Asleep
Happy @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange to @kla1991 , our fearless leader, who of course knew I was their gifter, and who requested âa bed-sharing scenario that doesn't immediately turn sexy,â one that might involve tensions and/or physical discomfort. Iâve tried to approach that assignment in the appropriate spirit, with a bit of spin, although I suppose it all really depends on what any given person considers âsexyâ... anyway, Iâm pretty sure there are two sides to every story. Two sides to every bed, too. Hereâs the first side. (This takes place in a post-season-five world, because why not raise the difficulty level?)
Asleep
My arm is asleep.
Normally, a person would, upon realizing this, shift position so as to restore blood flow.
Normally.
But very little is normal about the situation in which Mykaâs arm is asleep.
She is in a hotel-room bed, in the dark of night, lying on her left side, with her left arm, her now-asleep arm, pinned beneath her. So ends the extremely limited ânormalâ portion of the situation.
Here begins the rest: she absolutely must not move. This is because she can hear, and can as a molecular disturbance feel, the steady push-pull of Helenaâs breathing, near her neck, so near. She feels also the unfamiliar proximity of Helenaâs body, offering heat across what must be only nanometers separating her from Mykaâs back. And then there is Helenaâs hand, what must be her right hand, resting in sleep, what must be unconscious sleep, on Mykaâs hip.
They have never been in a bed together before tonightâbut also, sadly also, they are not in a bed together now. They are simply two people in a bed in a hotel room, one of them obviously sleeping, obviously fulfilling her role in the âtwo agents are sharing a hotel room and getting some restâ play they are performing.
Myka, however, is not asleep. No: instead she is on fire because of Helenaâs breath and heat and hand but unable to do anything about any of that, and thus desperate to escape and suffer her mortification in private but unable to do anything about any of that eitherâa terrible combination.
And now her arm, as if in intentional mockery, is asleep.
She has arrived at this pretty pass due to a series of events that had seemed, in their unfolding, to be at the very least manageable...
... starting with Helenaâs return to the Warehouse.
That return had at first struck Myka as a beautiful dreamâand, equally, a reward for awakening from a nightmare.
The particular nightmare from which Myka had awakened was the fugue in which sheâd imagined she might have romantic feelings for Pete. How perfect it had seemed, then, for Helena to present herself to resume agent duties at the Warehouse, so soon after that enormous error had been rectified. âA reboot, I believe itâs called,â Helena had said of her change of heart, and Claudia had laughed uproariously at that, shouted âTurn it off and turn it on again!â, and hugged the obviously befuddled, but just as obviously pleased, rebooted agent.
Myka had not hugged Helena, not then. Sheâd thought to save such an action, such an aggressively bodily action, for an even more meaningful time, progress toward which would, at long last, begin.
But progress had not begun. In the reboot, Helena was a collegial colleague to Myka.... and that was all.
Helena did not, as she had in old times (old shows?), make comments that even usually-oblivious Myka could read as flirtatious. She did not step close, too close, as she had in old times, waking Mykaâs body to possibility and want. She did not, in fact, mention old times at all. No words about âWells and Beringââas Myka had hoped to one day again correct, however incorrect Helena found the correction, to âBering and Wellsââhaving ever done anything together.
And Myka of course could not assault such a collegial colleague with an anguished Why? She could do nothing but wish for a reboot of her own, or at least a do-over, one in which the minute Helena stepped from Claudiaâs embrace, Myka herself initiated one that made her hopes clear.
But no such reboot was forthcoming.
That disappointment was, Myka found, manageable. Crushing, but manageable. It was made more so by the fact that Artie sent Helena on retrievals with Steve, sometimes with Claudia as adjunct; thus her collegial interactions with Myka did not have particularly meaningful stakes. At least, none that were Warehouse-specific, and that was what counted. That had to be what counted.
Until one morning at breakfast, when Artie tossed a folder at Myka and said, âTomorrow youâre going to San Antonio to bag a camera.â
Then he pointed at Helena. âAnd youâre going with her.â
âAm I?â Helena asked, even as Myka voiced, âShe is?
âSheâs the one who stole it from Warehouse 12,â Artie told Myka. To Helena, he said, âSo I assume youâll know it when you see it.â
Well, that tone in Artieâs voice was like old timesâold shows. But Helena did not respond with her back-then defiant chirp. She said a simple âoh,â a chastened wince that seemed pulled from a different show entirely.
Artie should not be inflicting this on her, Myka thought. After a moment, she revised that to, Artie should not be inflicting this on her or on me. Her first counter: âMaybe Helena could just tell me what it looks like.â
âIf that would be easier,â Helena said, with a quickness suggesting she agreed that something was indeed being inflicted on somebody, âI certainlyââ
âDid I stutter?â Artie demanded.
He didnât. But after a bit of time, Myka thought she could, just maybe, manage the situation, both because of Helenaâs apparent trepidations and as a way of sidestepping her own feelings. âIâm not sure this mission with Helena is a good idea,â she tried saying to Pete later that morning.
âHow many times do I have to tell you the vibes arenât bad anymore?â he asked, annoyed, as if sheâd been making a habit of hitting him with this concern whenever he was trying to get comfortable with a comic book.
In fact, heâd told her that once since Helena came back. Once. It had happened when Myka had said, in a moment of exhaustion that had allowed her management to slip, âI miss how Helena used to be,â and heâd rolled his eyes and told her, âThatâs dumb. The vibes arenât bad anymore.â
Now Myka saidâbecause why fight about it?ââObviously more than once. But I just donât think itâs a good idea. For her, I mean. Artie said that thing about the stealing and she... I donât know. Wilted.â
âOkay, so tell that to Artie.â
Was that vaguely reasonable advice? âI guess I could give that aââ
âLike thatâd work! Ha!â
âYouâre very unhelpful,â Myka informed him.
âKeeping it on brand.â He flexed his biceps. âJust like these big boys.â
To which Myka could say only, âI am so devoutly grateful we arenât together.â
âMe too. Different reasons though.â
âIâm devoutly grateful for that too,â she said.
She was grateful also, when it came down to it, for his total lack of interest in parsing the differences between their reasons.
Peteâs unhelpfulness aside, she still had the greater part of a day before her scheduled departure on this Helena-accompanied retrieval, and she hoped it might still be possible to extricate herself, Helena, or both of them from it.
Who would be more helpful in such an endeavor: Claudia or Steve? Claudia, who might be more sympathetic to the overall difficulty... or Steve, who would probably be more persuasive in helping to take a plan to Artie... Â
She went with Steve.
She opened with, âI need to talk to you. No, wait, before you wince: I need to talk to someone, and I think youâre my best bet.â
âIâm not overly flattered, but my prefrontal cortex appreciates the revision. Also my sinuses.â
âI have a problem.â
âMy prefrontal appreciates that too: direct, no nuance. And I know we havenât talked about this out loud, but if your problemâs with me? Totally justified. I got the you-and-Pete thing wrong.â
âNo, my problemâs with Helena.â That was probably too revealing. âBut the other thing, he and I got it wrong. You were just a witness. Regrettably.â
âBut I... pushed?â
âProbably it was a thing he and I had to test to know for sure. And we did, so now we do. I like to think I donât make the same mistake twice.â
That got her a twist of a smile. âYou like to think, but this H.G. thing. I know you two have history, so is this that?â
Myka would have preferred to say âno,â but she figured she should continue giving his sinuses a break. So instead she said, âSee, youâre discerning. This is why youâre my best bet.â
âWhatâs the problem then? You both seemed less than thrilled at breakfast, butââ
Now Myka could tell a truth. âExactly. She clearly doesnât feel okay about this artifact, and she shouldnât have to deal with anything that would make her regret having come back. Right?â Before he could agree or disagree, she presented her plan: âYou should do the retrieval with me instead. And Iâll need help selling this to Artie, so if you could gently ask her about the camera and then tell him youâre just as likely to recognize it when youââ
âWanting to spare her discomfort is admirable. Really. But that wasnât your issue, not at first. The very instant Artie said H.G. was going too, you tensed up.â
He is your best bet, Myka reminded herself. She sighed and said, âFine. Iâm not sure I can go on a mission with her.â
He winced and pinched the bridge of his nose.
âOkay, yes,â she acknowledged. âIâm sure I can. Iâm just not sure I want to.â
He didnât release the pinch. âUnfortunately for both of us, thatâs also a lie.â
That one, she resented. âMaybe youâre too discerning.â
âAnd yet Iâve heard Iâm your best bet.â
âRight. Maybe I do want to. But the problem is, everythingâs different now.â
âAlso, Iâm sorry, a lie. That last part. Everything isnât different. Whatâs the same?â
Far, far too discerning. âI donât want to say.â
He smiled. âAaaaah. Very truthful.â
âHereâs something I do want to say: would you take my place instead?â
âEither way,â he said, his smile morphing into an apologetic grimace, âI donât think thatâs how this works.â
âWe just have to make a case to Artie, which I know is a heavy lift, but something like how much easier it would be for Helena to go with you since youâre her wrangler now, soââ
âNo, I mean logistically. Iâm not her wrangler at all, by the way, but also the plane tickets are already in your names, right?â
Well, that was annoyingly true. âFine. I hate it, but fine. And even if I could find an artifact that would change names on plane reservations, I couldnât use it because that would really be personal gain.â
âWould it though?â Steve asked, lightly, but with an undercurrent.
