AN: I'm a bit overwhelmed by the response this story has received. Thank you. Thank you all so much. Love.
It is the fifth official day of Charles' visit and the fourth day she has not been to visit the park. It is the fourth day in a row that she has not met the bright smile of a woman who runs with a purpose with a tentative uplifting of her own lips. It is the fourth day in a row that she has not whispered her hello, her 'please. tell me your story as i long to tell you mine. because you entrance me. even from a distance.' in the form of a shy, "Hi." It is the fourth day, and it is cloudy and overcast. It is the type of day where you can smell the rain in the air, just out of sight. The type of day where you debate wearing a rain coat on your way out the door and then regret not doing so later in the afternoon. It is the fourth day in a row that Helena has felt herself to be slowly suffocating in the presence of a man who has known her since she was still in diapers.
They are on their way to the Mall. Charles has insisted that she take him to see the Capitol building, the Washington monument, everything. Even though he has already seen it multiple times. He insists that because they are being tourists for the day, they must act the part, and therefore they are riding the subway into the city. It is crowded and loud and everyone smells of wet wool and old shoes although the heavens have yet to open the flood gates.
She flip flops between reciting the periodic table and the Lord's Prayer. She is not religious. Once upon a time, she might have considered the periodic table to be one her daily prayers. That and proper sentence structure. And calculus. But, now, she says it not as a prayer, but simply as a way to keep her mind off the bodies that are too close to her own, their elbows poking her in the back, their conversations floating in one ear and out the other, louder and louder because none of them are actually listening to one another. She tries not to think of all the lives surrounding her, all the different stories that are overturning her senses and trying to outshout her own history. All of these people with petty problems and ridiculous concerns and mothers and fathers, sisters, husbands, aunts, uncles, mistresses, and children. So many stories in too tight a space. Their words are overflowing the available space. She wants to scream, to throw her hands over her ears, to escape, to give in to the overpowering urge she feels to just run. To hop off at the next stop, leaving her brother behind her, to take off, back towards the sheltered safety of a house with all its specters and poltergeists, back to an old bench and the piercing cries of happy children and a woman with brown curls and knowing eyes.
Helena is not a runner. She never has been. In the battle between fight or flight, it was her fight instinct that almost always kicked in, usually landing her in some type of trouble. Now, however, she would delight in nothing more than gaining the ability to sprout wings and fly away, no matter how improbable it might be. She would fly forever, free and unhindered, following some invisible compass. And perhaps, like Icarus she would be drawn towards the sun, closer and closer to its warmth, until her wings caught fire and she tumbled head over heels back to the earth. For even birds must make their nests on land. Even they must leave the freedom of the skies to return, shackled forever, to the earth.
And so she recites the periodic table to keep her feet firmly planted on solid ground. When she has finished, she runs through the Lord's Prayer: "Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name. Thy Kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven -" And then it's back to the periodic table because science is safer in this regard. Words are a two-edged blade which come without a warning label or a handle, so no matter how you try to handle them, you always come away with bloody palms. "Hydrogen. Helium. Lithium. Beryllium. Boron. Carbon. Carbon. Carbon." She cannot focus. The titles escape her, slipping out of her grasp as gas is wont to do.
Charles is shaking her shoulder, bringing her out of her half daze. "This is us!" he crows. He is excited. She doesn't understand. "C'mon, H," he encourages her, grabbing her hand to lead her through the mass of bodies and towards the doors that are sliding open.
They are pushing their way out onto the platform when it happens. She catches sight of her disappearing into the doors one car down. She is wearing a white dress with tights, and her inky curls are pulled into a pony tail off her neck. She is holding onto a woman's hand, and in the other tiny fist is clutched a raggedy old doll. Helena wrenches herself out of Charles' grasp and turns towards the disappearing child, but the doors are already closing with a horrible whooshing sound, even as her mouth closes over the name,
"Christina. Christina! Christina," she is spinning in circles, looking frantically for any sign of her daughter. She's wearing a red coat. It should be easy to spot, but amongst all these people, all these laughing families and fast moving feet, she cannot see her. "Christina?!"
Charles has moved away from her, his own face scrunched in concern and worry. She was just here. Helena turned away for only a moment, to tell Charles something, and when she looked back, her daughter was gone.
"Christina!" She is running, frantic and harried. She can hear the blood rushing in her ears as she looks everywhere. Absolutely everywhere. There! She spins the child, but it isn't her. It's not her daughter, and she doesn't even apologize to the little girl who is looking at her curiously, this half crazed mother who has been so suddenly separated from all that she is.
