Chapter Text
December
It was Christmas break, and thank God because the burnout from fall semester had been brutal, easily her most annoying semester so far at Oregon. But another spring semester and she would be done with her BA in English lit. Yay. Then it was onto the masters for teaching. Boo. Make no mistake, Helga was excited for the career, just less enthused about the academia required to get there, finding it to be a tad...much, if she were being honest. But lord knew she was going to do it, if for anything other than just to rub it into Bob's stupid face. Yes, they were still on each others nerves 200 miles away somehow. He'd wanted her to pursue business or something he considered beneficial, and he made sure she knew that after each tuition check he stroked. For what, she didn't know. To take over his blasted retail empire she guessed. Which was absurd. They didn't even like each other ninety-nine percent of the time, so how in the hell was that suppose to work out? No, more than likely he just couldn't stand having two daughters in academia.
'Wasted smarts, the both of them.' He'd grumbled on many occasion. Though, her impeccably perfect sister always got more of a pass than her. Probably because she was a university dean.
Whatever.
Helga inhaled a deep wake up breath as she finally slid her eyes open, allowing the warm air of her hotel room to touch her sleep drenched eyeballs. She had a headache raging behind them. A mixture of being dehydrated and having had a few too many while bar hopping the night before. Yay Christmas break. Maybe hunger too—yeah, there it was—her stomach roared painfully, loudly. She reached her hands up and dug both palms into her eyes, quietly groaning as she did. In the midst of that, she felt a shuffle beside her, like a body flipping over in bed. Dragging her hands down her face she tilted her head over to see Arnold, laying on his back, hands clasped over his forehead with closed eyes. "Are you awake?" God her voice sounded like the desert.
"Unfortunately," Was his equally rough reply.
Arnold Shortman, her long time boyfriend and...husband as of seven months ago. And when she said long time, she meant long time. Like six grade. Yep, they had gotten pretty smitten with each other after Arnold returned San Lorenzo. And at the mere age of twenty-one they were already at old married couple status, though she didn't hate it. In fact, having to watch the chaotic dating world that her aptly aged peers were having to partake in made her truly thankful to be settled in with the love of her life at such a young age.
What fortune right? She thought so.
Nobody had batted an eye when they had gotten engaged...other than Olga. She'd offered her unsolicited advice in private to Helga. Are you sure? Don't you want to experience life first? Twenty is entirely too young to be getting engaged. Look, to be fair, if Helga had had two failed engagements—one to a con-man—she might would be peddling warnings as well. Arnold wasn't even just some guy. Besides, Olga was actually married to a really good guy now so, she needed to chill. Love doesn't know age...or time. Wasn't Helga's fault she'd found her soulmate in preschool. Yet, the overbearing concern from said nosy sister had been more than she'd gotten from their own parents. Bob appearing more thrilled at the idea of her coming off of his insurance and Miriam...too drunk to care, as usual.
Arnold's parents had at least been supportive, though offering no real insight or wisdom. They kind of just went along with whatever their son wanted. The abandonment guilt was still strong with those two.
Helga made the unwise decision to sit up, one she immediately regretted as the pounding in her head intensified. If she was feeling this bad, she knew he had to be hurting. He'd gotten way more shellacked than her. Poor guy. A lightweight as always. Oh, but what a wonderful time they were having though. In New York, on a belated honeymoon—courtesy of Miles and Stella. Home Aloneing it in the big apple for Christmas had sounded like a fun way to honeymoon. So far, it hadn't disappointed. Perhaps a little too much last night, if they were being frank. Alas, Rudolph themed martinis at a high rise had devolved into the couple wandering into a yule tide themed club party with adequately dressed club kids.
Arnold had been skeptical. Helga had uttered something along the lines of, "Nonsense, let's go practice being spontaneous." Next thing she knew, Helga found herself on a dance floor, drink in hand yelling, "Gypsy girl, don't let the drugs get you!" at the top of her lungs with a crowd. A song she'd never heard before in her life, by the way. Then finally, a sloppy make-out in a taxi ride back to their room, ending with Arnold throwing up on the sidewalk outside of the hotel lobby.
