Helga's POV
The low hum of the saxophone fills Vinessa's dorm room, the sound just fuzzy enough to feel comforting. Something about jazz has always reminded me of Arnold—raw, unpredictable, yet deeply familiar. I let myself sink into the warmth of the melody, much like his quiet kindness that used to steady me. It's 2 AM, and this nameless voice on the radio has become my late-night writing companion, carrying memories I pretend I've outgrown. But when the trumpet soars, I feel that old rush again, as if pieces of him are woven into the music, soothing me and unsettling me all at once.
"You know, V," I say, watching Vinessa check her phone for the dozenth time, "there's more to college than finding your soulmate."
She gives me that dreamy smile I've come to know too well. "Says the girl who's been hanging out with Jason. How is Mr. Too Cool for School?"
I shrug. Lately, something feels off. His rebellious streak is refreshing compared to... certain other people's predictability, but maybe that's not enough anymore.
After a few hours of helping her catch up on assignments, I slip inside my room, and to my surprise, Evie is awake, sitting ramrod straight on her bed, phone clutched in her hand as if it might bite her. Classic Evie pre-mother-call pose – I'd seen it enough times this semester to recognize the signs. In the same way, I've been avoiding Arnold's text.
My fingers were already aching from typing so much on my creative writing paper, but I forced myself to open my laptop anyway.
As if on cue, her phone rang with that cheesy pop song she claimed was "ironically" her ringtone. She answered with a clipped "Mother," and I tried to focus on my paper, though her tone had me half-listening.
"No, Mother, I don't think—" Her voice was tense, and I recognized that same tone I used when Big Bob started in about the "family business."
"Your expectations are too high!" she blurted out, and I couldn't help but feel a twinge of pride.
Evie's voice softened. "I'm doing my best. I know you want what's best for me, but…"
She paused, hand tangled in her hair – an unguarded moment that reminded me of Olga before "Perfect Olga" days.
"Yes, I understand," she said, and I braced myself for her usual capitulation. But then, "I need you to understand me too."
My eyebrows shot up. Was this the same Evie who color-coded her planner last week because her mother suggested it?
As the conversation continued, her tone softened, even warm. She laughed, a genuine sound I rarely heard from her.
"Okay, Mother. I'll see you soon," she said lightly. "Love you too."
As she hung up, I swiveled in my chair, unable to contain my curiosity. "Well, that sounded… different."
Evie looked at me, a small smile playing on her lips – not her usual sharp, tight one, but something softer. For a moment, she seemed to debate whether to retreat behind her usual snotty wit, but then something shifted in her expression. "It was, actually. I think... I think we finally understood each other. She's still pushing for marriage right away and law school, but she's willing to consider that maybe my path might look different."
I nodded, thinking about my own path – so different from what Big Bob had planned. "Sometimes parents need to learn to see us as we are, not as who they planned for us to be."
"Exactly," Evie said, looking at me with new understanding. Just like when she spoke of her mom before, the vulnerability in her voice made me almost uncomfortable – like walking in on someone changing. This wasn't our usual dynamic of trading barbs and eye rolls.
My phone vibrates just as the late-night jazz fades into static. The show must be ending – not that I've been keeping track. But instead of his voice signing off, I see Olga's name flash across my screen. Strange—she usually only texts.
"Helga?" Her voice sounds wrong – too thin, too careful.
"What's wrong?" The words come out sharper than I intend. Olga doesn't call this late unless—
"I... it's..." She takes a shaky breath. "I'm at the hospital."
The room tilts sideways for a moment. "Hospital?" My free hand grips the edge of my desk. "What happened?"
"It's Dad. He... he had a heart attack. The doctors say he's stable for now, but..." Her voice cracks. "They're running tests. Miriam's here but she's... you know how she gets in crisis situations."
I close my eyes, seeing it all too clearly – Olga trying to hold everything together while Miriam falls apart. Some things never change.
"How bad?" My voice sounds distant like it belongs to someone else.
"They say he's stable, but... it was serious, baby sister. He collapsed at the store. If Nick hadn't been there..."
The image hits me hard – Big Bob Pataki, larger than life, king of his beeper empire, lying unconscious on the floor of his own store. My stomach lurches.
"I'm coming home," I say firmly, already closing my laptop and shoving my books into my bag with more force than necessary. One of them hits the floor with a loud thud.