Myka did not want to answer that question.
So she and Helena went.
On the plane, Helena said to Myka, âIâm sure youâre wondering about Artieâs statement.â
Accurate, but: âNot if you donât want to talk about it,â Myka said. âIn that case, any and all wondering canceled. Canceled like... an underappreciated cult TV show.â That was something a colleague would say, wasnât it? A particularly collegial one, such as, for example, Claudia, from whom Myka had copied and pasted the words about television.
This wasnât the first time sheâd plucked words like this; articulations of her own, she fearedâeven more so now than in the pastâwere likely to reveal too much.
Helena raised an eyebrow. âYou sound like Claudia.â
Mission accomplished, if a bit too well, so Myka shrugged and said, âIâve heard characterization can get weird in a reboot.â That was also from Claudia, who had asked Myka, not long ago, âDo you think H.G.âs okay? I know characterization can get weird in a reboot, but she seems a little off,â and Myka had pleaded ignorance as to the entire concept, despite her wish to opine at length on how Helena seemed definitely, from Mykaâs perspective, not okay. Definitely off. More than a little.
âI did use that word,â Helena said.
âYou did.â
âI did also steal the artifact in question.â
âNapoleon Saronyâs camera.â
âYes. I gave it to Oscar Wilde.â
âYou did?â Oscar Wilde. Okay.
âI told him to have someone use it to take his photograph.â
Obviously this has something to do with its effect, but Myka has no idea what. Helena clearly wants to be drawn out on the point, so Myka probes, using what she knows, âBecause it was what Sarony used to take those photos of Wilde when he was on his big star-making tour in the U.S.? Or because of the Supreme Court copyright case about that one Wilde photo he took? Oh, that case, I bet itâs why the cameraâs an artifact, butââ
âYouâre correct on the why of the artifact. But do you know its effect?â
âI didnât have time to look it up before we left. And itâs not in the file.â
âArtie left it out, I suspect.â
âBecause itâs exculpatory?â
âBecause itâs explanatory. As far as anything could be, given that time. Obviously nothing is exculpatory.â
Isnât it? âDo you want to explain?â
âWant,â Helena said, and oh god if Myka could have given herself leave to understand that word said differently. But this was not that reboot. After a throat-clear, Helena went on, âIt was... post.â
Myka didnât need to ask post-what.
âSo many artifacts there were,â Helena continued, âso many unhelpful to me in my extremity. Nevertheless I thought to help. To make some difference. Where I could, as opposed to where I could not.â
In old times, Helena had not said this much about her mental state... post. Fleshy, this admission was, and Myka did not know what to make of it. Was it a step closer, akin to the old sort of physical proximity? Or was it just... explanatory? âThe effect?â she prompted, gently, hoping for clarification.
âArtistic enhancement of the subject photographed. Oscar too was... post. Imprisonment had diminished him so terribly. I thought an artifactual photograph might help restore his writerly prowess.â
âDid it work?â Myka asked.
âI canât prove causation,â Helena said. âNevertheless, post-photo, he did write âBallad of Reading Gaol.ââ
That was one of those utterances Myka would be processing for quite some time. Separate and apart from her outsize feelings for Helena as Helenaâas a physical body to which Mykaâs own body has for years now compulsively respondedâthere was the ongoing absurdity, the near high comedy, of Helena speaking factually about events of such cultural-historical import. âI canât think that was a bad outcome,â Myka eventually managed to say.
âI canât either.â
They had not had so genuine, so genuinely substantive, a conversation since Helenaâs return.
However, their renewed familiarity, if thatâs what it was, did not outlast the plane.
They found the camera, and they neutralized it with minimal difficultyâif a bit more consternation on the part of the gentleman who believed he had the right to possess the piece.
That was all very... collegial.
Andâbutâthey then tried to check in at their hotel. Or rather, Myka did. Helena was occupying herself with the snacks on offer in the lobby. âSteve usually checks in,â sheâd said. âDo you mind?â
How could Myka have been less accommodating than Steve? Also she wasâshe had to concedeâmore than a little charmed by Helenaâs seeming admission of... well, not incompetence. Just a slight slink away from responsibility.
Please, a more cynical part of her said with a snort of derision, youâre charmed by the way she does everything. Walking, talking, existing. Inspecting potato-chip bags across the lobby in a hotelâs snack pantry.
âBering and Wells,â the desk clerk said in confirmation of the reservation, and Myka wanted to thank him for that ordering of names. He followed up with, âOne king.â
She didnât want to thank him for that. âNo,â she told him, and it was good that Helena was out of earshot. âTwo. Kings, queens, doubles, twins, I donât care. But two.â
âSorry,â said the clerk. âFull up.â
So one king it had been.
And now, in that one king, Mykaâs arm is asleep.
âAre you asleep?â she wants to ask of Helena, aloud, to ascertain the true contours of the situation, but the very asking mightâwould?âchange the contours, and Myka isnât sure sheâs in any kind of state to handle any certainty or any change. So she thinks the question at Helena instead, thinks it over her shoulder at that warm body over and over, Are you asleep, are you asleep, are you asleep, are you asleep, until sheâs estranged from the question as anything but words, until âasleepâ in particular begins to strike her as bizarrely archaic, its construction completely uncontemporary, and she interrupts her telepathy to think, It is archaic; we donât ask âAre you abedâ or anything like that anymoreâ
âbut she interrupts herself again, for that doesnât ring quite right. So she calls up the dictionary, the Aâs, riffling her way through, and the exercise offers her all sorts of examples that show how very unarchaic indeed it is to say âasleepâ: ablaze, abuzz, aground, ajar, alight, aloud, amid...
The list goes on. Itâs far longer than she expected, but she continues, doggedly, to the end of the Aâs, through âastray,â âaswoonâ (she doesnât linger on that one), on to âatingleâ (that one either), on and on, ending with âawhirl.â Sheâd been by then vaguely looking forward to something like âazoom,â but alas.
Such a lengthy jaunt through the initial chapter of the dictionary surely must have eaten up significant time, perhaps even more than she imagined; perhaps morning is at last approaching, and the alarm will ring, and all this physical consternation can be resolved by sudden wakefulness on everybodyâs part.
The clock on the nightstand tells her the journey took three minutes.
Spectacular.
Well, fine. If the Aâs were three minutes, the rest of the dictionary should offer her at least an hour of distractionâboth from her armâs discomfort and from the physical, emotional, and existential discomfort created by the presence at her neck, back, and hip.
She starts in on the Bâs. First comes âb,â defined, in entry 1a, as âthe 2d letter of the English alphabet.â No doubt itâs important to periodically refresh oneâs memory of such things.
The Bâs proceed, slow and thorough; after âbâ comes âbaa,â and on and on... âbedlamâ catches her attention, in a Warehouse-y way; âbed of rosesâ does too, as itâs âa place or situation of agreeable ease,â which this certainly is notâ
âin sudden, striking emphasis, Helenaâs hand on Mykaâs hip moves, a minimal slide-glide toward thigh, and oversensitized Myka canât control a too-violent twitch in response, one that jolts her toward the bedâs edge, which was nearer than she realized, for now its surface is an abrupt absence, and a crash to the floor is imminent, and instinct, instinct: her brain shouts for an arm to break her fall, but the volunteering limb is the stupid somnolent one, and OH GOD she has never known pain to manifest like thisâsheâs taken a bullet but this is more, for âseeing starsâ is no mere metaphor, as sheâd always imagined; her vision is literally stellating, even as she hears herself yelp in prelinguistic anguish.
The horrific fullness of the situation settles on her as she additionally hears, directed at her from some angel perspective, the voice of her dreams but now this nightmare saying âMyka? Whatâs wrong?â
âEverything,â Myka moans at the unforgivingly injurious floor, and then the stars win.
TBC
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Asleep 2
For the anniversary this year, I have the second âhalfâ of my @b-and-w-holiday-gift-exchange story for @kla1991 : an involuntary bed-sharing situation that turns not sexy but disastrous. The first part took on Mykaâs perspective; this conclusion is written from the other side of the bed. A confession: I find in-universe Helenaâs head voice a somewhat difficult register to composeâbecause while she canât be fully insane, she needs to teeter or list, sometimes more than a little (but without falling into histrionics). Which is to say that if you donât entirely buy the turns of thought and/or coping mechanisms Iâve given her here, your skepticism is well-placed. Ultimately I hope itâs the case that a person can be broken but still want in a way thatâs... pure? Justified? Sweet? Reciprocatable? Maybe just âvaguely recognizably humanâ?
Anyway, this is long, first because it extends well beyond the point at which the first part ended, but also because when a Bering and a Wells get to talking (as they at last do!), they need to work things out at their own pace...
Asleep 2
My arm is asleep.
Under normal circumstances, a person would, upon becoming aware of this, shift position so as to restore blood flow.
Under normal circumstances.