"I'll get you a Gatorade," She told him, running her hand through her disheveled hair before looking to her nightstand for a hair tie. He didn't say anything, and she slipped out of bed, slowly grabbing a shirt and some underwear from her suitcase before trudging off to their mini-fridge.
They had exactly two Gatorades left. Which meant a trip to the store that day would be inevitable if they expected to ride out those hangovers. Helga cracked open the red one and knocked back an alarming number of ibuprofens before taking the remaining blue Gatorade back to her boy, "Here," She climbed back in bed, shoving it and a few pills into his unready hands.
"Thanks," He mumbled as he pulled himself up just enough to get the liquid and said pills down his throat.
By that point, Helga had reached for her phone, scrolling any missed messages from the night prior, and taking a peak at the photos she'd taken. Many bad, blurry or embarrassing, but many of all the club kid costuming that she knew her brother-in-law would appreciate, "I think I'm going to order breakfast from that grease spoon on the corner. What do you want?"
As hungry as he was, and as much as he probably needed to eat, the idea of food tasted like throwing up to him at that time, "I don't know," He finally said, "Something bland I guess." He already felt like puking.
She rolled her eyes, not that he could see, because his remained firmly closed and avoidant of light. Nothing at a greasy diner was bland, so he was just going to have to deal. She scrolled the menu on her phone, trying to pinpoint the greasiest damn thing for herself, and settling on some monstrosity of a breakfast sandwich and a stack of pancakes for her lad. She called, placed the order and spent the next fifteen minutes slowly worming into leggings, boots and a jacket in order to will herself the half block down the street to pick their food up. The bone slicing winter chill did snap some energy into her. And some pep in her step too.
While she was there she grabbed them a couple coffees to boot. The both of them being a pair of Java feigns and all.
Another fifteen minutes later and she returned, hair in a crooked ponytail, cheeks wind-stung from the walk. Clutching a white paper sack sweated through with hash-brown oil stains; the smell alone turned Arnold's stomach. He peeled himself upright none-the-less, shirtless and tragic, hair every which a way, while she climbed back into their bed, "I got you pancakes," She told him, unbagging their items before shoving a plastic to-go container in his lap.
That first bite of that sandwich was heaven. Neither spoke, simply letting the salt and sugar reboot their tired souls. When her wrapper was nothing but a greasy-polka-dotted empty foil, Helga wadded it up and wiped her mouth on last nights shirt, "Criminy, did that friggin' hit the spot," She remarked in satisfaction before taking a large gulp of her coffee—which was also fabulous.
"It is really good," Arnold agreed, his voice sounding much more alive than before. He continued to slowly eat and nurse his coffee, while she sipped hers down.
"I think I'm going to go grab a shower," Helga finally announced, setting her food and drink trash on her nightstand, thinking that sweating some alcohol out in the steam might fully reboot her, "Want to come?"
"Always. Can I come in bed instead though?" He shot her a smart-ass little smirk, obviously feeling revived enough for jokes. Helga rolled her eyes, throwing the old shirt at him though she smirked anyway.
"Ha..ha," She sarcastically clipped, "Hairboy has jokes," She chuckled as she slid out of the sheets, leaving him in bed to rot with his half-eaten pancakes and clever sex jabs.
Once in the bathroom, Helga turned on the shower and started peeling out of her leggings with a tired imprecision, only to catch Arnold wandering in behind her, a cheeky grin on his worn face, "Decided to drag your carcass in here and take me up on my offer, hmm?"
"To come? Of course," He said, already pulling off his boxers.
The shower was already steaming pretty good when Helga stepped in, letting the hot spray slam into her forehead like a watery slap. She groaned, bracing one palm on the tile as she let the beat of the water scare away the headache behind her eyes.
Behind her, Arnold shuffled in, sliding the glass door shut, slow and heavy-footed, "Geez," He mumbled, blinking against the heat. "It's a sauna in here."
"Yeah. That's the point," She said, voice raspy, "Sweat it out, football head." Seriously, this wasn't their first hangover together.
