whom she could tell everything, who would never judge and always understand. She had a sudden, inexplicable feeling of safety.
"Phoebe? Who is it?" a familiar voice called from inside. Helga stiffened, and her tears abruptly ceased. She had never let herself show her true emotion in front of him, and her pride prevented her from starting now.
Phoebe didn't answer her husband, just leaned over and grabbed Helga's suitcase. "Come on in, Helga," she offered, leading her friend into the house. "Come say hello to Gerald."
Phoebe and Gerald's house was large and comfortable, full of cedar furniture and woodsy scents and thick red Oriental rugs. There were interesting knickknacks everywhere and stark, black and white photographs in russet frames on the walls—little girls, pine trees, city skylines. The house was like a larger version of Phoebe and Gerald's relationship—quiet, intense, durable, and right, like something that was simply supposed to happen. There was a peacefulness to it that eased some of Helga's anxieties.
As they walked through the house, Helga studied her old friend surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye. Phoebe looked much the same as always, still petit and elfin, with short, shining black hair whacked off unceremoniously below the ear and slightly tousled. She still stubbornly clung to glasses—Helga remembered the two-month fiasco in eleventh grade when Phoebe had attempted to switch to contacts. She had lost one almost every other day, been consistently late to school because it took her so long to get them in, and developed allergic reactions the doctors didn't even know were possible. It had all culminated in Phoebe getting a contact stuck behind her eyeball and almost requiring surgery to get it out. After that she had stuck with the old wire-rim spectacles, but they looked good on her, accentuating the lovely almond eyes that Helga had always envied.
They entered the family room, where Gerald was sitting, flipping channels on a wide screen TV. He turned as the women walked in, jumping up when he saw Helga.
"Helga!" he exclaimed, just as Phoebe had. Like Phoebe, he looked much the same as he had when they were younger, except for the hair, which he had tuned down after high school.
"Hello, Gerald," Helga replied, a little uncertainly. They had never been close.
To her surprise, Gerald came up to her and embraced her. "It's good to see you well," he said, hugging her stiffly, feeling the strangeness between them as acutely as she did.
"Arnold called us and told us what happened in Cairo," Phoebe explained as Gerald and Helga broke apart. "Obviously we knew you were safe, but we were still worried about your…mental health, after an ordeal like that."
"What happened?" Gerald asked earnestly. "I mean, getting kidnapped…who was this Edward Niles guy?"
Helga blushed slightly, feeling a little flustered. "It's…it's a long story, and I just really dropped in to say hello…I'll need to call a hotel…"
"Nonsense," Phoebe said, waving a hand. "You'll stay with us."
"I don't want to impose…"
"Helga," Phoebe interrupted, giving her a look. "It's us."
Helga smiled. "Oh, yeah. I forgot." Feeling better, she sat down on the couch and launched into her story. "Well, you see, I was kind of making my tour of foreign cities—I do that when I write—and…" She told them the whole story, every detail, from her kidnapping to seeing Arnold again, from meeting Arnold's parents to breaking out of jail, from the botched execution to the reunion at the Pataki home. The only things she left out were any romantic encounters between her and Arnold. She would tell those to Phoebe alone, later—besides, anything Arnold wanted Gerald to know about that he had surely already told him.
It was good to be back, among friends, people who knew her past and expected nothing of her. After her story, which left Phoebe and Gerald properly dumbfounded, they had dinner, which Gerald cooked, surprising Helga. It was very good, too—a kind of delicate beef dish, with something like a quiche on the side and a cold potato soup. Phoebe explained proudly that Gerald was a man of many talents.
They sat around the fire with glasses of red wine after dinner, reminiscing about the good old days in Brooklyn. Helga felt old, very old, and every time Gerald and Phoebe exchanged a glance or a kiss, she felt lonely. They were still newlyweds in love, these two, despite their years together, and she wondered why exactly she had left Arnold standing on the roof. Didn't she love him? Didn't she want to be with him, want to spend her life gazing adoringly into his green eyes and writing poetry full of worship and daydreams?
But no, that wasn't to be. She knew she had done the right thing. She would love nothing better than to have Arnold love her, completely, unconditionally, forever. But he didn't, and he couldn't. After all, she was Helga.
It grew late, and eventually Phoebe showed Helga to her room, a cozy little nook furnished in warm russets and yellow. "When you live in Massachusetts, you try to make everything feel as warm as possible," Phoebe explained, showing her where the bathroom and everything else was.
It was the perfect time to get something that had been bothering her off her chest, and Helga took advantage of it. "Phoebes?" she said softly.
"Yeah?"
Helga sat on the bed next to her open suitcase, hanging her head. "I…I'm sorry I didn't stay in touch with you better over these past few years. There were a lot of things, and I guess I just kind of got caught up in what I was doing and didn't…I don't know, reach out that hand. But I got kind of mixed up without you to steer me straight…you always kept me on track, and I needed that, I guess. It's just…I'm sorry. I should have been a better friend."
Phoebe sat down next to Helga, taking her hand. "It's okay, Helga. I'm just as much at fault as you are, anyway. It takes two to stop calling and writing…I'm sorry, too."
Helga smiled crookedly, and the two hugged. Somehow Helga knew that even if she left now and they didn't talk for the next seventy years, they would still be the best of friends. But she didn't see any reason to leave now.
Phoebe, sensing that something else was troubling Helga, broached another topic, one that she knew was tricky even in the best of times.
"Helga…" she began cautiously. "What happened with Arnold?"
Helga's mind flashed back to the few, sweet kisses, the night on the roof, his hand in hers…his eyes. Without warning, she burst into fresh tears.