But very little is normal about the circumstances under which Helenaâs arm is asleep.
She is in a hotel-room bed, in the dark of night, lying on her left side, with her left arm, her now-asleep arm, pinned beneath her. So ends the disturbingly limited ânormalâ portion of the situation.
Here begins the larger portion: she absolutely must not move.
Irony guts at her with that, a shiv-and-twist remembrance of bronze restrictionâbut that prohibition had involved a significantly different auxiliary verb: âcannotâ rather than âmust not.â
Grammatical particulars aside, her immobility now is barely less a torment. This is because her other arm, her alive right, terminates in an even-more alive sensate hand, one that now restsâbut is in no way at restâon Mykaâs right hip.
Myka, too, is lying on her left side, a small distance in front of Helena, lying in this hotel-room bed. Such proximity in such a space might, under other circumstances, signify the fulfillment of a long-held dream... but here, now, it seems a nightmare. For Myka is Helenaâs colleague and no more; they are in this bed for sleep and no more; and Myka is playing her part correctly while Helena is not, in contravention of what she has sworn to herself she would do no more.
Such drowsy sense the placing of that hand had seemed to make, when she had found herself facing Mykaâs back. She had in the past regarded that length covetously, relishing the idea of touch both salacious and tender.
For all her coveting, however, she had in fact only once laid hands on that back, both hands with intention on the clothed blades of Mykaâs shoulders: a terrifying embrace, one that was in the most basic physical manner right but overall searingly wrong, screaming bodily truth but surrounded by words that said nothing they should. A perversion of promise, like so much else that had happened in Boone.
Yet Helena had clung to its memory all the same.
Sheâd thought, here in this unexpected proximity, to supersede that, to touch once again, once again but brief, once again though brief. To erase and replace.
First she touched the right blade, light; yet her hand wanted stillness, more connection than a mere pat against cotton-clad bone. And there was Mykaâs hip, a beckoning promontory jut... a place to rest. Rest, however brief.
Once placed, however, her hand had proved reluctant to retreat.
Brief, she reminded it.
No, the hand had responded. I belong here.
Helena knows this is true. She knows also that it cannot be true.
But she is no stranger to holding contradictory thoughts in her head. This has been essential to establishing and maintaining, in these new Warehouse days, a functional equilibrium. Functional. Indeed her goal, in this âreboot,â has been to function, which she has lately defined as something on the order of âto move through time nondestructively.â
This definition had come about due to her realization, pre-reboot, that her difference from others, her inability to fully perform a modern selfâher arrogance about that inability, even as she attempted to hide both the inability and the arroganceâchipped at, chipped from, the good (the good nature, the good will, the goodness) of those around her. Over time, such chips accrued as wounds.
Nate. (Adelaide.) Giselle.
She had as a result finally understood that coming back to the Warehouse would mean, at the very least, that those with whom she interacted had already made a bargain, perhaps even a peace, with the inevitable violence of history: with the way the forces of the past couldâwouldâaffect, even infect, the present. Helena herself was, at her simplest, merely one more of those forces.
She did consider requesting that she be re-Bronzed, now absent any pretension of traveling through time, but rather as a way of neutralizing a dangerous, and demonstrably unstable, artifact. But then an image had come to her, possibly as an omen, possibly as only a desperate wish: Mykaâs devastated face upon hearing such news.
Boone all over again.
Thus the reboot. Because the most significant entry under âfunction,â with additional emphasis on the ânondestructiveâ portion of that definition, was her resolution to spare Myka pain. In the past, Helena had been both careless and carefulâsurgically soâin her infliction of damage on Myka above all others. But she had sworn to herself that those days were done.
Done, but Helena knew she had not paid anything near a sufficient price.
So. To maintain distance, no matter how troublesomely ardent her wish to close it, wasâhad to beâpart of her penance. And to do so decorously wasâhad to beâthe gentlest approach. That was what Helena told herself in her more rational moments.
This moment, in this bed, is not one of those. If it were, she would simply remove her hand. Simply remove it, then roll over.
But her mind races, finding complication: She doesnât know what sort of sleeper Myka is. Had Helenaâs placing of hand awakened her? If she had awakened, has she now fallen asleep again? If she has, would she then be reawakened by the handâs removal? Or would she, if still awake, draw some negative inference about the entire situation based on removal?
Ideally, Helena would maintain a facsimile of entirely blameless sleep while engaging in that removal, but can she make such a performance believable?
Never in her life has Helena been so concerned about her ability to mislead convincingly as when she has attempted to deceive Myka. That was the case in the past, even at her most nefarious, and now she worries day-to-day that her strictly disciplined disguise of near-constant wishing ache will slip and fail. A simple I am asleep should be... well... simple. But it is not, and Helena is reminded of Claudiaâs tendency to observe, in situations both dire and banal, âHere we are.â
Here we are, because Myka is apparently indifferent to the idea of sharing a bed with Helena.
Here we are, because Myka is apparently indifferent to history.
Here we are, and that latter indifference is a surpassing irony, due to the fullness ofâ
Helena sees that she needs to divert her train of thought, as descending into unjustified anger will help absolutely nothing.
First, she entertains a fantasy of sitting up, turning on a light, and explaining to Myka that this entire situation is untenable, and that if they are going to share a bed, they should share a bed. But itâs true that Myka did not seem even to consider that as a possibility, which seems ludicrous, given the past... no, thatâs back to unjustified anger, for who is Helena to resent what Myka wishes not to consider? And indeed, who is she to interpret the past in such a way as to believe she understands what Myka would have considered?
Focus on the facts, she tells herself. What actually happened in that nefarious past. And do so dispassionately.
Regrettably, the word âdispassionatelyâ brings to mind another word: âpassionately.â
Again. For she had thought that word not long after she and Myka had first entered this room, first entered it to find, as Helenaâs unrestrained fantasies might have conjured, only one bed. That they were clearly intended to share. Thus her mindâs unruly leap to... an adverbial manner in which they might do so.
But Myka had said not one word about the accommodations, so Helena had held her tongue as well. She nevertheless couldnât help but feel it an elaborate lack of remark on both their parts, the silence practically baroque in its fullness.
Baroque too had been the courtesy with which they jointly prepared for bed, a you-first-no-you stutter-choreography of politeness that ensured privacy, yes, but also reinforced the barrier between their past and their present.
Which Helena understood was necessary. It did nothing, however, to mitigate the breath-hold of preparing to lie down beside Myka.
Once she had managed that lying down, however (with a relative aplomb for which self-congratulation was not, she felt, unjustified), she hoped her torment might ease. A bit. If she could manage the additional task of pretending the body beside her was no more significant than any other human. Some flesh, recumbent.
But when they were situated thus beside, Myka spoke. âYou seem a little upset,â she said.
Helena had barely been able to restrain a snort. Now Myka saw fit to comment? As if allowing this portion of the play to pass without remark would create some undue strain upon collegiality? As if their incongruous bonhomie might buckle under the weight of that silence? Oh, that was rich.
Bottling her pique, Helena questioned: âWith?â To make Myka say it. Mere saying wouldnât hurt. Would it?
âYou havenât been yourself since you put that camera in the static bag. Was it a problem, seeing it again?â
Helena held herself rigid so as to keep her body from betraying neither her disappointment at the question nor, contradictorily, her relief...
It was a reasonable question. A good question. Not one on which Helena particularly wanted to focus (although it indicated a certain attention on Mykaâs part, an attention on which Helena suspected she should not dwell), but it did deserve an answer. âIt closes a door, doesnât it,â she told the ceiling, for turning her head to address the other body directly seemed an invitation to peril. âThat one I opened so nefariously, long ago.â
âOrâandâmaybe it closes a loop,â Myka said.
Unexpected. âA loop?â
âRight after college, I went through a self-help phase,â Myka said. She paused, and Helena found herself on relative tenterhooks regarding the applicability of this (new!) information to the current situation. Which reminded her how much she had missed talking with Myka... because of the very sound of her voice, yes, but also because her conversation could range so unanticipatedly. So rewardingly unanticipatedly. Helena had known few people who could lead her on such unpredictable, yet productive, journeys.
Was Mykaâs apparent willingness to begin such a journey now indicative of... anything? A softening, perhaps, of relations between them? Not a rebooting of their once-burgeoning intimacy, for that had to remain taboo, but could it be that some restoration of their previous intellectual engagement might be, at the very least, neutral rather than harmful?
Helena had moved a tentative pawn in that direction during their conversation on the airplane. Perhaps this was Mykaâs answering move?
With an exhale that seemed like resignation at what she was about to sayâto reveal?âMyka said, âI felt like I needed to be someone differentâsomeone better.â
Another pause. Helena considered that such a feeling seemed very Myka (and she heard that phrase in Claudiaâs voice), but also very misguided. Of course she was not at all placed to make such judgments, and even less so to convey them to Myka. Thus she said a simple, âDid you,â to encourage without prejudice.
âSo I read a lot of books,â Myka said, to which Helena had responded internally, Of course you did. âOne was about how to get things done.â
âAll things?â Helena asked.
âSort of.â That was followed by yet another pause. Yet another puzzle.