He didn't argue, just smirked, eyes all half-lidded and tired, "Whatever you say, Helga," and stood behind her, letting the steam envelop him while she hogged the hot water, though he wasn't content with that for long, his hands wandering to his wife and her beautiful glistening body. He ended up wrapping his arms around her, bringing their bodies into a gentle sway. He kissed the curve of her shoulder once. Then again below her ear. And again. Each press a little more sure.
Helga closed her eyes, a playful smile inching up the edges of her lips, "So help me, if you try anything too athletic right now, I will vomit on you."
He laughed against her skin, but one hundred percent agreed, "I'll be good, I promise." She chuckled, knowing what a line of bull that was, but letting her head fall back against him anyway. Their wet skin slipped slightly as he pulled her in tighter, one of his hands wandered lower down her front. She didn't stop him this time either, which emboldened an already bold kid. A few breaths later, her hips shifted back against his, and he caught the message, guiding them gently so she could brace herself against the wall. Everything was slower than usual. Muffled by hangover fog. But still warm, and relieving.
And good. Always good.
They moved together with the sleepy rhythm of a pair who'd done this before. A lot. Who didn't need words or orchestrated passion—just skin, heat, and each other. When it was over, she let her forehead fall forward against the tile with a soft thunk, "Well," She mumbled, catching her breath. "Now I really need a nap." On the plus side, shower sex had taken her mind off her headache.
Arnold leaned forward and pressed a kiss on the side of her face, still holding her, feeling boneless and still catching his own breath too, "I think I just hallucinated."
"You're welcome," She said, straightening up with a smirk, "And you deserved it," She chuckled.
"Mm-hmm." That was the only reply, just a sound in his throat. The shower hissed and echoed around them. They eventually broke apart and spent the next ten to fifteen minutes actually bathing, scrubbing the the prior nights sweat and grim away and then taking turns letting the spray beat the alcohol and soreness out of them.
The water clicked off with a quick twist, leaving only the synchronized drip of the shower head and the sound of their breathing. Steam curled around them like fog, and neither moved for a few moments, bracing themselves. But slowly they both exited the stall, reaching for towels to bundle themselves up with, knowing that once they stepped out of that steamy cocoon, it would be a mad dash back into clothes to thwart the chill.
Helga was the one to rip that band-aid off by yanking open the door, letting the cold air slap her like the insult that it was, "I effing hate winter..." She muttered, pulling the towel tighter around her chest as the goosebumps flamed painfully across her damp skin.
Arnold stepped out behind her, shivering as he wiped a hand across his face, "Shouldn't have picked NYC at Christmas then," He caught her smirk as she wandered to her suitcase, dropping her towel without ceremony and grabbing the first items of clothing she could get her trembling hands around.
Her husband watched her as he toweled his blonde locks dry, "So…nap time now? Or second breakfast and a rom-com you'll pretend to hate? Please tell me we have nothing planned today." He could not fathom having to go out anytime soon.
"I don't pretend to hate them. I openly hate them," She corrected, slipping into an old pair of pajama pants and one of his stretched-out tee-shirts she frequently slept in, "Also, second breakfast? You didn't even finish first. Eat that."
"Cold pancakes are gross."
"Well, whose fault is that?" Helga smirked.
"The alcohol I over consumed last night," Arnold smarted back, rather matter-of-factly, as he dug out a clean pair of boxers from his own suitcase.
"Psh...weakling."
He laughed, walking over to the bed and collapsing onto it with a dramatic flop, "You married me anyway."
"Bad judgment and hella hormones, babe," She coolly explained, tossing her towel into the corner and crawling in beside him, "Besides, you were a preschool heartthrob. My thinking has been clouded by arousal my entire life, wouldn't you say?"
Arnold snorted, "Preschool and arousal should never be in the same sentence. Only you could make something so sweet sound…Dateline worthy."
"Well, you married me anyway," She mocked him back teasingly while slipping under the covers and immediately tucking her feet against his legs, "Oh God, you're so warm."
Arnold wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close, "Ah yes, human heating pad. My best talent. Along with sexy time stud and expert cuddler."