"Helga, you don't have to—"
"No, I'm coming," I insist, cutting her off, my voice rising. "Criminy, Olga, he's in the hospital! What, you think I'm so heartless I wouldn't come?" The words come out harsh, masking the tremor I'm fighting to control. "Just because he spent half my childhood calling me by the wrong name doesn't mean—" I stop, catching myself. "I'll handle everything," I hear myself saying, voice clipped and practical. "Just text me his room number." Meanwhile, my mind is screaming: Is he awake? Is he afraid? Does he know we're coming? But I can't ask those questions. Someone has to be the strong one, and it sure as hell won't be Miriam.
"Oh, baby sister," Olga's voice breaks again.
"My fingers curl around my phone. I open my mouth to respond, but words get caught in my throat, trapped by years of guardedness. I took a breath, glancing around as though seeking an anchor. I didn't feel my usual impulse to shut her out.
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. Please don't cry because if you cry, I might cry, and I can't cry right now. "Pull yourself together, Olga. I'll be there soon."
As soon as the call ends, I sit there for a moment, letting the weight of everything sink in. My dad. The man who taught me toughness and business smarts, for all his flaws, is now vulnerable and weak. The man who could never remember my name right, who always had more time for Olga, who... who might be dying right now.
"Damn it, Bob," I mutter, slamming my hand against the desk. All those times, I told myself I didn't care what he thought; all those nights, I convinced myself his approval didn't matter. Now here I am, heart racing, hands shaking as I try to stuff clothes into my bag.
A photo falls from my desk—me at my high school graduation, Bob's hand awkwardly on my shoulder, both of us trying to smile. The image drifts my mind back to a time when I was seven, trailing behind Bob at the ballpark, my hand swallowed in his big grasp. "You'll hit a home run someday, kiddo," "he said, tousling my hair in that rare, soft way of his. The memory feels so distant for years, buried under his booming orders and gruff dismissals. But here it is, resurfacing with sharp clarity, making my chest twist.
For relief, I push the picture into my drawer.
My heart is speeding, my thoughts swirling. I should have called him more. I should have visited. I should have... what? Been a better daughter? Let him push me into the family business. The guilt and anger tangle together in my chest until I can barely breathe. But now's not the time for any of it—I need to be there for my family. Even if we're not exactly the Waltons.
The next hour moves in strange bursts. I pack mechanically – underwear, toothbrush, and phone charger. Each item feels weirdly significant like I'm solving a puzzle with pieces that keep changing shape. My hands won't stop shaking.
I should call the writing center and let them know I won't be in tomorrow. Professor Jenkins's paper is due next week. Everything that seemed so important this morning now feels trivial.
"Need a ride to the airport?"
I jump. Evie, standing in the doorway uncharacteristically dressed in sweatpants with wild hair, with her car keys already in hand. The offer catches me off guard—we don't do this kind of thing, this... friendship stuff.
"I... yeah. Thanks." My voice sounds rough. She pretends not to notice.
While she drives, I make calls, cancel appointments, and email professors. Each task feels both urgent and meaningless. Between calls, I keep checking my phone as if staring at it will make Olga update me faster.
The campus slides past Evie's car windows, streetlights casting intermittent shadows. We pass the library, where Vinessa and Mathew are still on their bench, sharing earbuds and study notes like nothing in the world has changed. For them, it hasn't. It must be nice—having that certainty, that simple peace. Meanwhile, my world is spinning off its axis with one phone call.
"He'll be okay," Evie says quietly as we pull up to departures. "My dad had a heart attack two years ago. He's fine now."
I nod, not trusting my voice. We don't usually do comfort either, but tonight... tonight everything's different.
My phone buzzes with another message from Jason: ***Heard about this underground poetry slam tonight. Bet you'd crush it with your cynical sonnets.***
Any other time, I'd be down for another one of his random adventures. Jason had a way of making me forget about everything else for a while. I shoot back a quick text: "Family emergency. Have to go home. I'll explain later."
For a moment, I feel guilty about the relief that floods through me. Not because I don't enjoy hanging out with Jason – I do. He's fun and easy and doesn't expect anything more than what we are. But then I think about Arnold's coffee invitation still sitting unanswered in my messages. The message waits there, just a little icon on my screen, but it feels heavier than it should. I swipe away a few other notifications, ignoring the way my heart jumps when I see his name again.