All these pauses. Was Myka on the verge of sleep? Helena said, soft, thinking she might go unheard, âPerhaps I should read that book. As a help to myself.â
At that, Myka had laughed, more delay, but also soft. âI donât think itâs any kind of help you need. The guy who wrote it had a big system, all these rules, and I love rules, but these... I admit I didnât stick with most of them. Honestly, any. But an idea that did stick was actually a pretty minor part: open loops. Stuff you track subconsciously, all the time, because itâs incomplete. How troubling that is. And what a difference it makes when you close a loop, when you each a resolution. I mean, he was talking about stuff like answering emails.â
âEmails,â Helena echoed. So far from artifacts.
âWhich this is so much bigger than,â Myka said, exhibiting, not for the first time, an uncanny ability to scoop from Helenaâs thoughts. âBut maybe the principle holds. You donât have to tell me. But I hope you have fewer open loops now than you did. Before.â
âYes. The number. Fewer,â Helena said, factually.
She of course couldnât say out loud (but it was equally factual) that Myka herself was the loop most capaciously open. The one that gaped, superseding, never mind the number of lesser.
Indeed, however, that number was now minus-one. Oscar. Oscar and his ballad... that loop closed.
Helena had in fact, while handling the camera, begun to ideate a wish that someone (Steve? Claudia?) might be persuaded to use the camera to capture her image... for it had occurred to her that a spark of art, some production on which to concentrate, might animate this reboot... something to pursue, rather than to be pursued by...
But. Lying abed, still and strangely hopefulâa state she should have known would not endureâa realization had struck her, as an open hand to the face, a realization of why Myka had brought up loops and the closing thereof: she had somehow discerned Helenaâs wish, via that scooping of thought, and was discouraging her from pursuing it.
So much for any softening. This was instead a warning: Helena should not open a loop that Myka might be obligated to close. And Helena had no trouble grasping that the warning was in no way limited to the use of a single artifact... no, it doubtless applied to any burdensome loops Helena might be thinking of opening, any new incompletions that might come to trouble Myka.
âI understand,â Helena had said, regretting that pawns could not be moved backwards.
At the same instant, Myka said, âIâm glad.â
That collision had canceled communication entirely; in its wake, Myka had turned out her light and turned away from Helena.
Leaving Helena to her thoughts.
Well, fine, had been the first of those.
Next had come an equally mulish sniff of And I will have no difficulty directing any subsequent away from this shared bed.
Whereupon she had proven herself both wrong and right, thinking about history, about the fact that, whatever Mykaâs commentary or lack thereof had or hadnât signified, the fact of Warehouse agents lodging together, sharing beds completely platonically, was certainly nothing new.
This line of thinking had enabled Helena to distract herself by recalling a mission with Steve and Claudia, one in which Steve had announced, after checking in at their hotel, âBad news. Just a king room left, but they said theyâd bring up a cot.â
He had then immediately assigned Claudia to said cot, prompting her to protest, âNo way! This situation screams rock-paper-scissors tournament! Loser gets the crappy nightâs sleep!â
âNo way,â Steve protested back, far more mildly. âThe father of science fiction gets first dibs on the lumbar support, and my backâs got a decade on yours, so I call second. If that father agrees.â
Helena had. Sharing with Steve had been fine.
Sharing with Myka should of course have been no different.
Should of course have been...
But now, here in the impossible present, as Helenaâs left arm slumbers and her right hand sparks, what should have been? Isnât isnât isnât.
She needs further distraction, so she casts her mind again to Claudia and Steve, to the compensations they have offered her during this strange and estranging reboot: at first Claudia, who had welcomed Helena back so unreservedly and continues to offer wholehearted allyship; and then Steve, who had quickly become an unanticipated boon companion, a partner upon whom Helena has felt increasingly, and increasingly exceptionally, lucky to be able to rely.
And yet these compensations, though Helena hopes she conveys all appropriate gratitude for them, are never sufficient, for Mykaânecessary yet unreachableâis always present.
Sheâd been so, even during that cot-delineated retrieval. Its aftermath had (so much for distraction) involved a significantly Myka-related incident, for Helena had dared, as she, Steve, and Claudia were relaxing in the hotel lounge prior to retiring, to broach Myka as a topic of conversation. As one might do, sheâd thought: speaking about a colleague.
âI have an inquiry,â sheâd phrased it. To make the ensuing question sound... scientific?
Dispassionate, she jeers at her recalled self.
She jeers also at what sheâd said next: a too-bald, âHow is Myka?â
She had known, even at the time, that what she had truly wanted was to say that blessed name, to speak about that blessed person. She could not speak to Myka in any meaningful way, and she was starving.
Steve and Claudia had then shared what seemed an extremely charged glance, so Helena hastened to dissemble, making sure to use questions so as to prevent Steve from finding her immediately untruthful: âGiven that her liaison with Pete ended? Theyâve... recovered, as it were? Both faring well?â
But her tone had struck her own ears as too bright; a desperation rippled behind it, and Helena knew from experience that behind that tiptoed a still deeper threat of rupture, which required work to be kept at bay. As Helena had been instructed by her most successful therapist to do when such awareness overtook her, she began to breathe with attention.
Neither Steve nor Claudia spoke as she did so.
When the danger passed, she smiled, as best she could, to signal to them her appreciationâand to herself, her success.
Steve then said, âYouâre not asking about Pete.â
Helena valuedâas a personality traitâSteveâs discerning willingness to push. She did not in that moment value how he thus so easily revealed a glaring flaw in her initial approach: she should have asked about Pete; with that as her entrĂŠe, the talk might organically have turned to Myka. Foolish of her to think so unstrategically... or was her failure to do so a paradoxically positive sign?
âGive it time,â Steve said, and Helena knew he was making no reference to Myka and Peteâs recovery.
âMy relationship to time,â she said, with contempt. Time: sheâd taken it. Now she had to give it? A forfeit. Well, that was fair.
Claudia said to Steve, âSpeaking of, weâre wasting it. Are we gonna do the thing?â
âOnly if H.G.âs on board,â Steve told her. It was an unexpectedly mind-your-manners utterance.
âWhat is the thing?â Helena asked.
âClaudiaâs trying out alcohols,â Steve said. âWe canât do it around Pete, obviously, which means retrievals are ourââ
âSo many questions to answer, right?â Claudia interrupted, her avidity increasing. âYou know, am I Ăźber-suave James Bond with the martinis? Or a fights-against-my-general-cool-geek-vibe Carrie Bradshaw with a cosmo?â
Helena had had no idea what she was referring to, but the investigation seemed entirely fit for someone her age. âWhat have you determined thus far?â
âTurns out cosmos donât work for me,â she said, âas the prophecy foretold, and Bond-wise, I like a martini all vodka, no gin; sorry, Vesper.â
âIs that all?â Helena asked.
Further avidity: âOh god no. Vodka drinks arenât perfect: white Russians are way too sweet. Also in the white family, the wine category pretty much bores me. Also there was this one time Steve ordered a gin drink called a white lady that I couldnât even think about because it had an egg white in it and one look made me retch.â
âQuite the wide-ranging experiment,â Helena said, hoping to forestall further off-putting description. âNot conducted with inappropriate... ah... intensity, one hopes?â
Steve patted Claudiaâs shoulder, at which she rolled her eyes. âIâm supervising,â he said. âNo more than a few tries in one sitting, and weâre doing it mindfully.â
Claudia abandoned her attitude and nodded. âPaying attention to what Iâm tasting. How to find, you know, notes and stuff. Except for the disgusting egg-white thing, itâs honestly been fun.â
âIâm not opposed to fun,â Helena said, and she was a bit surprisedâbut pleased, and pleased to be pleasedâthat Steve didnât squint in response. âSo, Mr. Supervisor, whatâs next?â
âIâve been pushing for the wide and wonderful world of beer, butââ
âSeems too jocktastic,â Claudia said. âYou know, âBeer me, bro.ââ
âI donât know,â Helena said.
âAnyway thatâs really not me,â Claudia continued, as if Helena hadnât spoken. She did have a tendency to ignore Helenaâs ignorance, a tendency that Helena enjoyed and found frustrating in equal measure.
âHer beer perspective is severely limited,â Steve lamented.
âI myself have always found a strong stout ale quite enjoyable,â Helena said: her contribution to Steveâs cause. It was also true, the fact of which he seemed pleased to affirm with a quirk of lip and a quiet âso you have.â
Claudiaâs expression remained skeptical, but she shrugged weakly and said, âI guess I could give it a shot?â
âOh, because H.G. says so,â Steve twitted.
To that, Claudia squared her shoulders. âYeah. Donât you know who she is?â she demanded.
âWho I was,â Helena hurried to emphasize, âand given that Steve assigned me the bed on that basis, heââ
âWho you are,â Claudia corrected, throwing the emphasis back.
âAnd who is that?â Helena asked. What distinction did Claudia imagine was relevant?
âThe person who told me my destiny was glorious. Youâre still that guy, right?â
Relevant indeed. Helena was taken aback, indeed taken back to that extremity, back in a novel way. She had been so mired in the Myka of it all in the intervening time, that she had lost her view of the bright salience of Claudiaâs presence. Wrongly. âI am,â she said. She hoped Claudia believed her.