She let her head fall onto his chest, letting the rhythm of his heartbeat lull her just enough, "Don't forget pillow, and my personal ass-grabber."
Her husband snorted, reaching down and giving her butt a squeeze, "There, my five acts of love have been completed today."
Helga only chuckled sleepily, "If you say so, Arnoldo."
They laid there, warm and full of that post-shower, post-lust drowsiness, the kind that made everything a little floaty but also like their limbs were the heaviest thing ever. Arnold reached over to his bedside and fished the remote from the surface, flipping on the TV and putting it on something rather mindless for them to cat nap to. The room had that perfect post-shower humidity: grey winter day, soft light through the blinds, the scent of body wash still clinging to the air, and the vague hum of the TV going created such a cozy vibe.
Arnold's fingers traced slow, absentminded patterns along her arm. Helga finally drifted—mind fuzzy, stomach settled, body blissed and headache receding.
When she finally awoke sometime later, it was to her phone buzzing against the lamp base on the nightstand. She ignored it, not possessing the energy yet to even roll over and spare an eyeball.
Arnold didn't even react either, still lightly snoring.
Then it buzzed again.
And again.
Helga finally groaned, but refused to move just yet, "I swear, if that's someone calling about extending my car's warranty, I will commit a felony."
Another buzz. Then a pause. Then the alert for voicemail.
She sighed, reluctantly peeling herself off of Arnold's chest, and accidentally waking him too as she reached for the phone, ready to bless out whatever unfortunate soul couldn't take a hint. Arnold stretched like a cat, arm flopping over his eyes, "Who is it?"
Helga had been ready for some sharp tongued sarcastic quip, but it dissipated on her tongue the minute she saw her phone screen. Two missed calls from Bob. Seven missed calls from Olga. As many texts from her that said things like, 'Call me', 'It's urgent. Call me please', 'CALL ME!'. And a new voicemail—a seemingly last resort—that was time-stamped six minutes ago. Her stomach gave an an uncomfortable lurch knowing that the two of them blowing up her phone couldn't be a good thing.
Arnold shifted, eyes half-open. "Whats wrong?"
Helga didn't answer at first. She just stared at the screen with a mildly nervous look, "Bob and Olga," She said finally, her voice flat and maybe too quiet, "Have apparently been blowing up my phone while we were asleep." According to the time, they'd been napping for approximately two hours.
Arnold pushed himself up onto an elbow, "That doesn't sound...good."
"No, it doesn't," She hesitated as she clicked into the voicemail and brought her phone to her ear to listen. Her nervous blue eyes cut back to those of her husband, who was sitting up in a more awakened state.
"Helga?" It was Olga's voice—shrill, panicked, breathless in a way that made Helga's stomach drop, "Where are you? I've been calling and calling—Daddy's trying you too. Just—just call me back as soon as you get this, okay? Something's happened. It's—" A shaky inhale. "It's Mom. She collapsed this morning, and I—" Another breath, almost a sob, "I need you to call me back. Please."
"They've tried to call me too..." Arnold had finally located his phone in the folds of sheets, seeing it on silent and with three missed calls from his sister-in-law as well.
"Miriam, collapsed," Helga said, her brow crumpled into confusion as she stared at her phone. On one hand she wanted to believe that her dear sister was over reacting to something very minor, but the fact that Bob had called told her that it was something more serious.
"What?" Arnold's eyes widened.
"It's what she said," She slid to the edge of the bed to hop out, preparing to go call Olga back. Arnold watched her as she left and walked into the bathroom, bringing the phone back to her ear as she did. She always liked her privacy while on the phone, even as long as they'd been together. In her absence, he decided to get up and throw on a shirt and some pants.
From there he just sat on the bed and waited, listening to a very muffled one sided conversation while slowly drinking a bottle of water. Nothing he could make out, which always made him all the more nervous. Finally he heard the bathroom door click open, and his heart rate exploded, seeing his wife slip out, and taking note at how utterly shell-shocked she now appeared. That wasn't good. She stopped, eyes fluttering up to meet his, "Miriam's dead," She said simply.