Part of me wants to open it, to let myself feel that old familiarity for just a second—but I couldn't. If I didn't respond, it would be easier. Just like before. My thumb hovers over his message, and for a moment, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to say yes, actually to show up. To just…be there with him. And that thought alone scared me enough to close the app.
And then the guilt doubles. Here I am, thinking about boys and their texts while my dad's in the hospital. I shove the phone back in my pocket, deciding my messy love life can wait. Right now, my family needs me.
"Helga, how are you feeling right now?" Evie's voice hits my ears, sounding like an echo.
My fingers tighten around the hem of my sleeve, and I found myself studying the line in my hand. A quick response is always my defense, but Evie's words strip away that option. For once, I allowed myself a moment of silence, feeling the familiar ache beneath my exterior.
"I'm fine," I tell Evie as we pull up to the airport, my voice steady and controlled. Inside, my heart is trying to punch through my ribs. Classic Helga G. Pataki performance – cool and collected on the outside while everything burns within.
"Text me when you get there?" Evie asks.
What I want to say is thank you for driving me, for not making this weird, and for being exactly what I need right now. But instead, I wordlessly nod with a hint of a gracious smile playing on my lips as I climb out of her car.
Arnold's POV
The mic feels cold in my hands as I wrap up another late-night show. The university's old equipment makes my voice sound different on-air—deeper, less recognizable. Maybe that's why I feel braver here in the dark studio, playing songs that make me think of her.
"And that was 'Misty' by Erroll Garner. To all you night owls out there, thanks for letting me share these quiet hours with you." I pause, wondering if she's listening, not knowing it's me. "This last one goes out to anyone who's ever struggled to say what they really feel."
The static-tinged silence after I sign off feels heavy with unspoken words... Would Helga recognize these songs from our study sessions? Does she even listen to late-night college radio? The coffee invitation sits unanswered on my phone, but at least here, in the quiet of the studio, I can pretend I'm talking to her. By the time I make it back to my dorm, the sun is already threatening to rise. Another sleepless night.
Sleep doesn't come easy, my mind replaying every possible meaning behind her silence.
A few restless hours later, my eyes are heavy as I drag myself to the library hoping to salvage some study time before class. My phone buzzes – just another campus notification. Another workshop reminder pops up: urban development with the kids. Usually, teaching energizes me, but today, I can barely focus on the zoning chapter in front of me.
"Arnold!" It's Mathew's friend Chris from our urban planning study group. "We missed you at the project meeting yesterday."
"Yeah, sorry," I manage a smile, though exhaustion pulls at my edges. "Late night at the radio station."
I'm trying to focus on my Urban Planning textbook when I hear it:
"Did you hear about that tutor Helga Pataki's dad? He had a heart attack."
The words on the page blur. Big Bob Pataki – the man who'd intimidated half the neighborhood, who'd sponsored every school event with those giant "Big Bob's Beepers" banners, who'd called me "orphan boy" that one time before Helga made him apologize... in the hospital?
"Yeah, I heard that's why she's not accepting requests. Pretty serious, I think."
My pencil snaps in my hand. I stare at the broken pieces, memories flooding back: Helga's rare stories about her family during our study sessions, the way her voice would tighten when she talked about her dad, that one parents' day when Bob had shown up late, and Helga pretended not to care...
I pull out my phone, then put it back, and pull it out again. What do you say to someone whose relationship with their father is as complicated as Helga's? "Sorry, your dad's in the hospital" feels inadequate. "Hope he's okay" seems presumptuous—do I even know if she wants him to be okay?
The library suddenly feels too quiet, too still. I pack up my books, needing to move to do something. Outside, I find myself walking toward the radio station three hours before my shift. Maybe tonight's playlist needs some extra thought. Some songs about family, about forgiveness, about the things we never say until it's almost too late...
My phone sits next to me. Suddenly, I feel ridiculous for overthinking the coffee invitation. She has much bigger things on her mind.
I hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure of what to say. Should I reach out? Would she want that? What would even be the right thing to say?
"Hey, I heard about your dad. I hope everything's okay." No, too impersonal.
"I'm here if you need anything." Maybe, but... we're not exactly that close right now, are we?
Still, I can't shake the feeling that I should say something. Maybe she needs to know someone's thinking about her.
With a deep breath, I finally type: "Hey, I heard about your dad. I'm really sorry, Helga. If you need anything, I'm here."
I hesitate for just a second, then hit send.