âOkay,â Claudia said. âSo Iâve got this big-as-Peteâs-biceps incentive to hope the stuff you say is true. And by the way, one of you has to casually drop in front of him how I said that, because I want the points.â
Steve snickered and said, âI know my job. But in the meantime, I think Iâd like to toast to all these sentiments, and to the agents offering them. With a strong stout ale.â
They tasted the three strongest the hotel bar had on offer, and Claudia pronounced that her favorite, one purporting to convey roasted notes of coffee, chocolate, and other darkness, was âway too complicated for your average broseph.â Which Steve seemed pleased by, as a judgment, so the overall experience scored a success.
There was no further talk of Myka, however, the avoidance of which topic seemed quite deliberate... as if Steve and Claudia had determined that Helena would not benefit from it.
Or that she did not deserve it.
For the best, Helena had concluded. Either way.
Now, in a similar âfor the best either wayâ sense, she makes to raise her hand, with that intended overlay of feigned sleep, so as to shift away and at last regain equilibrium, restoring feeling to her sleeping arm and calming that oversensitive hand. But insteadâin what she can interpret only as a stupidly id-driven attempt to bank some never-to-be-repeated sensation, to the memory of which that desperate id might cling in a touch-deprived futureâshe moves her hand, not away from Myka, but further down her leg.
And her worst fears are instantly realized: Mykaâs body reacts violently, as if in revulsion at the very idea of Helena touching her.
It was only a hand at rest, Helena begs, with no conception of why or to whom she is rendering that supplication. That was all.
Alas, that wasâisânot all, for in the next split second Myka is falling from the bed and crying out in pain.
Helena, at a loss, attempts a faux-innocent inquiry, which Myka answers unintelligibly. In trepidation, Helena ventures to the mattress-edge, then lowers herself to the floor next to Mykaâand she is appalled, for the situation that confronts her is all debility, even more so than the absurd âmy arm is asleepâ with which this farce began: Mykaâs shoulder is dislocated.
Further, Myka is now unconscious.
Spare Myka pain. How utterly unsurprising Helena finds her inability to obey such a dictum in even this most basic physical sense.
Unsurprising... worse, dispiriting, and it brings her low, such that again the incipient rupture asserts its subterranean power, urging Helena to give up, to run away and leave this broken Myka to someone else to bind up and save.
Youâve done it before.
That resounds in her head as both accusation and affirmation, and the voice pronouncing it might be Mykaâs, or some deityâs, or that of any of the other personages who jockey audibly for primacy in that space, including Helenaâs own.
She initiates breathing with care, even as an eddying undertow tempts her to entertain the notion that escape, too, might be rebooted, tempts her to entertain and revel in its ostentation as a response to Mykaâs indifference, her rejection of history, even her revulsion.
Here is my answer to all that, a departure would declare.
Helena labors to breathe herself away from such perfidy, but the scenario creeps along, with an undertone of sinful relish, as she imagines leaving Myka to awaken alone and in pain.
But thenâbecause her labor leads her thereâshe further imagines the various permutations of âsomeone elseâ who might be called upon to save the day in her absence. Whereupon the thought strikes her that moving through time nondestructively requires her to think seriously of, and to think seriously out, such knock-ons... how, for example, would Steve and Claudia respond to having to clean up this mess, knowing that Helena had made it?
Moving through time nondestructively. Interesting, here, the overlap with moving through time selfishly: selfishly, she does not want to destroy Claudiaâs image of her as someone whose opinion matters. She does not want to destroy Steveâs image of her either, for it seems to have at least some positive components. Further, she does not want to destroy the fellowship they three are building.
If for no other reasons than those, she concludes that having caused this quite specific damage, she must fix it.
Because she can.
The fact of the matter is, Helena cannot fix most things. She has tried mightily to maintain the pretense that she can... but she has been forced over and over to confront the absurdity of that bravado. This very specific fix-it, however, she can perform. And while that performanceâinconveniently, in the present circumstanceârequires touch, here it can be functional. Perhaps in success she might in some way efface her earlier invasiveness...
Yet she can do nothing without two functional arms. She thumps her still-insensate left against the bed, hardâtoo hard, for Mykaâs eyes open. She mumbles out something Helena decodes as âwhatareyoudoing.â
âPreparing to remedy a situation,â Helena says.
âOkay.â Myka murmurs. She seems oddly comforted by the answer, to such an extent that she relaxes, losing consciousness again.
Thatâs fortunate, given the required manipulation.
Helena prepares herself to do it quickly, efficiently, as she has done in the past... rather dramatically on one occasion, as she recalls, for an agonized Wolcott... but she should not think of Wolcott. For the regret.
She sets that aside, preoccupying herself instead with the necessary activity. Her manipulation, determined and strong, is rewarded: what begins as a sluggish resistance resolves into a slip-pop of relocation, one that shudders a familiar path through her own bones. She then cushions Mykaâs arm with a fresh towel and uses a pillowcase to fashion around it a tight sling.
Levering Myka up onto the bed would most likely cause further injury, so Helena sits beside her on the floor, ensuring periodically that she continues to breathe. The wait is calming, cleansing, its peace a renewal of a soothing activity of which Helena has been long deprived: observing Myka closely, at actual leisure. At no point since her returnâso at no point in, literally, yearsâhas she had such an opportunity.
Sheâs reminded, in that observation, of the true fundament: this precious person. Who could never be merely some flesh.
After a lengthy time, during which Helena is pressed to consider, to remember, to value Mykaâs singularity, that precious personâs eyes flutter open.
That person tests her bound arm, a tentative physical investigation that approaches elegance in its delicacy.
But Mykaâs delicacy and elegance, too, Helena should not think of. For the regret.
âIâm not in the hospital,â Myka burrs.
Reasonable, practical. This is what Helena should think of. âNot yet,â she says. âBut weâll go if necessary. If youâre in pain.â
Mykaâs face contorts. âNot if. I am. Some. More than some. Iâm sorry.â
âFor being in pain?â
âThat. But also, for changing this whole thing.â
Helena leaves the latter alone, for she cannot begin to interpret it. Focusing on functionality, she asks, âCan you dress yourself?â
Myka nods, but she winces far too much with even that motion, so Helena screws her courage to it and says, âIâll change and then help you.â
Herself, fast, then Myka: Functional, she snarls internally as she addresses the situation, and even faster. Sheâs relieved to find that Mykaâs trousers and boots are less complicated than sheâd feared, and as it happens, preventing Myka suffering additional physical painâeven while undressing and redressing her!âis, paradoxically or not, far easier than navigating emotional shoals, or even hand-on-hip physical shoals. Focusing on Mykaâs face for twists, listening for labors in breath, adjusting accordingly... itâs distractingly, satisfyingly concrete. Only the present moment matters.
Only the present moment matters. This is the mantra Helena iterates internally as they proceed to the nearest urgent care facility.
Yet as they wait there for attention, Helena finds herself increasingly unable to ignore why they are waiting there for attention. In the present moment, which matters. She beginsâor does she intend it as an ending?âwith, âIâm assuming you flung yourself to the floor in an attempt to escape a circumstance.â
Myka hiccups a laugh that makes her cringe in protection of the shoulder. âThatâs weirdly accurate. As an assumption.â
Helena recoils at the confirmation, but she must acknowledge it. âA circumstance in which I touched you in a way that was unwelcome,â she agrees, with gloom.
âUnwelcome,â Myka echoes.
Itâs so... definitive. It was one thing for Helena herself to think it, believe it, say it aloud. Quite anotherâthough it shouldnât have beenâto hear it from Myka.
A punctuating end to what never truly began between them: there is some consolation, if only philosophical, in the idea that after so many starts that were false, they may at least enjoy a finish that is true.
âOf course it was,â Helena says, following with, âand how could it have been otherwise.â She puts the final period upon it by adding a bare, spare dig: âGiven history.â
Myka closes her eyes... in acceptance of the cut? When she opens them, they are glistening. Tears? Helena is egotistically gratified by such a response, never mind that it means she has yet again failed to hold to her resolution.
âHelena,â Myka says, and now Helena is gratified simply by Mykaâs low utterance of her name. Myka does not always use that deeper voice, and Helena does love (yes, love) the rare pleasure of hearing her name in it. âIâm so tired,â Myka says next.
That is less gratifying. Itâs yet another utterance Helena should leave alone; of course Myka is tired. But in what she is sure is a mistake, Helena says, âOf?â
âEverything. But particularly, you.â
A dagger, that was. A cut back. Testimony to Helenaâs concatenating mistakes.
âThis you,â Myka adds.
The additional twist of blade leaves Helena unclear on the devastation Myka intends. âOf courseâ is all she can think to say.
Myka closes her eyes and exhales heavy, a near-sob. âSorry. Sorry. Sorry,â she intones, but what need has she to apologize? âThat was the pain talkingâor, no, I still know you well enough to know youâll hear that wrong. What I mean is, Iâm saying something I could keep holding back if the pain wasnât cracking me open.â
The pain. Cracking her open. Which would never have happened in the absence of Helenaâs stupid, thoughtless touch. Which in turn makes abundantly clear that the stupid, thoughtless person who applied that touch is the âthis youâ Myka means.
