AN: I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read and commented. Some of you have said that this story has helped you feel not quite so alone, and for that I am more than grateful. Grief is something that unites us all, as humans, as animals. And I am so thankful to be able to touch some of you, to help you, even if it is only through inadequate phrases and awkwardly worded sentences. Love.
She should be sleeping. It's ten at night and if the past three weeks have taught her anything, it's that when the baby is sleeping, she should be as well. But the sight before her is too arresting to ignore. A baby. Her baby. All ten pounds of her. Warm and soft with a head full of dark brown hair, ten fingers, ten perfect toes. Her baby, with chubby cheeks and a button nose. Her baby, one hand placed gently over a button mouth, the other resting on the blanket above her head. Her baby looking perfect and whole and absolutely beautiful. She can't quite get over it.
The feeling within her, the warmth filling her up until she's full to bursting is overwhelming. She has never felt this way before. Warring desires to sing and to hide causing her to be arrested in her chair. She has never before been one for long silences or sitting still. She is a doer. She excels at staying busy: thinking, plotting, writing. She is terrible at being stationary. But, this-this thing, this tiny human has turned her world upside down. She spends hours in the same position, watching each rise and fall of the tiny chest, every hiccup, each sleepy grumble. She delights in every arm wave, each blink and murmur and cry. She is never satisfied. She is afraid to move, afraid to leave, afraid to sleep for fear that she'll miss something.
And although she knows that she must sleep, that the baby monitor, lights glowing red in the darkness, will alert her immediately if she is needed by this puny little life, she cannot tear herself away. She simply sits and stares, waiting for tiny eyes to open, waiting until the first signs of movement signal a waking baby so that she can swoop in and sweep the small bundle into her arms.
She is no longer her own person. She has no autonomy. She is completely attached to this little girl, and she finds that she has no desire to rebel, to struggle against such chains. She has no desire to do anything other than provide everything for this child, her child. To be both mother and friend, protector, nourisher, singer of lullabies, and teller of stories, the strong arms in the dark, and the ones pushing the swing higher and higher. She can see moments laid out before her, before them, stretching off into the distance. First steps, pre-school, a kindergarten kiss with a boy behind the play structure at recess, exams, and tears, driver's licenses, fights, laughter, awards, college graduation, a wedding. Someday there will be a wedding. The thought is terrifying.
There will be a wedding, as long as she does her job correctly. Because this baby will grow into a girl into a woman, a beautiful strong, independent woman, but for now, all that stands between her and the world is a mother with no experience, flying by the seat of her pants, almost too afraid to breathe. Helena is the wall, the barricade, and the world has never seemed quite so evil as it does now, never quite so intimidating as it does when she realizes that she is the first line of defense against it's many terrors.
But she is also the gatekeeper. She is charged with opening the door and letting in the light, with describing to her daughter what the definition of purple is, sharing with her the sunsets and the sunrises. Counting the spots on butterfly wings. Finding the shapes among the stars. Pointing out beauty in the blade of grass, in the pollen left behind on the violet's soft petals by the buzzing bee. She has been given the gift of life, of opening these tiny eyes to all the joy the earth possesses, all the songs, the games, the simple beauty in the way the heat breaks after a summer storm, clouds heavy over the horizon, or the elegance in the lines of the tree's branches stretching overhead.
She is charged with providing love, something she has never truly understood until now. She is charged with making sure this tiny, tiny infant learns the definition of 'unconditional' before she can speak. She is charged with being the constant reminder for this other person that she is strong, that she is beautiful, that she can do all things with humility and grace. She has been chosen as caretaker for another human being. It is both electrifying and exhausting, terrifying and thrilling.
The baby shifts in her sleep, and the mother wonders if she is dreaming. She reaches out a finger and runs it over silky hair in wonder. This will never grow old, this moment, watching her daughter in all her dangerous glory will never not be enough for her. She is more content than she has ever been, more relaxed and more on edge, half afraid that someone will bang through the door at any moment, declare this has all been some terrible joke, there's been a mistake, and take the baby away before she can so much as cry out. But when her daughter calms under her mother's touch, relaxing back once more, she knows that this is not a joke, not some imaginary universe where she is simply playing house.