"He…he said he loved me," she gasped out between sobs.
Phoebe's jaw dropped. Okay, so Arnold hadn't told Gerald everything. "What did you do?"
"I left." Chokingly, Helga explained all that had happened between the two of them, and her reasons for leaving. Phoebe nodded sagely as Helga narrated her tale of woe.
"Well, I think you did the right thing," Phoebe said finally. "I'm proud of you."
"You are?" Helga sniffled.
"Yes," Phoebe replied firmly. "Not many people would be mature enough and considerate enough to walk away like that. But I don't think…" She trailed off.
"What?" Helga asked. "What don't you think?"
Phoebe shrugged. "Arnold's not the type to rush into things, to not think things through. I don't think he would say anything he didn't mean. Maybe he was wrong, and if he was, you surely showed him that, and he can move on. But if he's not…if he really meant it, if he really does love you…then he'll follow you. And he'll figure out how to prove it."
Helga smiled through her tears. "You're pretty smart, Phoebes," she said.
Phoebe smiled back. "Yeah. No wonder I was the first person to get through Harvard premed and medical school in only six years." She patted Helga on the back and got up. "Sleep well, Helga. Get some rest. You look exhausted."
"Good night, Phoebe," Helga said, getting up to unpack her suitcase. "Oh, and Phoebes?"
Phoebe paused in the doorway. "Yeah?"
"Thanks."
Phoebe smiled. "You're welcome, Helga." With that, she disappeared down stairs.
Helga had barely unpacked a shirt when there was a knock on her doorframe. She looked up to see Gerald standing in the open doorway, looking uncertain. "Hey, Gerald."
"Hey, Helga. Can I come in?"
She spread her hands. "It's your house."
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he walked into the room. "Is the room all right?" he asked.
"It's perfect," she replied. "You guys have a beautiful house."
"Thanks." He suddenly seemed to decide to cut to the chase. "Look, Helga…I've been meaning to apologize to you for a while," he said.
Helga gave him a look. "About what?" she asked.
He sighed. "Well…I guess it's partially my fault that Phoebe didn't really try to keep in touch with you during college," he admitted. "I didn't always give her your messages, I tried to discourage her from contacting you…I just kind of tried to put a wedge in the friendship. I was…jealous, I guess. Jealous of the hold you had on her, of how much she respected you and wanted to emulate you."
Helga scoffed. "Phoebe's the one to emulate," she said. "She's perfect. Smart and nice and…"
He gave a small chuckle. "Yeah, don't I know it," he said. "But you've got some qualities too." He blew out a big breath of air. "But like I said, I was a little envious of how much of her time worrying about you took up. It was like Arnold all over again."
Helga's gaze hardened. "What about Arnold?"
Gerald shrugged. "When we were younger, even in elementary school, but really all the way up till graduation, he was always fretting over you, thinking about you, wondering, trying to figure you out. I got so sick of hearing about you…I used to tease him, ask him if he had a crush on you, and he'd get all red in the face and huffy and change the subject. It wasn't like his other crushes, on stupid people like Ruth McDougal and Lila, so I didn't know, but he was definitely more concerned with you than anyone else we knew."
Helga looked down at her hands. "I didn't know that," she said softly.
"Of course not," Gerald replied. "He's good at keeping secrets. Almost as good as you." He let that sink in before continuing. "Anyway, when Phoebe and I got serious…well, I always thought that you were a bad influence on her…you know you and I didn't have a very good relationship in school…and so I kind of pulled her away from you. And I just wanted to say that, well…I'm sorry. I'm sorry because it wasn't right to do to you or her, whether it was good for her or not. But I'm also sorry because it was wrong, because you are and always have been a great influence on her and you've always brought out the best in her, and I just…I'd like to bury the hatchet. I'd like to try and be friends, real friends, for once."
Helga smiled slowly. "I'd like that," she said. "I mean, I don't blame you at all for what you did. I wasn't exactly the greatest to you when we were young. And I know you were doing it for Phoebe. But Gerald, I always supported your…suit with her, I guess." Gerald chuckled at the archaic term. "I always thought you were right for her. I was so happy when I heard about your wedding. For both of you."
"Thanks," Gerald said. They stood there awkwardly for a minute, then hugged, even more awkwardly—but in a pleasant, fresh kind of awkward, not the distance they had suffered through when she first arrived.
Gerald turned to go. Halfway to the door, he stopped. "Helga?"
"Yeah?"
"Arnold told me what happened between you…some of it. And how brave you were in Egypt, and strong, and wonderful, and…well, you know Arnold and his superlatives. And he's my best friend, and I love him, and I'm almost as grateful as he is for saving his life, and his parents and all…"
Helga felt herself flushing slightly. "Yeah?"
"Well, I just wanted to say…" Gerald paused. "You're a bold kid, Helga. A bold, bold kid."
Helga smiled. "You too, Geraldo." Gerald grinned, and walked out the door.
Helga went back to her unpacking, feeling much better now that the air was cleared with both residents of the house. She had gotten almost to the bottom of the suitcase when she felt something small and hard in it, stuck under the lining. She worked it out and held it under the light.
It was a small, grubby piece of paper, folded many times into a triangle, the edges bent from being tossed around for the past few days. 'Helga G. Pataki' was written on it in Arnold's untidy scrawl. She held it tightly, feeling the blood pounding in her ears. Arnold's letter. His last, staring-death-in-the-face, final confession letter. Should she read it?
Well, it was for her. She might as well. With shaking hands, she opened the intricately folded football, smiling faintly as she got the joke. She smoothed it out, and began to read.
Dear Helga…