“I know. And dammit, no one tried to steal us.”
He smiles, and Helena smiles, just the edge of it visible to Kate, just the edge of it enough to knock her off guard. There is the rustle of plastic, Helena’s head down, elbows sticking out as she rummages, like a scavenger squatting over its kill. She pulls out sweatpants and a long-sleeve t-shirt, then a pack of socks and a sneaker box. “Hmm,” she says, and it’s impossible to tell if she is pleased or irritated.
“We’ll give you some privacy to change.” Mark starts to close the door. “Kate?”
“Huh?” She looks from him to Helena, then realizes her mistake. “Oh!” She scrambles for her bag and jacket, pushing open the door awkwardly. “Just a minute.” She’s had ten minutes to be ready, yet doesn’t even have shoes on. She works her feet into the boots, then steps out, making her way around the truck, Mark meeting her by the back.
“This’ll be fun,” he drawls, in a manner completely void of sarcasm.
“It’ll be interesting,” she counters. He’s an idiot if he thinks this will be fun. Fun and Helena Ross… those two concepts don’t intersect.
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” He leans forward when he asks the question, and she gets a whiff of him, a mix of soap and masculinity—a masculinity that doesn’t live on the streets of Manhattan. A masculinity that makes a forgotten part of her swoon.
Where is her sense of adventure? She probably lost it years ago. Regardless, a movie date with Helena is probably not the thing to bring it back.
“Why don’t you like JayJay?” Bethany sits to my right, in an empty spot on the floor, pages spread out before her, a marker in hand. She carefully caps the marker and sets it down, solemnly staring at me.
“A variety of reasons. Probably because she attempted to squash my creative spirit. She never wanted me to write. She’s perpetually irritated at me for my success, and for my general existence.”
“Mommy doesn’t dislike JayJay,” Simon feels the need to interject, standing in the doorway, a kitchen towel in hand, his eyes stabbing me with little warnings that he should know I’ll ignore. “She just gets frustrated by her sometimes.”
“No,” I say, rolling the phone over in my hand, “I don’t like her. You were right the first time, Bethany.”
“Helena…” Simon warns, leaning against the door’s frame.
I squat before Bethany. “Sometimes people act a certain way that doesn’t match the person that they are inside. There are two different things at play with all of us, at every moment in our life. There is the way we act versus the person that we are inside. The person that we are grows and develops at your age, Bethany. Right now, you are a clean slate. Your personality is growing and building with every interaction, with every decision you make. You may act stubborn, or ill-mannered in one instance, but that doesn’t mean that you are stubborn or rude here.” I place my hand on her chest, my palm firm against the soft cotton of her t-shirt, “or here.” I move up my hand to her silky head, still damp from her bath. “Some people are just having a misfire of judgment or control. But other people are letting you see a bit of the rotten person inside. Their cruel or stupid behavior is a gift of sorts, because it lets you see the real person that they are beneath.”
“So how do you know?” Her forehead scrunches, and she lifts her hands in the exaggerated gesture of a child. “If it’s who they really are?” Her voice stumbles over the words, and I watch her carefully wet her lips before finishing the question.
“You watch everyone, very carefully.” I remove my hand from her chest. “You observe and you remember. JayJay’s shown me, for thirty years, the type of person that she is inside.”
“Which is what?”
“I’m going to let you figure that out yourself, from watching her.” I lean forward and lower my voice in excitement. “It’s like a game.” She nods, and I can see her brain filing away the information, adding another ‘to-do’ mark to her list. My daughter loves lists. And information. And tasks. She is very much like myself, though she and Simon don’t realize it. “But more important than watching her is watching yourself.” I look into her eyes, making sure that she is listening, her dark pupils fully focused saucers of intelligence. “You need to analyze your thoughts and motivations, Bethany. You need to think through your actions and pick up on the darker thoughts in your head. You can become anything,” I say to her. “Make sure that you don’t become selfish, unimaginative and dumb.”
“Jesus Christ, Helena.” Simon pushes off the doorframe, and I see the disgust on his face in the moment before he turns away.
I don’t care. Life is too short to not speak the truth.
“Coming back?” The voice startles me, and I look up at Mark, who smiles down at me. “I gotta tell you, abs are all over that big screen right now.”
“Ha.” I look down at the page, one begged from the ticket counter, my writing finished a good ten minutes ago. “I just wanted to write a scene.” I scoot back a little, pressing my shoulder blades against the wall, the bones of my butt aching against the hallway’s thin carpet floor.
“You finished?” He crouches before me, and there’s a patched rip on the right knee of his jeans.
“Yes.” I fold the page in half and hand it, and the pen, to him. “Hold onto it for me?”
“Certainly,” he drawls and, if he had a hat on, he’d tip it. I roll my eyes, then take the hand he extends, letting him pull me to my feet.
I stand, and watch him carefully tuck the page into a front pocket of his shirt, the pen disappearing into another pocket, and follow him quietly back into the theater, greeted by the sound of laughter, a scene in full effect.
A small part of me misses life. The activity. The sounds. The energy of a crowd and their reactions. The friendly wave of Kate as she moves her feet and I squeeze by. The wink of Mark as he offers me illegal cubes of Snickers.
I shouldn’t be here. I don’t deserve any of this.
“You don’t have to walk me up.” I stop, halfway around the hood of the truck, and glare at him.
“Just let an old man use his Southern charms.” He shuts the door and gestures for the steps. “After you.”
I sigh, and he smiles. “You’re a battering ram, you know that?”
“Best compliment I’ve gotten all evening.”
I take the first step and he supports my arm, an annoyance that is, unfortunately, needed as I work my way up the four steps to the porch. When did they get so steep? When did I get so old? “You’ve got the new stuff I wrote?” I ask.
He pats his shirt pocket. “Right here. I’ll work on it tonight.”
“Give me an hour or so.” I come to a stop before the front door. I never locked it behind me. In my mad sprint to Mark’s car, I just pulled it tight. Anyone could have come in, be waiting for me behind the door, knife poised, ready to slash at my throat or rape me. I consider inviting Mark inside, then discard the thought.
“Give you an hour or so for what?” He watches me turn the knob and frowns.
“Before you start writing. I have another scene I want to write. I’ll do it right now and send it over to you.”
“It’s late. Send it tomorrow morning.”
“No.” I shake my head, tonight’s encounter with my mother still raw and fresh, a dozen memories pushing to the surface and begging for attention. I need to get them down on paper while my skin still bristles from her contact. “I’m itching to write.” I try to smile, to ease some of the worry from his eyes. “I need to.” Maybe putting some of the past on paper will expel it from my body, like bloodletting, the words a thousand leeches that will suck the impurities out and heal a little of my pain.
Though, in that analogy, if this is bloodletting… The Night It Happened will be a slaughter fest.
“Helena?”
I snap my eyes to his, and his face is wary, his stance protective.
“Are you okay?”