"You are loved," she tells the baby sleeping peacefully before her, and it is so true that it makes her throat ache. "You are loved, my darling," she leans forward to press the gentlest of kisses to a tiny cheek, inhaling that unique baby smell, "my Christina."
"Helena? Helena!" Charles is shaking her back to the present, but it is only with great trepidation that she retreats from the past. She was so happy then. It seems a shame to realize her fears were so well-founded. "Are you quite alright?" He is asking her, and it takes a moment for her to nod in response. She forces herself to stop twisting an invisible ring around her finger.
They are sitting in the park, on her normal bench. She has convinced him that an afternoon walk was in order. Thankfully, he has asked few questions and required little effort on her part to keep the conversation going, as he simply allowed her to steer them to their current position. Things were going relatively well until the woman walked past, baby wrapped snuggly in the stroller pushed before her. The girl, it had, quite obviously been a girl judging by the horrendous amount of pink, had looked so perfectly tiny and beautiful. Helena had nearly cried out at the sight, and she'd been forced to travel through time so as to avoid alarming her brother to her current state.
Memories were easier in such instances. Memories of her own daughter, shiny and new, and small enough to still be considered perfect by all who came into contact with her. Although Helena herself had never been able to see anything other than perfection in her daughter's bouncing curls and bright eyed gaze. So, she'd disappeared into a world where that cherry smile still existed and those ten perfect fingers and ten perfect toes were still waving delightedly in the air. Now, Charles was attempting to pull her back, against the current, as though she'd been dropped into the quickly moving stream that was time, except this river was flowing backwards, uphill, and he had the laborious task of towing her back to shore.
She nods to let him know that, yes, she'd made it, she is back on dry land, although her clothes are sopping wet, and causing her to shiver in distress as her body attempts to warm itself. But her feet are no longer struggling for purchase on an ever-changing river bottom and her lungs are not forced to suck in great gulps of half-water, half-air. He had played the lifeguard very effectively. So, she nodded in praise of his efforts and he gave himself a mental pat on the back. Ridiculous man.
"I was just saying," he began again, "that perhaps tomorrow afternoon we might go into the city and take in the Mall, the monuments and what not. What do you think?"
No. No, they mustn't. If only because spending the afternoon in the city meanstnot spending the afternoon in the park. But instead, "Yes, alright. If you'd like," comes out, and she gulps after the words have left her traitorous throat.
He beams.
She shifts awkwardly in place, and glances around them. There she is, looking lovely as always. Helena feels her breath get caught in her chest, snagged on some invisible hook. Lovely. She has not considered that this as an appropriate adjective for the woman until today, but it is quite true. It is somewhat cloudy this afternoon, overcast, and the world is tinged purple and blue, as seen through ski goggles or darkened sunglasses. It is the purple of an old film that was made with insufficient lighting. It softens the sharp corners and smoothes out the rough edges, and it causes the woman jogging up the path towards them to look as though she is moving through water, half in shadow.
She looks at her brother out of the corner of her eye. He, too, has noticed the woman. Except, where she is sitting stiffly, straight-backed, with her feet pressed together, her hands in her lap, he is relaxed, one arm thrown over the back of the bench, his body tilted towards her. It is obvious that he is familiar with her, and if she were an outsider, coming upon this situation for the first time, it would be difficult to ascertain exactly how familiar the two of them are. She wishes, not for the first time, that she was alone.
Being alone is her normal state of being, and where once she was not satisfied without human contact, now she is unsure how to react to its ever looming presence. She feels stifled by her brother's physical proximity, as though he is breathing in double his share of oxygen and leaving her to choke on his excess carbon dioxide. She wants to pull away, to make it obvious to the woman drawing closer every second that she is alone, that is he is not her companion, he is not with her. But it is too late, and she is upon them.
Running a curious eye over the striking and comfortable figure her brother has adopted, one eyebrow quirks in what might be amusement. Helena finds that she has stopped breathing, as though waiting in nervous anticipation for something unnamed. The brunette returns Charles' smirk with a level gaze, and then her green eyes turn to Helena. If the seated woman were completely in control of her faculties, she might ascertain the care with which the runner studies her, even as she moves so quickly past, the worry that flits across a serious brow. Instead, all she recognizes is the tiniest of nods, no smile, no 'hi,' no 'hey,' no acknowledgement of more than two week's worth of greetings.