Arnold's eyes widened, "What? What happened?"
Helga came to sit next to him, her mind still processing her sister's words, "Bob found her on the kitchen floor, unresponsive. She had a heart attack."
"Oh, geez," Was all Arnold could say, "That's awful," He gave her a more inspecting look. It was no secret that Helga wasn't close to or even fond of either of her parents, considering them having done the bare minimum legally required to get her to adulthood. But truthfully, as well as he knew her—which was inside/out—he didn't know how exactly a death would affect her, "You okay?"
"Yeah," Helga nodded, insistent even if she remained dazed in appearance, "I'm not surprised, I guess." Her stomach kind of twisted at the thought though—not from loss, exactly. But from how little she seemed to feel about the sudden loss. Or how she suddenly realized how little she had viewed Miriam as a real person, and not just a shadow in a recliner with a 'smoothie.'
"You sure? That you're okay, I mean," Arnold asked again, if for nothing else than just to gauge if she were serious or simply emotionally diverting. A common habit of hers.
His wife sighed, but gave him a rather void look, one that harbored no irritation towards him, only acceptance of things in the deepest regards, "She was a mother, not a mom," She said, her tone bordering on frosty. Exhaling for second time, she stood up and began looking around, "Olga wants us to fly back to Hillwood now though. Does she have any idea how hard it's going to be to get a flight? It's two days before Christmas for Pete's sake!"
Arnold ran a hand through his hair, releasing his own gust of breath as he nodded in agreement, "I'll go ahead and start looking but, yeah…you're right."
There had been no flights out of NYC to be had, no matter how many connecting flights they tried to add to get to Washington. Partially due to Christmas travel congestion and then made worse by a winter storm blowing through New England. Flights were all but grounded for several days after Christmas.
Which meant that the Shortman's were stuck until further notice. Death in the family or not.
It was a full five days from that first phone call with Olga that they finally touched down, and apparently in that span of time, Bob had had Miriam cremated and had a small drop in for friends to pay their respects at their house. Though Helga wasn't really sure what friends were being referred to, her mother had preferred the company of spirits and had all but become a recluse because of it.
She didn't ask, and mostly because she didn't care. Both her and Arnold were so dogged tired by the time arrived in Hillwood, dropping their things at the boarding house before catching an Uber over to her parents.
"I'm so ready to be home," Arnold admitted, being uncharacteristically blunt, but Helga could see the ragged fatigue in his person too, as much of a good sport about everything he always tried to be. After all the delays, they were both ready to be out of the chaos and back in their apartment in Oregon. Which was another three hour drive to be had, "I can't wait to crawl in our bed and sleep for thirty-six hours straight."
"Me too," Helga groaned, "I don't want to stay long," She then said in a lower voice.
Arnold reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, "Then we won't."
"When I give you the look, be ready fake a migraine or something," She told him, and though it may have sounded trivial, she was dead serious, and he knew it. Not that he needed to be reminded, he knew good and well what her social exhaustion cues were, and in fact, was excellently convincing at faking minor but irritating ailments.
They spent the rest of the short ride in silence, staring that the grey skies that looked like they could begin dumping snow at any time. They both silently hoped it held off, simply for the unexpected drive home they'd be having endure very soon. Their driver finally pulled to the curb of the Pataki's charming little brownstone, and Helga could tell from all the lights on that it probably had more life in it than it had had in years.
From death, ironically.
The car was exited and the worn concrete stoop trudged up, Helga already feeling the anxiety clawing up her core as she reached to open the door. Stepping in, she heard the TV blaring from the living room, though they opted to check into the kitchen first, hearing voices from there. Rounding the corner, they saw Olga putting a standing rib roast back in the over, her husband Nathan assisting with a prob thermometer.
"Hey…" Helga announced tiredly, and anything but chipper, though it didn't stop either one of them from lighting up when they saw them.
"Oh! Helga, Arnold!" Olga smiled, pulling the mitts from her hands, as she walked over an enveloped each one into a bone crushing hug, "Goodness, I'm glad you finally made it."