"Christina! Chris!" That's her brother's voice, deep and commanding and spreading towards her from the opposite direction.
There are scenarios running through her mind faster than the speed of light. Images and nightmares that flash before her too quickly to put names to. They are at the zoo. It's broad daylight, but they are surrounded by strangers. Any of them, any of these faceless, nameless people could have taken her. She could have wandered off, all naive innocence and trusting brown eyes. She could have been drawn in by her curiosity, her desire for wonder and knowledge. She could be anywhere.
"Christina!" Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears, harsh and strangled and nothing like herself. It has only been two minutes and already she has become unrecognizable. She is pivoting in place because there is no left or right or forward or backward. She is stuck, unable to move, to act. She has never felt so disjointed. So completely helpless as she does in this moment. She moves outward, stretching herself as thin as she can manage, covering as much distance, time, and space, searching, ever searching.
Until, "Mummy!" The voice is joyful, not scared or broken in any way, and she feels her heart leap into her throat. "Mummy, over here!" There she is, waving from a seated position atop the balloon sellers cart. She has a blue balloon tied to her wrist, holding it in place, keeping it from simply drifting up, up, and away to pop somewhere far above them in the atmosphere. She looks delighted.
Helena is torn between conflicting desires. She wants, for the first time to strike this child in front of her, this child who is looking at her happily. This seven year old who has no idea the panic her actions have caused. Helena's arm shakes at her side. She has never been so furious. But, instead, she pulls the tiny form in close to her own. They are nearly eye level because Christina is still sitting atop the cart. And so Helena buries her face in sun-drenched curls and holds back a sob. "Where have you been? Oh, my darling. My sweet, sweet girl."
When she finally pulls away to hold her daughter's face between her hands and count the freckles there, ensuring that each one is intact, Christina is looking a bit abashed. "I'm sorry, Mummy," she apologizes, looking down. "Didn't mean to scare you."
"Christina!" Charles' voice still sounds frightened.
"Charles!" Helena calls, sending the address over her shoulder without looking away from the perfect face in front of her. "Charles, she's here! I've got her."
"Oh, thank God," her brother pants as he skids to a halt beside them.
"You do not ever, ever do such a thing again, do you hear me?" She is both ferocious and protective. Her daughter nods silently. "I thought you were lost. I thought I'd lost you," and she pulls the tiny body, still so small, so helpless into her arms once more, placing kisses on whatever she can reach. "Never again, my darling. Please. I beg of you."
"Helena? Hey, are you alright?" her brother sounds frightened. He turned around at the sudden loss of contact, and finds her staring brokenly after a retreating train.
"Take me home," she orders, voice wooden. This was a bad idea. She is not ready. She doesn't want to be near all of these people.
"H, I-"
"Take me home, Charles." Tired. Worn. She does not say please.
But her face is pale, and she looks suddenly much smaller and more transparent than she did a moment ago, because he nods. He reaches out for her elbow, as though to lead her over to the opposite platform, back the way they'd come, but she flinches when he touches her and so he draws away.
Instead, he turns and she follows and they walk back to the other platform, weaving their way in and out of all of the other people trailing their stories behind them like capes in the breeze. And she does not look around for fear of spotting another little girl with brown hair and eyes the color of chocolate and curiosity and challenge all rolled into one.
It is even darker when they step out from the underground. It is only early afternoon, but already the world is grey. Taking on the colors found between black and white. Between present and invisible. The wind has begun to pick up, sweeping the orange and red leaves up from the street gutters until they are whipping around Helena's legs. She can feel the bite of the breeze through her sweater. It is almost cold enough to snow.
They stroll up the street. Well, Charles strolls, while she stumbles along behind, the half remembered image of a girl in a red coat, cheeks pink and shining in delight at giraffes who stretch above her short stature, tormenting her. She feels the first drops of rain as if from far away, splashing her in the face, thumping against her chest. Warning her of an impending deluge the way climate scientists attempt to warn the public about the next impending ice age. Charles lets out a murmur of distaste. They are still several blocks from the house.
She lifts her chin, closing her eyes for ten steps. One. Two. Seven. Twenty-four rain drops find her skin in that distance. When she opens her eyes once more, it takes a moment for them to adjust to the grayness that is her neighbor's mailbox and the paper sitting forgotten on the lawn, ink already beginning to run. She is ten steps closer to her house.
"Christina Wells, you get your tiny butt back in this house now, young lady!"
The only answer is twinkling laughter.
She sighs, wrapping her arms around her waist from the safety of the roofed porch. "Don't make me come out there!"