If Helena is to remain in this situation she must take measures, so she lengthens her inhales and exhales, entirely ashamed both at needing such a crutch and at having to exhibit that need.
After a moment of silence, Myka asks, âAre you breathing differently than you were just a second ago?â
Myka isnât Steve. Helena could at least attempt to lie about this, to cloak her shame... but itâs effort, either way. âYes,â she says, choosing the unpredictability of Mykaâs interpretation over the unpredictability of her own performance.
âIs that good or bad?â Myka asks. âOr both?â
The questions stop Helena, stop her in the same way her at-leisure observation of Myka had. I still know you well enough, Myka had said, and it is true. This is why, Helena would say if she could. Your knowing to ask that.
But she canât say it, and, worse, she doesnât know what she should say. What should come next.
Apparently Myka doesnât either. That not-knowing persists, hanging, until ânextâ arrives, as an intrusion from outside their suspension: medical attention is at last directed Mykaâs way; she is escorted out of the waiting area and taken elsewhere.
âWeâll call you when you can see her,â Helena is told.
Alone in the waiting areaâfor no other human seems to have suffered damage this nightâand uncomfortably situated on a hard plastic chair, she tilts her head back against a similarly unforgiving plaster wall.
She closes her eyes. Sheâs had no rest, no rest for so long. She is drained. Physically empty.
Philosophically as well.
She imagines trying to sleep... or rather, she imagines not trying to remain awake.
Doubtless futile, either way.
She next imagines constructing an airtight argument that could not help but persuade all who hear itâMyka in particular, but all others as wellâthat this entire situation is Artieâs fault.
Also futile.
This despite its being the fact of the matter, for indeed he did bring the situation about. Perhaps not in a proximate sense, but in the ultimate... the idea of which, after a moment, strikes her as both comic and tragic: Artie as the ultimate cause? Of anything, from the universe on down? Though he would doubtless like to imagine himself so... even at the Warehouse, however, he must be not even penultimate, given the bureaucracy that sits over the entire concern...
Helena thus spends the bulk of her time in the waiting area stewing aboutâstewing over? stewing under?âthe relative positions of god, Mrs. Frederic, and various Regents in the universe. None of it, however, requires her to alter her breathing; rather, she composes in her head the opening paragraphs of several publishable monographs on these and related topics. It isnât restful. But is evidence of something other than emptiness.
When someone does at last call her to see Myka, everything has changed.
Well. Not everything. Helena herself hasnât, as her bureaucracy-pantheon thought may have been philosophically valid but made no difference.
Myka, however, has changed entirely: her arm is now professionally dressed, but more importantly, the knit of pain has left her face. âThey medicated me,â she says, giving the word âmedicatedâ a rapturous cast. âThe X-rays said I didnât break anything, so weâre waiting on results of a scan to see if I need surgery but in the meantime I feel better than I maybe ever have in my life and I am so happy to see you. All these doctors were like âwhy did she think she could fix youâ but I knew why and it was because itâs you. and that scan? Itâll shout out how Helena Wells relocated Mykaâs shoulder so she didnât need surgery, and they donât know this, but actually H.G. Wells relocated Mykaâs shoulder, which is even more amazing. Wait, thatâs not more amazing. Youâre the most amazing when youâre you than when youâre that guy. Even though I guess you are that guy. Sort of. Wait, Claudiaâs been saying âthat guyâ a lot now. And I cut and paste from her so much, but I donât like it. The way things are.â She heaves an enormous sigh and blinks at Helena, as if sheâs just re-understood that another person is present.
Is there some ideal way to answer this flood? Helena settles for an antiseptic âIâm pleased to see you out of pain.â
Myka gasps and flails wildly with her uninjured arm, which gesture eventually resolves into an index finger directed at Helena. âThatâs it exactly. Iâm out of pain. All out. No more pain to give. Particularly not to you. So saying Iâm tired of you? I regret it, and I apologize for it, and I promise thatâs the end of it. I was wishing to get something back, and you donât want it back, and so I have to be fine. Without it. Without you.â
Without you. Helena supposes she should be impressed by how concisely Myka can foreshadow disaster. âShould I not... be here?â She braces herself for the answer.
âOf course you should. I have to be fine without how you were,â Myka says, very quietly. The collapse of her volubility gives Helena pause.
She knows it would be better not to probe; she ought to, as Claudia says, âtake the win.â But âOf course you shouldâ is only facially a win... âHow was I?â she asks. To wound herself by making Myka clarify what has been lost.
âOh, how you were...â Myka says, her words dragging. How muchâany, all?âof this might be due to the varying effects of the medication? âPutting me into this story,â she continues. âIt was so big, and I didnât understand what it was, really or at all, but it felt so big. Yearning and tragedy, and there I was, still me, but in it, so in it, all in it, next to you. Bigger than life, and I... loved it? Needed it? Something to take me over. But my wishing for any of it back, when of course you donât?â She raises that free arm, then lets it fall. Futility, it says. âSo small. Only somebody little and desperate would want to make you revisit any of that.â
Medication effect or not, Helena canât let Myka keep on with this. âMake me revisit it? Yearning and tragedy? Iâm the one who inflicted that, and with malign intent; I damaged you. And I cannot imagine a scenario in which that debt is discharged.â
Myka squints. âDebt,â she says, as if articulating a new noun, but not one that names an abstraction; no, this thing is big and blunt, a dumb object that takes up space. Unfunctional furniture. That I carry on my back, Helena moods.
âOh!â Myka then yelps, her tone shifting to excitement. âBut I just damaged myself. So now weâre even!â She delivers that last bit big and broad, for all the world as if sheâs the comic lead in a panto.
Helena has not spared a thought for panto in years. âThat makes no sense at all,â she says, because itâs the case, but also to scorn the memory. This is no time for that past.
âWould you like me to dislocate your shoulder?â Myka asks, as if it were a reasonable proffer. Still comic, but now strangely sincere.
Helena meets this bizarrely compelling, ridiculous combination with as much severity as she can muster. âHonestly no. I would not.â
âI see,â Myka says, and she points again, this time without preambling flail. âSome prices you arenât willing to pay.â
Helena can at the very least be honest about this. How nice it would be if Steve were here to verify. âWilling to... in the sense of volunteering to? No. In the sense of understanding that I deserve to? Certainly. So do me damage if you must. In particular, do me damage if you think it could even the score between us. It wonât, but if you think it could? Please do.â
âThatâs pretty twisted,â pronounces the only arbiter who matters.
âYou sound like Claudia again,â Helena observes. To push the judgment away? Yes, and she tries to make certain of it with, âIs that another cut and paste?â
âMaybe. But now that I think about it, she sees things pretty clearly a lot of the time. Donât you think?â
âI would like to think,â Helena is compelled to admit. Hoist by her own petard.
At this pointâsuspending any resolutionâa doctor reenters the curtained area. âGood news: no surgery,â she tells Myka.
âSee, I told you she fixed it,â Myka preens.
âYou did,â says the doctor. âSeveral times,â she adds, dry.
Helena says âIâm so sorry,â only to hear Myka say, at the same time, âSorry not sorry!â Another echo of Claudia... this one, however, clearly heartfelt.
The doctor turns to Helena. âDonât try anything like this again. You got ridiculously lucky.â
âThatâs kind of her M.O.,â Myka says. âExcept when it isnât.â
The doctor sighs. âIâm pretty sure thatâs my point. And listen, make sure to follow up with your local doc. Theyâll prescribe a ton of PT, so brace yourself.â
Myka snorts. âBrace myself? Sure, but not for the PT; my boss is going to flay me alive.â
The doctor barely reacts. âOh, maybe this one can fix that too,â she deadpans, directing an eyeroll at Helena, accompanied by a murmured, ânot a suggestion.â
âOh, sheâs in for the flaying,â Myka says, with more than a little cheer. âIf not for this, then for something. Eventually.â
The doctor shakes her head, eyes unfocused. âGood news for me: I donât have to care.â She points at Myka: âYou go to PT.â Now at Helena: âYou donât try to practice medicine.â At both of them, her eyes flicking back and forth with purpose: âGot it?â Helena nods; she senses Myka doing the same. âExcellent,â the doctor says. âOr whatever. Iâm done with you now.â
She conveys with her rapid exit that interacting with both of them has been a most exasperating experience.
While Helena does not appreciate being chastisedâand especially not for attempting to care for Mykaâshe does appreciate expertise. Especially when it contributes to Mykaâs well-being. Itâs a conundrum. âI find your doctorâs aspect strangely appealing,â she says. âSpeaking of bracing.â
Myka grins. âI was totally thinking the same thing.â
âAnd yet I would practice that medicine again.â
âFor me thatâs good news.â
As they prepare to depart, Helena says, âI confess Iâm curious as to what you intend to tell Artie.â
Myka offers a slight stretch of her right shoulder in the direction of her ear: the only version of a shrug available to her, bound as she is. âMaybe I should leave that to you. Youâre the writer.â Forestalling Helenaâs reflexive objection, she adds, âI know, I know. The research. The ideas.â
âAnd yet I donât have any. I certainly donât see a path to inventing anything that wouldââ
âHow about I take your photo with that camera? Think thatâd help?â This is accompanied by a different grin: sly.
