“Helena,” he whispers. “Please open the door.”
The rattle stops, and for almost a minute, there is only the soft sound of sobs. When she finally speaks, he has to strain to hear the words.
“I can’t do it.” She whispers. “I thought I could tell you, but I can’t.”
There is fear in those words, as if he will judge her. Guilt in her sob, as if she is ashamed. If she opens the door, what will her face show? He closes his eyes and searches for the right words, something to bridge the gap between them. Words had never been kind to him, not when they came from his mouth. It was only through writing, that he had been able to really speak his mind. He stiffens. “Then don’t tell me. Write it. Maybe this piece of the book… it needs to come from you.” Such a simple concept, painfully obvious once stated. Why had they ever planned on him telling that portion of the story? Everything was building to, everything was centered around an event so personal it should only come from her. Another writer could never describe how he felt when Ellen’s last breath wheezed out. Another writer could never describe the depth of emptiness, the hollow absence of life, that came when she passed. There were days he had looked at his daughter and hated her. There were moments, alone with a bottle, that he had caressed the trigger of his gun and contemplated ending it all. No one else could ever tell that story, unless they had lived that life. How was Helena’s any different? Why had they ever thought that he would have the ability to tell it—to take that piece of her heart and mold it into his words?
He stands, his knees creaking, his back flaring as he moves too quickly, long strides that take him to the office, his hands fumbling through her drawers and to the stack of notepads. He grabs one, along with a pencil and pen, and makes his way back to the door, no sound coming from the other side. From the thin opening at the bottom, he can see her shadow, her thin body tucked against the frame. He pushes the first notepad through, feeding the pen and pencil next, the shadow shifting against the light.
“I’m not doing it.” The words have a spine, and he wants to hug her for saying them, for coming out of that shell long enough to snarl.
“Just try.” The same words he said to Maggie on the morning of Ellen’s funeral. Just try. Just try to get dressed. Just try to eat. Just try to remember all of the good, all of her smiles, all of the memories. Just try to continue living. “Just whatever part is hardest for you to share.”
She says nothing. She doesn’t move, there is no sound. He sits back on his knees and eyes the pink end of the pencil’s eraser. It doesn’t move. Minutes pass, and after ten, he shifts his weight, settling against the wall, his feet stretched out in front of him. Surely, she will write. To put pen and paper in front of an artist is bait. She won’t be able to resist its draw. She won’t be able, with all of that ripping apart of her emotions, to stop its bleed onto the page.
If there is a story inside of her, it will come out. In their world, nothing else makes sense.
Then, her voice faint and muffled, she speaks.
“Would you trust me with your daughter?” I say the words quietly, my cheek resting against the door, my body now curled into a wilted ball against the wood.
“In what way?”
“Would you leave me alone with her?”
“Yes.” Mark sounds sure of himself, but then again, his daughter is nineteen. I’m a decrepit skeleton, barely about to lift up a dictionary. What harm could I do? Physically I am weak. Emotionally—she wouldn’t listen to anything I’d say.
Not like Bethany. Bethany was so fragile, so tiny. Her mind was so pliable, so easily influenced by Simon and me. Would Mark have trusted me with his daughter as a child? Probably not. I’m too cynical to even ask that question.
“I spoke to an attorney once. After Mother brought up keeping Bethany during the day.”
“It’s inappropriate, Helena. It’s all…” my mother waved her hand in a dismissive gesture that encompasses my entire life. “It’s all inappropriate. How you raise her. What you teach her. You can’t have her going off to school and telling everyone all of the things that you’ve filled her mind with.”
“I can do whatever I want to. I can raise her however I want to. She’s my daughter.”
“She’s also Simon’s. And he agrees with me. We think it’ll be best if she stays with me during the day. You can come visit if you like, have lunch with us.” She offered the statement with a smile, as if she was granting me something special, as if she wasn’t trying to yank my daughter away and rip her individuality to shreds. I knew what a semester in her house would do. I lived in that house. My mind almost died in that house.
Mark says nothing, and I think of the attorney, a short stumpy bald man, his pen tapping against the page, dots of sweat beading along his brow. A man. I should have waited longer, been more patient, and gotten a female attorney. I swallow. “It was preemptive. I just wanted to know, if things got worse, if they could actually take Bethany away from me.”
“What did the attorney say?”
“He said that because I was a woman, that it would be hard. But that I could be determined to be unfit. He asked a lot of questions. If there was anything Simon could use against me. If I’d ever been arrested. Or harmed myself. Done drugs. Things like that.” I close my eyes, thinking of the way his head had tilted at me, his eyes examining. Judging. He had judged me from the minute I had sat down, and his questions had only gotten worse.
When he’d asked if I’d ever harmed Bethany, I shook my head, and flatly denied it. “But…” The word had lingered on the roof of my mouth, ready to jump onto my tongue. But… I did leave her unattended while I locked myself into my office. But… I did shove her into the neighbor’s arms and scream at the woman to just take her. It hadn’t been right. It hadn’t even been particularly sane behavior. The woman had filed a police report. She’d called me an unfit parent. She’d said, her perfectly neat script filling up every line of that report, that I often appeared unhinged. Also that I looked unkept. I think she’d meant unkempt. I’d told that to the social worker that had shown up a week later, the neatly written report in hand. The woman had merely blinked at me, as if misuse of a word was secondary to misuse of my child. Which, I agree, in a normal scenario, would be. But I didn’t mistreat my child. Bethany had been a happy baby. She’d been a loved baby. That had been just one bad day. One bad day… among a few more.
“I told myself I was worrying over nothing.” I wet my lips, and hate how weak and wobbly my voice is. “I was married to him. She was my mother. I shouldn’t have had to worry about them taking my child—” My voice breaks, and I inhale sharply.
It takes me a few minutes to recover, for my body to relax, my breathing to calm, my tears to stop. I wait for him to ask questions, but he says nothing. I move, changing positions, and lower my head to the floor. From this angle, I can tilt my chin and see Bethany’s stars. From this spot, I can see a forgotten crayon underneath her desk. Dust has formed under the eaves of her doll house. The dirty pink sock, over by the bookshelf, has a dead spider curled up beside it. This is the only room of the house that hasn’t been cleaned. The only room that, in the last four years, has remained the same.
I reach out, running my palms across the blank surface of the notepad, the one that Mark slid under the door.
I think I have known, from the beginning, that it would come to this. Mark’s right. I need to be the one to write the end of this story. The events of that day… I can’t speak them aloud. I won’t be able to explain my thoughts, the frantic rush of emotions. I might try to earn his understanding, to justify my actions, instead of just telling what happened.
But can I do it? Can I pick up this pen and write down that day? Can I walk back through my actions without breaking?
Just try. His stupid words echo in my head, the type of thing inspirational speakers scribble on the top of white boards. Try harder. That’s what I need to do. Try until it’s done.
I slowly sit up, my fingers tightening over the spiral bound end of it, pulling it onto my lap.