"Mummy! Look!" And the child throws her arms out, away from her body, spinning like a whirling dervish, faster and faster until it looks like she might spin out of control. But she comes to a half suddenly, and then wobbles on her short legs before toppling down into the mud with a joyous shout. Her hair is slicked back to her head and her clothes are soaked through.
"You'll catch cold," her mother warns.
"Mummy," and it is a reprimand as only youth can deliver.
"Christina," half plea, half fed up amusement.
She is unprepared for the little girl hurling herself towards her until it is too late and she opens her arms on reflex, accepting the impact and the wet hug that comes with it. Her daughter's hand is in her own and shining eyes are glowing up at her, tugging her out, away from the protective enclave that is her home.
"Come on," Christina urges her, until finally, she gives in, joining her daughter in the rain.
They hold hands and spin until they both flop down in the mud, and then Christina lobs a clod of wet dirt at her mother and Helena is forced to retaliate. They chase one another across the lawn, slipping and sliding on the grass, sopping and chilled, their clothes stained green and brown. And they are laughing. Helena is laughing. Laughing until she does not feel the rain or the cold, laughing until all she can remember is Christina's devilish smirk and well aimed mud ball.
Charles has the key and he lets them inside, shaking his hair as he does so, splattering the water around, bringing the rain in with him. She slips out of her shoes, but does not try to shake away the water running down the back of her neck. The cold chill is a welcome relief.
He waits to bring it up until they are sitting around the fake fireplace in the library, their feet pointed towards its cartoonish flames. He has a beer in one hand, lazing in the chair as if this has been his resting place for ages. She is sipping on a glass of wine that he put into her hand.
"What happened?" his voice is soft, testing. He is out on thin ice immediately, and he knows it.
She runs her finger along the rim of the glass, waiting as its low pitched tone fades from the room. She could just not answer, pretend she hasn't heard, although they are only separated by a meter of space. That air is full of unanswered questions and hanging sentence fragments no one was brave enough to finish. This could simply be another one lost in the abyss. She sighs. He deserves a response. For coming all the way here, putting up with her nonsense. He is her big brother after all. He's simply doing his best, and she cannot fault him for that, as much as she would like to.
"I-" she takes a sip of the wine, sharp and biting on her tongue, "I saw...a girl. And for a moment, I thought. Well, I thought it was her."
This is the first time she has made reference to her daughter out loud in months. Even the pronoun feels wrong crossing her lips. "Hydrogen. Helium. Lithium. Bery-"
"I see." Is that pity?
She hates pity. It's a horrible emotion. Wrong and off-putting.
"But, I'm fine," she snaps.
He stares at her, searching. He sees right through her. "You said you've been seeing someone...?"
No. She said she'd been talking to someone. A certain someone whose name she does not know, and she thinks that this probably won't cut it with her brother. She shrugs.
"Hel," his tone is guarded. "It might really help, you know. The-they have support groups and stuff. For people who have...lost a-"
"Lost?" It comes out strangled. "Like losing your keys. Or your favorite shirt. Lost. Like lost and found." She snorts. "It was not a loss, dear brother."
"Then what was it," and he says this last word delicately, unsure if it is appropriate.
She flounders, struggling for words. "Theft," she manages.
He levels a stare at her. "Theft," he repeats.
She glares at the carpeting. Yes. This is the proper term. But he is not satisfied, and she does not want to get into this with him, not while the barometric pressure is dropping and a storm is forming outdoors and her chest feels all mangled and full of shrapnel from some non-existent war. "Why don't you explain to me then," she bites out.
He opens and closes his mouth several times. "I- Well, they say -"
"They? Who is 'they?'" She's being intentionally nasty. She doesn't even care.
"They. Them. People who have experienced what you're going through. Experts."
"No one has experience what I'm going through," she hisses. "What I've gone through."
"Helena," this is a rebuttal, a rebuke. "That's not true."
"It is! It is true, Charles! You don't understand. You can't see." She is up and out of her chair, the emotion in her chest causing her legs to feel antsy. To need to move.
"You have to let it go, Helena. You cannot let this consume you."
"Consume me? She i-" She takes a deep, shuddering breath. Past tense. "She was my child. My child. And you expect me to simply move on?"
"Well, no, but-"
"No! My child, Charles. Born of my body. She was my soul. She was the best parts of me. The brightest parts. And now. Now I have nothing."
"That's not tru-" he tries again, but she cuts him off with a swipe of her arm.
"You don't know what it's like to have something that precious, that completely innocent just snatched away from you. Torn from you," and it is agony to say these words aloud.