Whither the warning? Or is this a test? Myka isnât Steve, yet Helena goes with truth: âIt might. With any number of things.â
âIf only,â Myka says, inscrutably. âAnyway I intend to tell Artie that this is all his fault, because he sent us on this retrieval in the first place. Obviously I wonât say what really happened.â
While Myka bestowing such grace is not surprising, it moves Helena all the same. âThank you,â she says.
Myka opens her mouth, then closes it. She does it again. This wait... itâs grace too. âYouâre welcome,â she eventually says. âI mean Iâm tempted to tell him how you saved the dayâthe armâbut I know I shouldnât, because I donât want to draw attention to the hotel charging us extra.â To Helenaâs quizzical eyebrow, she says, âFor the missing towels and pillowcase. Which I tried to talk the nurses into giving back to me, but theyâd already tossed them as hazardous waste. Or something. Or maybe Iâm just not very persuasive? Or clear in what Iâm asking for?â
Helena would very much like to explain that her own answers to those questions are negative and affirmative, respectively: no, you are persuasive; but yes, you are unclear.
âOn the other hand, they did medicate me,â Myka says, perking up. âI keep thinking itâll wear off, but not yet!â
The consolations of intoxication. âTo the delight of your shoulder Iâm sure,â Helena says. To my delight as well, she wishes she were free to say.
Their return to the hotel room offers another âeverything has changedâ hinge: no longer a stage for new and awkward performances of politesse, the space is now familiar, a place they have reentered. For the next act of the play?
Myka, who has preceded Helena in, stops and swaysâjust a bit, but Helena instinctively steps close, taking her by the elbow of her uninjured arm with one hand, stationing the other around the curve of her waist.
She feels Mykaâs breath catch at the contact; immediately, she curses herself, loosens her hold, and says a terse, âIâm sure you want to lie down.â
âMore than maybe anything. Or, wait, no, not anything.â Myka turns and catches Helenaâs eyes with hers, but Helena cannot use that gaze as the basis for any inference.
She backs away as Myka lowers herself onto the bed; eventually, she backs her way into the roomâs one armchair. It lacks give. It also lacks arms at a height that might provide anything resembling support. Helena slumps down, trying to be grateful that it exists at all.
Long minutes pass. As in the hospitalâs waiting area, Helena imagines trying not to remain awake.
Similarly futile.
She chances a glance at Myka, who meets her eyes again and says, âThat looks uncomfortable. Or what I mean is, you look uncomfortable. Which honestly is pointless, unless youâre doing some hair-shirt thing, because weâve got this big bed. Not a lot of hours before we have to leave it, but weâve got it for now.â
âThat went poorly before.â
âI think circumstances have changed. Donât you?â Weighted.
Circumstances are always changing, Helena could say. Usually for the worse. Instead she ventures, âYouâd let me lie down with you?â
âI never wouldnât.â Myka squints. âWait. Did that come out right? Anyway, yes.â
Medication: not yet worn off. âYouâre sure?â Helena asks.
âIâm pretty sure this bed is almost as big as a field where Peteâs favorite sport happens. Itâs at least as big as an ice rink anyway, and those arenât small.â
Helena refrains from pointing out that that was no help in the previous disaster. She doesnât, however, appreciate being able to recline. For the first while, the fact of being beside Myka is less relevant than the slow loosening of her lower back and hips.
 âCan you sleep?â Helena asks, as they are both evidently lying with eyes open to the ceiling.
âNot now,â Myka answers, and the sentiment seems clear: not after all of this. All of this with which we must deal.
The bed first, perhaps.
She turns to look at Myka, if minimally. âDid you request a cot?â she asks, because she doesnât know. Because the answer might reveal... something?
Mykaâs eyes widen. âOh my god I should have,â she says. Stricken.
âWhy didnât you?â
âIt didnât even cross my mind.â Sheâs talking more to herselfâor perhaps to the room at large?âthan to Helena. Is this continued evidence of the medication?
âAnd do you know why that is?â Helena asks, hoping for that revelation, even if drug-induced.
âHonestly I think I thought I was being given an ultimatum. Like it was something I had to be fine with or else.â
âFine with âor else.ââ Helena means the echo as rueful agreement.
But: âSharing a bed with you. Platonically,â Myka says, taking it instead as a request for explanation.
âPlatonically,â Helena scoffs, unable to avoid the idea that agreeing to accept that adverb would, paradoxically, usher in others. (Passionately.) (Speaking of paradoxically.) âThat word is so often misused.â Itâs a push-off. A push-away.
âBut Iâm using it correctly.â Myka sounds not offended, but rather self-satisfied.
Fine. Harden the position. âYou are not referring to our consciousness rising from physical to spiritual matters.â
âWell... but how about love for the idea of good? As a path to virtue?â
Myka is well-read. In this moment, that fact is not entirely pleasing. âI suppose we were both attempting to be courtly,â Helena concedes.
âI mean Iâll grant you that nobody ended up transcending the body,â Myka says. Helena is about to agree, to snap away from churlishness, to express regret and apologies, when Myka exclaims, âHey! I just had the best idea for a joke. So youâre not a hologram anymore, right? So you know what you were trying to be? Last night, in bed?â
Jokes. They confound Helena nearly as completely as metaphors do Steve. âI have no idea.â
âA Platonic solid,â Myka declares, triumphant.
Helena is mortified to find that in this case, she âgets it.â âMyka,â she sighs.
âToo soon? But come on, itâs not bad!â
âAlas, it is.â This quality, Helena can recognize.
âRight, but the good kind.â
Helena is not made of stone. Or bronze. How much easier everything had been then, sans choice and sans reason... and most importantly, sans the near-irresistibility of this one human. âI did always enjoy the word âicosahedron,ââ she tenders.
âSee,â Myka says, now in indulgence rather than triumph. âPretty sure you have more than twenty faces though.â
âYou do as well. Some revealed only under the influence of opioids.â
âHereâs one I donât think Iâd have the guts to use otherwise: my explain-it-to-you-using-words face.â
âExplain what to me?â Helena asks. Itâs a surrender. She should better have said she did not wish that face revealed, but that would never have stopped a determined Myka.
âWhy I flung myself to the floor.â
âI thought that had been explained? You were attempting to escape a circumstance.â
âFirst, the flinging was more involuntary than an attempt. And second: your hand.â
âPerhaps you donât rememberââa strange thing to say to Mykaââbut we had this conversation previously.â Helena does not want to have it again.
âNot this conversation. In that one, you drew the wrong conclusion. Or relied on an invalid assumption. Actually both of those. Anyway, your hand.â
âPlease stop saying that,â Helena requests. Begs.
âFine, Iâll finish the sentence: Woke up every nerve in my body,â Myka says, causing Helena to cringe and wish she could this very instant construct a truly useful time machine so she could fly backward, overleaping this latest passage so as to muzzle Myka before she could say that, because she believes it but knows it leads nowhere functional. To her continued mortification, Myka carries on, âWoke them all right up.â This, she says rhapsodic. Helena feels that tone in her gut, a hot twist of something she deserves as pain, but that manifests, shamefully, as pleasure. âThen your hand moved, and it shorted out the systemâmy systemâand I fell out of bed, and the rest is history.â
âOn the contrary, the rest is quite present.â Helena tries pushing all of it away, striving for detachment. For function.
âSo, your hand,â Myka says again.
Helena raises the offender. âAlso present.â Detachment. Humor, even; pushing, pushing, pushing. Trying to maintain.
âNo, I mean why,â Myka pushes in turn.
Helena bats back, in faux innocence, âWhy is it present?â
âWhy was it present. On me.â Low now, her voice, just as compelling as, and even more commanding than, when she uses it to utter Helenaâs name.
âI have no excuse,â Helena says.
âI donât need an excuse. I need a reason. Do you have one?â
âIt isnât exculpatory.â
âAs long as itâs explanatory.â
No escape now. No excuse, and no escape. âHere is my reason: I wanted to touch you. So against all better judgment, I did. Intending only that, nothing more.â Mykaâs response to these words is an exhale. Loud. Unlike the hospital sob, however, this is slow and controlled. Helena allows a decorous pause, but no words ensue, so she goes on. Myka deserves an explanation that is complete. âBut then I found myself unable to... un-touch you. Competently. And the rest will at some point be history, upon which I will never cease to look back and berate myself.â
Waiting for whatever may come next, Helena feels exhaustion inch through her, infiltrating her eyes, limbs, brain, sapping every vestige of energy... her surrender to the creeping leach is imminent when Myka says, âI like that reason.â
All right then. Awake and aware. âYou do?â
âYou really can be impossible to talk to. Listen to me: if I did thatâtouched youâI would find myself the same. Unable to un-touch. Do you understand?â
What would be the cost of abandoning her resistance? âI donât know...â she begins, then reverses course and begins again. Truth, never mind the cost. âYes. I do understand. But I donât know what to do about that.â
Myka turns her head full toward Helena, twisting her long neck. Helena turns her own head, but that isnât enough, so she shifts onto her sideâher left side, punitively aware that it will be weeks before Myka can turn in such a way.