After hearing about Bob, I end up in the campus garden, hoping physical labor might help clear my head. While Mathew chatters about his date with Vinessa, my hands work the soil mechanically. The garden won't plan itself, but my thoughts keep drifting to Helga.
Helga's POV
Six hours after that devastating call, I'm standing in the terminal. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows, making everyone look sickly. A child's laughter somewhere behind me feels wrong, discordant with my reality. The airport terminal's muzak plays some mangled version of "Moonlight Serenade." It's nothing like my late-night radio companion, too polished, too perfect. I miss the static, the imperfection. It was more honest somehow.
The earliest flight I could get leaves at 11 p.m. This means another two hours of waiting, thinking, and wondering if I should've seen this coming.
I pull up my jazz playlist—the songs are right, but something's missing. Maybe it's that static-filled voice that always seemed to know exactly what I needed to hear. Or maybe it's just that everything feels wrong tonight.
I catch my reflection in the terminal window – I look just like him when I clench my jaw like that. Great. Even now, running to his hospital bed, I can't escape being Bob Pataki's daughter. I close my eyes, trying to remember the last time I actually talked to him. Really talked, not just the usual holiday small talk or arguments about my "career path."
Waiting for my flight when my phone buzzes. I expect another message from Olga, but instead, it's Arnold.
***Hey, I heard about your dad. I'm really sorry, Helga. If you need anything, I'm here.***
My heart skips a beat, and I stare at the message for a moment, feeling a warmth I hadn't expected. Out of all the people who could have reached out... Arnold.
My fingers hover over the screen, my pulse quickening. Arnold's message awakens something I've tried so hard to bury. I remember that day in the park—his laughter had enveloped me and made everything feel possible. He's always had that power, breaking through my defenses without even trying. I'd sworn to keep my walls up to avoid the raw exposure that comes with letting someone see the real you. But every thought of him leaves me hollow and yearning, terrified of what I might lose if I let myself fall again.
I type a response, then delete it. What do I even say? Nothing feels right when everything's so wrong. How do you tell someone that you're terrified of losing your dad when you've spent years pretending you didn't need his approval?
Finally, I settle on: "Thanks, Arnold. I appreciate it. Heading home now."
I hit send, and for the first time since Olga called, I feel a little less alone. It's strange how a few simple words from the right person can do that. Football Head always did have a way of seeing through my walls, even when I didn't want him to.
As my flight starts boarding, I walk over to the section and find myself wishing it was 2 AM when that ambiguous late-night jazz show would be on. Those static-filled melodies have become my comfort these past few weeks, and right now, I could use that familiar voice, even through all the radio fuzz. Instead, I put in my earbuds and pull up a jazz playlist—not quite the same, but it'll have to do.
Arnold's POV
When her response comes through, I release a breath I didn't know I was holding.
***Thanks, Arnold. I appreciate it. Heading home now.***
It's a small reply, but somehow, it feels like progress. I stare at the screen, feeling a mixture of relief and concern. Helga's going through something serious, and I want to be there for her, but I also don't want to overstep.
That night, I'm back in the familiar darkness of the studio. The old equipment hums beneath my fingers as I adjust the levels. The mic feels heavier somehow, like a lifeline to someone who might need it. Even after all these shifts, I've grown to love how the ancient soundboard makes everything sound a little rough, a little raw—more honest, like those study sessions when Helga would tap her pencil to the rhythm, pretending not to enjoy the jazz.
Tonight, each song feels weighted with meaning, chosen with precise care: the ones that made her smile when she thought I wasn't looking, the ones that filled our comfortable silences with everything we couldn't say. I watch the levels dance on the monitor, wondering if, somewhere, she might be listening.
"Sometimes life throws us curveballs," I say, my voice rougher than usual. "This next song is for anyone going through tough times. You're not alone." I play something soft and hopeful—one of her favorites, though she never admitted it.
Back in my dorm room, I lay in the darkness, the quiet broken only by the hum of my ancient radiator. The memory of Helga's laughter during those study sessions drifts through my mind—how she'd try to hide her smile behind her textbook. Now she's on a plane, heading home to face something I can't help her with.
I check my phone one last time, though I know there won't be any messages. The screen's glow illuminates my room for a moment before fading to black. Tomorrow, I'll be back in the radio booth, playing songs into the night, hoping they might reach her somehow. It's all I can offer right now—these melodies that once brought us closer are now floating somewhere between us like unspoken words.