And so she does not translate the question sent her way. The, "Alright?" that is asking if it is time for them to officially meet, if today should be the day the runner halts her headlong rush into the future, taking instead a step off the path to stand beside Helena, joining her in this trapped half-world she inhabits. With the, "Alright?" that slips by Helena's carefully erected defenses effortlessly but unnoticed, the woman is offering to join her in the rushing, freezing water of a stream that defies gravity. She is offering herself, but Helena misses it.
Instead, she feels her ribs contract around her lungs on impact, like a sonic boom from a passing plane that shatters the windows inward, forcing out the trapped air in a whoosh. If it weren't for her skeleton, she is certain that her body would collapse in on itself in despair. And the crushing wave that threatens to devour her causes the tint of the world to deepen to the indigo found in the half second between dusk and darkness. Between asleep and awake. Between living and dying.
And it's tilted more towards the dying side of things, until Charles exhales in a much more lively manner. "Hot," he proclaims to the world at large. And this simple, rude, chauvinistic comment causes her to swing back on her fulcrum, as the world evens itself out around her, level once more.
In the time before...before, she might have agreed, but now all she can think is, "Please." Sent after a retreating back. "Please," because they have missed one another once more. Twin cars on opposite sides of the highway at night who have overshot their exits and are spinning out of control in uncharted territory, maps lost in the jumble of things beneath the seat, coffees cold and stale in styrofoam cups, and eyes that have long since ceased to register the yellow lines blinking past on black pavement. "Please."
They are walking back to the house before dinner, Charles having proclaimed himself starving, when her brother finally gets to the heart of the matter.
"Have you been writing at all?" He asks nonchalantly, one arm looped through hers, as they stroll along. It all feels so very normal. She is quite confused.
"I-"
"Because I saw your notebook on your desk. It looked a bit dusty," he isn't looking at her.
She realizes that this is because he expects her to be upset with him. He has been snooping, looking at her personal things. She has not set foot in the library in weeks. She forgot that she owns a desk with a notebook and a pen with black ink that comes out looking like the silk of a spider's web on a white page. She forgot that once upon a time she was writer of words, that she could fashion the most beautiful webs, delicate and fine, but stronger than steel. She forgot, but with his question, she remembers, and she knows that she should feel upset with him, but instead she simply feels thankful to finally know, to understand, the true reason behind his visit.
Her brother does not simply cross the Atlantic Ocean on a whim. He does not travel thousands of miles to search her behavior for the hints of madness evident in her voice when he manages to get her on the telephone. He is not here for her. He is here for her words. And it is with a sense of relief that she answers, "So that's why you've come."
For some, the truth is a difficult pill to swallow so he splutters and coughs in consternation. "Of course not. Absolutely not. I missed you and wanted to visit! To-t-to check up on you. But, when the bosses heard that I was coming, they may have...asked...me to check in. To see if there might be another manuscript in the works," he appears both hopeful and ashamed.
"It's alright," she reassures him wryly, soothing him as one might a puppy who thinks they are in trouble. "But no."
"No?"
"No stories," she elaborates, exhausted. They are almost back on the familiar street that signifies the end of their journey.
"Helena," he unloops their arms and she heaves a sigh of relief at the sudden loss of contact. "You know that I think you're brilliant. A genius. But, it's been ages since you've written anything. Perhaps...perhaps it might prove therapeutic."
She would laugh out loud at her brother's bumbling stupidity if she didn't think the sound would tear her heart from it's precarious position in her chest.
There are tiny hands on her leg, and sleepy brown eyes peering up at her. She sets the pen back in its stand and flexes her fingers. She's never understood the fascination with computers. Hand writing one's work causes the words to flow that much easier, as an extension of one's self. "Come here, darling. Up from your nap already?" She lifts the small figure into her arms, sighing as dark curls burrow into her chest. "Mummy's almost done and then we can cuddle, yes?" A nod.
"Writing?" A young voice asks her.
"Mhmm. It's almost ready to be sent to Uncle Charles over in London."
"Wha's about, Mumma?"
"Well, this one is about a fantastical land far off in the future. And a man who travels there."
"S'good?"