"Yeah. It was kind of a nightmare," Helga replied, not mincing words, "Hey, Nathan," She greeted her brother-in-law.
"Hey guys," He walked over, leaning against the kitchen counter, "How was the honeymoon?" He asked with a smile.
Helga shrugged as she was removing her jacket, hanging it on the back of a chair, "It was great. All things considering."
"How's Bob?" Arnold asked Olga, out of politeness, while removing his jacket as well.
His sister-in-law took on a more somber expression, not that it was a hard feat, she looked exhausted, "He's…okay. Taking it moment by moment. I think it's still sinking in for him…" She trailed off quietly, "As it is for us all."
Helga found herself subtly scowling. She'd expected Bob to still be barking orders, and throwing tantrums, like the blowhard that he was. Maybe he actually was taking Miriam's death hard. Call her crazy, but she'd never viewed her parent's marriage as...loving. More like tolerating one another, but what did she truly know.
"Need help with anything?" Helga finally offered. She assumed they were having some sort of 'family' dinner, because that's what Olga did anytime they were in town. Not that she lived far away or anything. A mere 45 minutes up the road. A stones throw compared to Helga and Arnold.
"Yeah, if you want to grab the peeler and start peeling those potatoes, that would be great," Olga sported an appreciative smile as she wandered back to whatever else she was preparing for dinner. Helga obliged, fishing through the drawers for a dusty old peeler and setting to work on the spuds, "Arnold, do you mind helping me with the carrots?"
"Hey, Nate," Helga called over her shoulder as she started peeling, "We wandered into a Christmas-themed scene party." She kind of felt bad for choosing to carrying on conversation as if their wasn't a giant elephant in the room, but damn, she could not do any more of the forced sadness.
Nathan snorted, "Yeah? How was that?"
"It was interesting. Club kids and all," She explained, casually sending a peel flying toward the trash.
"Ohh, did you take any pictures of the costumes?" Her brother-in-law's face lit up with excitement, as she'd expected, "The stories I've heard about club kids in the 90s. Man. There was also that famous club murder."
"Actually I did get a few pics. I'll text them to you later."
"Arnold, I'm surprised you willingly wandered into that," Nathan turned to the younger blonde man who had taken to chopping carrots.
With a roll of his eyes, he smirked, "I'd had just enough Rudolph cocktails to think it was a good idea," Arnold teased before admitting, "It wasn't bad though. Kind of fun in a quirky way, actually."
"Arnold did try to make friends with a guy in a full latex Santa suit."
Her husband looked up in protest, "I was not trying to make friends."
"You were absolutely nodding along like he was making sense," Helga recalled with a smirk.
"He was trying to sell me amphetamines."
Nathan found that funny, Olga did not though, casting Arnold and then Helga a very weary—bordering on stressed—look before asking, "You didn't actually take any did you?" Her voice had gone somber—but with that parental edge Helga had grown up wafting off of her periodically. It was enough to break the rhythm for just a second.
"No, of course not," Helga assured quickly, more surprised than offended, "I just danced. Badly. And sang. Also badly."
"Specifically 'Gypsy girl, don't let the drugs get you,' At the top of her lungs," Arnold added helpfully, "And right in my ear."
"See...I took the DJ's advice," Helga laughed back at him, loving the irony of it and apparently so did Nathan.
Olga's face relaxed a little, but she was still watching them as if they were a pair of kids or something, "I know, I know," She murmured, turning back to her sauté pan, "I'm just a little on edge is all." And that effectively squashed any more light hearted banter that would be had.
From there, each individual dish was slowly prepared, the rib roast removed. Helga and Arnold had set out the flatware and the nice set of plates and napkins on the family dinning table. The entire time Bob hadn't made his presence known, and Helga might have found it to be a little rude had she had cared more.
Helga had taken to leaning against the counter for a second, letting the boys handle taking the roast and sides to the table, while watching the scene unfold, wondering if she'd accidentally wandered into the wrong house. Olga passed in front of her, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
"I didn't mean to call you out earlier," Olga said, kind of out of the blue.
Helga merely blinked, trying to recall what she was referring to, "For...?"