They look at each other, Helena both knowing and fearing how her guilt must freight her gaze. Regarding Myka so close, looking now into eyes that are open, is a boon she does not deserve.
After a time, Myka says, âI know what I want to do.â
Her intent is abundantly clear. The entirely of Helenaâs being balks, stranding her again in Boone: if she makes a move for the momentary better, it will most likely end worse. She cannot find the... courage? or is it foolish disregard for consequences?... to reach for that moment of joy. Neither, however, can she find the discipline to dismiss its possibility.
âBut I also know I shouldnât,â Myka says, breaking with clarity into Helenaâs indecision.
Well. Helena can certainly see the wisdom of that, so perhaps at last they are approaching a real accord that will render all hopes and wishes moot, so that neither courage nor discipline features in theâ
âI can tell the meds are messing with my head,â Myka says, âand if thereâs one thing I want to remember in picture-perfect detail, itâs this.â She moves her right index finger near to Helenaâs lips, then withdraws it.
Unable to un-touch. That withdrawal reaffirms that Myka believes what she says. âThis,â Helena echoes, mesmerized.
âSo Iâm going to wait till tomorrow toâlisten to me saying it out loudâkiss you. For the first time. I want to be all there when it happens.â
There is a practicality to Mykaâs thinking, and to Myka, that Helena worships. She tries to match it with a bit of her own: âIf it happens.â
Mykaâs jaw drops. âCome on! I said it out loud! Itâs real now!â
âItâs been real for some time, hasnât it? But Iâm being realistic about the circumstance. You might not remember that you wanted to.â
âSeriously? Iâve remembered it since we met.â
Helena has remembered it just as long. She has. Denying it is pointless. But she has a larger concern, and though this is the wrong time to address it, perhaps medicated Myka will afford an unfiltered read...
âOr you might think better of it.â
âOf kissing you? I donât think so.â
âOf what could ensue. The possibility of a... relationship. Between us. What if it doesnât work?â
âRelationship.â After she says the word, Mykaâs lips part and close, as if the very word is savory. âWhat if it does?â
It is savory. However. âIâm asking as a practical matter, not philosophically. Iâm constrained: I canât leave again. Thatâs why I came back.â The thin strand to which she is clinging... refraining from attempting to rekindle an intimacy hasnât been only to keep Myka safe. It has also been to keep the Warehouse safe for Helena herself to inhabit.
âThen donât leave again.â
âBut what if that means you do?â This is not philosophy either. This, too, is history.
âIf I do, then I do, but Iâd like to think I wonât. Weâve both had our walkaway crises, and they didnât take. So if it doesnât work, we put it behind us like adults. If Pete and I could, then so can you and I. But Iâd rather not have to. So letâs be careful.â She pauses. âBreathe however you need to.â
The words are an embrace. A physical clasp might be more galvanizing, but right now, Myka is managing just fine with words. âIf this works, it will be because you say things like that.â
âGood news, because I mean things like that. And I intend to keep saying them. Hey, speaking of saying, do me a favor and write down what I said just now, about the adults and the careful, because I want to remember it.â
Sluggishly, Helena ideates rising, going to the roomâs desk, finding logo-bearing paper and pen, writing...
****
Helena and Oscar are in a salon. They are engaged in a dispute regarding choices and consequences. Helena is standing at a lectern, and Oscar is reclining on a lavishly upholstered chaise longue, kicking his right leg such that its calf bounces in a languid little rhythm against the low cushioned edge.
Kick. Kick. Kick.
âThe choices that create a circumstance will not, repeated, resolve it satisfactorily,â Helena says. Is she reading from a monograph? âAs we see in the case of your own Ballad of Reading Gaol, do we not? And yet injury need not lead inevitably to future debility, so clearly some choice in the matter isââ
âHelena,â Oscar says, interrupting her monologue. âHelena,â he repeats. He sounds nothing like himself, but rather someone else, and Helena is straining to connect the voice to the correct person.
Kick. Kick. Kick.
âTime to wake up,â Oscar-as-someone-else admonishes. Encourages?
âI know,â she tells him, hugely frustrated, fighting. âIâm trying.â
His impassive mien is no help. It never was.
Kick. Kick. Kick.
Trust Oscar to cast some part of himself as the pendulum of a particularly annoying clockâ
âSeriously, wake up,â Helena hears, and consciousness jolts at her: Mykaâs voice.
Oscar dissolves. Into laughter or tears, no doubt, as he was wont to do...
Helenaâs eyes open, meeting Mykaâs, and she is brought back to it all: the hotel, the bed; the shoulder, the hospital... then hotel again, bed again... and finally words, as if for the first time.
Myka is lying on her right side, facing Helena. Her eyes are bright, her gaze intense.
âAre you in pain?â Helena asks.
Myka leans forward, as if that were a signal. The signal: for Helena is the astonished, grateful, transported recipient of a kiss, a first kissâthe first kissâone that is swift but soft, gentle, genuine. Like morning... âBetter now,â Myka says when she pulls back. âIâm going to brush my teeth. Stay there.â
Better now. Not lost on Helena are all the ways that signifies, including: better that this happened now than at some point in the desperate past. Then, such a kiss would have been a tragic wish for all they would never have. Now, instead, it can stand as a reward for having survived all of that, as well as, universe willing, a mark of embarkation.
By the time Myka returns, Helena has sat up, stationing herself on the edge of the bed. She has also realized that she must apologizeâfor they should not embark on this new voyage with yet another of her many faults unaddressed. âYou charged me with writing down part of our conversation. I didnât. I fell asleep instead.â
Myka hesitates before joining her on the bedâs edge, clearly considering which arm should be next to Helena. She chooses the functional right. âItâs okay. Even if I donât remember exactly what we said, I remembered what we needed to do.â
âNeeded to,â Helena reprises. She could supply words of her own, but why? Myka is saying the ones that matter...
âNeeded to,â Myka affirms. âSo where were we?â She raises her useful hand to Helenaâs cheek, cradling. Helena leans into it, saying nothing, because silence now says everything.
This is a longer kiss, more wandering, more suggestive of possibility, more likely to lead to such possibility... Helena is the one to this time pull away. âA place quite new,â she says.
âAnd yet Iâm pretty sure weâve been headed here all along.â
âIt wasnât inevitable,â Helena says. She is thinking now of dream-Oscar, who is slipping from her mind, dropping, like a poorly initiated painting, but he must have obstreperously been maintaining something about inevitability. He always did.
âNo,â Myka agrees. âAnd it still isnât. So letâs be careful.â
âYou remember that part? Despite my stenographic failure?â
âEven if I didnâtâbut I doâIâd know itâs important.â
Helena turns and touches her right hand to Mykaâs right hip. She would certainly not be able to do this now if she had not done so in the night... the nightâs ontogeny recapitulating the phylogeny of their shared history. Myka covers Helenaâs hand with hers, and there is healing in the simple fact of their sitting. But eventually that is not enough, and another kiss ensues, longer still, and lips outweigh quiet handsâor no, lips add to quiet hands, but hands are not content to remain so calm, and so this continues and might continueâ
Myka makes a noise that is clearly not of pleasure; she moves entirely away, her right hand pressing protectively at her left shoulder. âWeâre going to need to be careful about this stupid shoulder too. Iâm so, so sorry.â
âYouâre sorry? Iâm the one who canât keep my hands to myself.â Ontogeny, phylogeny.
âItâs not like Iâm some paragon of self-control... and I am sorry, because Iâd like to be able to participate fully. But also Iâd like to not have to hurry on account of catching a plane. In good news, eventually my shoulder will heal. I know we canât stay here till then, but...â
âIt would help,â Helena supplies.
âIf only because we have to come up with how this supposedly happened. I still think maybe I should take your picture. Or you could take mine? Because by the way, hereâs a funny thing: I was trying to write a novel.â
âYou were?â More that is new... âSpeaking of icosahedra,â Helena notes.
âI want to tell you about it.â
âYou do?â Trying to convey her incredulity. That Myka would allow her such... access.
âI want to tell you everything. But in the meantime we have to tell Artie something... I guess weâve got both flights plus the layover in Denver to get our story straight.â
Stories. Narrative. Novels? âBut weâll tell Steve the truth. Wonât we?â
âOf course we will. And Claudia, right?â
âAlso necessary. Although most likely mockery-inducing.â
Myka smiles. Itâs a sunrise. âStress testing. If we can take it from her, weâll be fine. Then again we might need the time on the planes to rest up for that.â
âWerenât you able to sleep, this past while?â
Myka shakes her head, and just as Helena opens her mouth to express regret and apologize again for her own sleep, Myka silences her with a kiss, one that lingers, lingers, lingers... still half against Helenaâs lips, she says, âThe un-touching part really is difficult. But donât worry about my not sleeping: for the first time in a long time, I was happy to be awake.â
END
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