She lets loose a light laugh, "I hope so, darling. But you'll have to be the judge of that someday. Someday when you're all grown up." She holds the girl tighter. Hopefully that day does not come too soon. If she could slow the ticking of the clock, command time as her protagonist does, she would do so without a second thought. Because although she cannot wait for her daughter to be grown, she revels in these moments, when Christina is small enough to fit perfectly in her lap, and young enough to look for mummy before all else upon waking.
"It's for you, my darling," she whispers, as she picks up her pen once more, the child already growing heavier against her. "My wonderful, darling girl."
"We'll see, brother," she offers him. But the book will stay closed and untouched on it's wooden casket. And the ink will dry up in its sheath, evaporating into the air, invisible and unread. The stories it was once capable of creating having been sucked clean away and buried six feet beneath the ground in an empty box four feet long. She turns away from such an image, from the pressure of six feet of cold, dark soil. She does not think of black holes or the stones that sit at their heads engraved with meaningless lines and symbols. She does not picture tiny coffins or flowers that mark the resting place of someone's baby, of her baby. She does not.
"Well, I'll let them know you're in the process of-"
"No." She cuts him off. "No, you will tell them no such thing."
He looks a bit taken aback at her fierce tone.
"Do you understand me, Charles?" She looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time since he's arrived. His dark eyes, so much like her own look back. She stares fiercely at him and her chest is heaving and her hands are clenched into tight fists and she is not certain where this rage has come from. She thought she'd spent it all months ago. But it is here, filling her up, causing her vision to blur and her brother's face to swim in and out of focus. The anger comes upon on her as a sudden wave, one she is incapable of stopping. "You will not tell them anything about me or what I may or may not be writing. And we will not speak of this again. Do I make myself clear?"
They are standing on the front stoop and when he nods mutely, she turns smartly on her heel to let them into the house. "Excellent. Now. What would you like for dinner?"
She regrets her outburst that night, after Charles has retired and she is alone in her bedroom. She does not often blow up at him in such a manner. He has been so extremely patient with this entire...ordeal. But she finds that she cannot stomach the thought of putting words to paper when she can hardly form coherent sentences most of the time. And there are no stories left in her, at least not that she can sense. They used to come to her at all times throughout the day: while making breakfast, getting the mail, driving to work. But now, she finds that the only novels she has left within her are those of the past, and these are too dangerous for her to even contemplate letting loose into the world. The only stories she retains are ones too precious for her to share.
The curtains are open and the moon is streaming through the transparent panes. She stands, looking out upon the world, silver where the moon hits, purple in the shadows. The stars are a million flecks of light, all pointing their beams toward earth. Some of those stars are already dead, she knows. They have winked out millions of years ago and the only clue one will have to their explosive death will be a last flicker before their patch of sky goes suddenly dark. All those stars in all those infinite miles of space, all with their own planets and solar systems and stories. Who will notice as they disappear? Who is tracking their brilliance?
"What's that one, Mummy? The 'w?'" A finger points up towards the heavens.
"Cassiopeia. A queen."
"And that one?"
"That's the dragon, Draco. See his head and there's his body."
"I see! I see it!" The little girl's body practically vibrates in excitement and Helena reaches over to take a tiny hand in her own, tracing the pattern the stars make with their conjoined fingers.
"And that one there, that looks like a cup of sorts, that's the Big Dipper. But it also makes up part of Ursa Major."
"Ursa Major?"
"The big bear."
"Is there a baby bear?"
"Little bear, yes," she smiles. "Right there. Ursa Minor."
"Are they a momma and a baby?"
This is one plausible version of the myth, so, "Yes."
"Like I'm your baby?"
"Exactly. My baby bear." The child giggles and snuggles closer to her mother beneath the blanket. "And you see that star, right there, in the little bear, the bright one?"
"Mhmm."
"That star is called Polaris. The North Star. And it's what helps the momma bear find her baby bear. It shines so bright all the time and it never moves."
"So if the momma bear gets lost, she can just look for Po-lair-is?" She sounds out the unfamiliar word.
"Exactly, my love. If the mummy and her baby get separated, they just look for Polaris and follow it home again."
Her daughter hums deep in her throat. "What if I ever get lost, mumma?"
"I'll just follow the North Star back to you, my darling. I could never lose you for long."
"Promise?"
"I promise."