"About the drugs thing," She explained, tossing the towel onto the counter top.
"Oh," Helga frowned, but shook her head, "I'd already forgotten about it, honestly."
Olga nodded, but then said in a softer voice, "It's just...you know I think about you. A lot. I constantly wonder how you're doing. I don't bother you because I know you're busy but..."
That caught Helga by surprise. Her first instinct was to deflect with something sarcastic and borderline mean-spirited. And in any other circumstance she probably would have, but her sister was hurting from the loss of her mom, probably feeling overly sentimental, and didn't deserve any extra lip from her. So instead, Helga gave her a rare gift. Sincerity. "I'm okay. Trust me, I'm entirely too good for drugs," She remarked with a small smirk and a touch of laughter, but then added, "...and I think about you too. Sometimes."
This managed to pull a small chortled out of the older woman, and she even looked visibly touched by the statement. Before either of them could say anything else, Nathan popped into the kitchen, "Alright, everything's out and cooling, and um...your dad's come down." Olga gently touched her arm in passing before grabbing the wine bottle and two extra glasses. By the time they made it into the dining room, the table looked suspiciously like something out of a magazine shoot—gold-rimmed plates, folded napkins, matched candles flickering in the center.
It smelled like rosemary, and red meat.
Bob sat at the head of the table, a few inches deeper into the whisky than anybody else. His face had gone ruddy, his posture slack, as if gravity had grown personal in its attack. He looked terrible. And Helga couldn't ignore the shift in atmosphere his presence had summoned. Tension snapped through the room like static. She could have sworn he'd even given her a fleeting look of disgust too, but it was tough to say. He seemed to always look put out.
Thankfully everybody made their plates and commencement of dinner proceeded without further fuss. "Wow," Nathan said, breaking the quiet as he forked a potato into his mouth, "This actually came together pretty good. I was worried we were going to burn the house down halfway through."
"Oh, I don't know, there's still time," Helga chuckled.
"And dessert," Arnold commented with that playful, lopsided smirk of his.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Helgs," Nathan grinned like a smart-ass as he dropped the forbidden nickname.
"Hmm..." She straightened in her chair, giving him a faux look of irritation, "Somebody is cruising for a bruising."
"Quaking in my boots."
The sound of laughter circled the table like warmth from a low-burning fire. Olga smiled, small but real. For one second, just one, she let herself believe this was what their family could be. Not a performance. Not a secret. Just this. Laughter passed across the table like a shared breath. Even Helga didn't seem as sour as usual. God help her, she wanted to keep it.
But in families like this, peace was usually the deep inhale before something snapped.
Norman Rockwell...with trauma.
"I still can't believe she's gone," Bob suddenly muttered into his glass, unprompted, out of the blue and sending the rest of the table into an abrupt silence, "One minute she's watching TV in her slippers, next minute…" He trailed off, then gestured vaguely at the table, "This."
"I know daddy," Olga softly replied while everyone gave quiet nods. Even Helga. Then Bob's eyes locked on her, and for what reason, she couldn't yet fathom, "She would've liked to see you more," He said, "While she was alive, I mean."
Helga's fork paused mid-push, muttering, "Oh, here we go," Arnold glanced between them, instinctively tensing.
"She asked about you," Bob went on, eyes glassy, voice rough, "All the time."
Helga leaned back, arms folding across her chest, finding that to be highly irritating and borderline emotionally manipulating, "That's funny. She had a phone. Could've used it." She copped back, mentally chiding herself about just shutting up.
"She tried."
"Tried to what? To stay conscious long enough to fake a maternal instinct?" Helga spat before she even realized it. She was starting to get worked up, and God help her, she did not want to ruin this dinner. Arnold laid a quiet hand on her leg under the table, trying to wordlessly calm her, "Don't," She told him, without looking.
Bob sat back, jaw tightening, face reddening even more, "She was sick, you know. She had struggles."
"No kidding."
"She did the best she could—with you."
"She didn't do anything," Helga finally snapped, "She existed in the house my entire life. She never gave a damn. I raised myself. Don't rewrite history just because she croaked."