"Help me understand," he pleads, staring up at her.
She strides over to him and pushes her hand against his chest, directly where his heart is. He does not have time to lean away. "Do you feel that?" her voice is softer now, dangerous. He nods. "Your heart is beating. Isn't it a wondrous thing?" Gently, she takes his hand in her own and lifts it to her own chest. "You feel that?" But he doesn't nod this time. "Empty," she whispers, turning away before he can disagree.
"Hel."
"She was my life. And I cannot simply walk away from that. I cannot simply put her on the shelf with all the other stories and be done with it, Charles. It doesn't work that way."
"No one is expecting you to forget about her," he argues. "That would be impossible. It's just that it's been months and all you do is mope around this house," he gestures to the walls, dark now, as the clouds have gathered with the coming storm. The pitter patter of rain drops fills the room, riding the silences between the flickering of fake flames. Their shadows are long, and black. "You quit your job, took a leave, whatever. You aren't doing anything."
"Mourning," she snaps. "I am mourning," she curls her hands into a tight ball.
"Yes, well, perhaps it's time to hang up the black."
She whirls to face him. And he cringes. This was a misstep. He backtracks. "What I meant was, that perhaps it's time to think about getting back out into the world again. Writing. Or teaching a lecture. Just go into the office now and then. Play chess with Caturanga or something."
She stares, almost dumbstruck. Her brother has never had the gall to speak to her this way before. She has always been the more commanding one. And here he is, reaming her out for mourning her child for God's sakes. She'd break out into laughter if it wasn't all so depressingly ridiculous.
"Is this really what she would want you to be doing?" A pause. "Helena? Is this how Christi-"
"Don't," her hand shakes. "Don't you dare say her name."
He sighs. "Helena. Is this what she would want?"
"Don't cry, mumma." A little hand wipes away the tears on her mother's cheek.
"I know, sweetness. I'm sorry." She closes the book that has caused these tears to fall. It is late. Christina should be asleep. But she has snuck into her mother's bedroom unnoticed. "I'm not sad, darling. Don't worry." She pulls the warm body up beside her own and places a kiss to each cheek.
"Love you," her daughter says sweetly.
"I love you, too, beautiful girl."
She shakes her head no and wraps her arms about herself because he is right. Of course he is. Her daughter would not wish her mother to be sad, so terribly terribly sad and heavy. She lived for the light in all things. The candle in the darkness. The star in the night. She would not approve. But Helena is too far gone to completely admit this. She has dug the hole of her grief so deep that it is impossible for her to see the light of day, let alone reach the rope her brother is helplessly attempting to toss down to her. She has buried her hopes, any possibility for future happiness long ago, and the thought of digging it back up is terrifying. She is not sure what she might find if she were to pry the lid off that particular box.
"I can't."
"You can," he encourages her, standing to approach her hunched form. "You just have to take that first step. Just start talking about her. About what you're feeling. Don't keep it all bottled up inside. You're going to explode, Helena, and what then?"
"I can't!" She jerks away when he attempts to lay a hand on her arm. "Don't you see? She haunts me. And I don't want to let go. I don't want to lose her. To forget her."
"You won't. Helena, you won't. Of course not," his voice is soothing. It would be so easy to let him lull her into a state of calm, of acceptance. But that would be giving in, wouldn't it? Accepting her grief meant letting go and letting go meant forgetting, and she would not allow her daughter to be forgotten.
"No," she steps away from him, towards the door of the library. "I won't. I will not leave her."
"Helena."
She faces him squarely. There are no tears in her eyes, but her stomach hurts from all the salt water. "She was my daughter. And she was taken from me. I a-was her mother. Her mother, dammit! You cannot possibly understand."
"You have to heal, Helena. Your body needs to heal."
Her eyes are the black of hidden ice shining on the pavement at night. Dangerous. Wild. Her chest is heaving. But he approaches nonetheless, one arm outstretched to calm her. "You cannot possibly understand," she repeats.
"Helena," his voice is louder now, trying to subdue her.
"No!" And she spins away, out the door and into the hall, his voice ringing in her ears, taunting her. She has wrenched open the front door and bounded down the steps without thinking. Her body is on autopilot. It is truly raining now, and she is wearing nothing but a light sweater. She is soaked almost immediately. But she runs anyway, ignoring her brother's desperate cries from the porch. He had no right. No right at all. Her feet are taking her away, far away from him, and his pitying looks. He didn't understand. Couldn't understand. It was her daughter. Her baby. Her precious, darling girl. She strode off into the rain, eyes focused inward, teeth already chattering. He couldn't understand.