At that, Bob's glass landed on the table. Hard. Making everyone jump, "She drank herself to death because of you!" He said, eyes narrowing viciously at the girl.
The room dropped a full ten degrees, "Daddy, stop," Olga pleaded.
Helga blinked at the elderly blowhard, watching him down what was left in his glass, "What did you just say?" Her voice low now, razor-sharp
"You want to play the victim?" He finally slurred back, "Fine. But you were a nightmare, even as a kid—"
"Daddy...you've had too mu—"
"You hated her from the beginning. She never knew how to reach you. She tried—but you just kept pushing her away, like we were always the enemy."
"Newsflash, Bob, she kind of was," Helga snapped, "You both were. You ignored me until I was old enough to make noise and then blamed me for everything that went wrong. Maybe look in the goddamn mirror if you want to know why I am the way I am."
Bob laughed bitterly, "The mirror? The mirror says we gave up everything to raise you. And you treated us like strangers."
"Because you were strangers!" Her voice cracked, "And gave up what exactly? Earlier retirement? Maybe you shouldn't have had another effiing' kid fourteen years after the first! Or at all, because clearly you only ever wanted her..." She thumbed towards Olga, "...anyway!"
"Babe..." Arnold muttered, trying to bring his wife down a notch or two, but she wasn't having any of that.
"Still, you treated me like a problem to manage, not a person. That's the truth!"
"Daddy," Olga barked again sharply, seeing her father swelling up with a retort, "That's enough! This is uncalled for!"
But he ignored her, "Girly, that's exactly what you were. A problem we had to manage. You want to talk truth? You want to know what we gave up?" He growled, eyes fully bloodshot now, "Our sanity for one, because you've always been a defiant little bitch."
"Hey!" Arnold barked furiously at Bob, and was promptly ignored.
"But the big truth is…you aren't even ours. Never were." Helga simply stared at him, mouth parted, head tilted slightly like she hadn't heard it right. Honestly, she wasn't even sure what she'd heard or what he was trying to even convey to her, but Olga's frantic pleading whispers for him 'Not to do this' made her fully aware it was something she wanted to hear. Bob went on, "Miriam and I—we weren't your parents. No. You came from someone else."
Olga's hands flew to her mouth, her face going pale as she looked like she was about to have a nervous breakdown, "Bob, you need to stop, right now," Nathan warned, dropping his utensils to tend to his distressed wife.
Arnold's eyes darted to Helga for her reaction, watching her blink very slowly, "What are you talking about?" She finally inquired, genuinely unsure if she'd heard him right—or if he was just spitting some cruel, whisky-soaked nonsense to cope with his pain.
To her abject horror though, she watched as his gaze cut sharply to Olga, who was desperately eyeing him through a pair of waterlogged Bambi eyes, "Tell her," He briskly demanded of his golden child, "You and your mother wanted this circus."
Nathan reached for Olga's arm. "Bob—"
"No," Helga sharply cut him off, eyes rapidly darting between Bob and Olga, "Tell me what?"
But Olga couldn't speak. Her face was crumbling. She just couldn't find the words to spin together a simple sentence. Her throat was constricted and stuck. Truthfully she was afraid to face Helga now. She had imagined this moment more times than she could count—feared it in a hundred different shapes—but now that it was here, she couldn't seem to speak. Couldn't say the words. An end to the circus. To the secret. The big fat Pataki secret.
And then it clicked. Words or not, the implied implication slammed into Helga's brain like a bullet, nearly leaving her breathless. When she did finally get her wits back to her she was adamantly shaking her head, "No..." She insisted. It simply could not be. Of all the things it could not be that. She could handle being ignored. She could handle being the family burden. She could've even handled finding out she was adopted from strangers.
But this?
Not this. Anything but this.
"So help me, Bob, I'm about to sock you in the face for such a stupid lie," Helga threatened, fist clenching tighter while her husband steadily tried to calm her down.
Bob Pataki could only laugh at the ensuing chaos as he poured himself another liberal three fingers of whisky, "Hit me then," He shrugged while goading her, "Or better yet, just ask her. Ask your mother…your real one."