The second installment of Helen's Holiday Tale. The first can be found here.
“Helen,
Helen, get up, darling.” She felt hands grip her elbows and tug at the same
time the male voice penetrated her consciousness. Helen gasped and opened her
eyes, blinking at the sun glaring off whiteness all around her.
“Oh,
my stars,” she declared as soon as she could breathe again. “I have no idea
what happened to me there.”
When
her eyes adjusted, she saw all the whiteness was snow. No big surprise there. Cripple
Creek saw a lot of snowfall in December. But what was she doing outside? And
why was her butt hurting?
“Get
up, Helen. Skate with me.”
“What?
I’m too old—” Helen looked to her right, where the voice was coming from. A man
stood before her. He was handsome and young. His dark hair was parted on the
side and slicked down. His blue eyes were filled with concern. He sported a
pair of slacks and a white sweater. A button shirt peeped out of the V-neck. A
red scarf Helen knew very well was wrapped around his neck, the end trailing
off behind him. She’d knitted that scarf with her own hands sixty-three years
ago. A pair of ice-skates topped off his outfit.
“You’re
not old anymore,” the man or vision said with a smile.
“George.
George, is it really you? Have I died and gone to Heaven?” Helen reached a hand
out to him, shocked to see the wrinkles and age spots had disappeared from its
surface.
“Not
quite, but it’s me.” George reached for her then, and she allowed him to grasp
her hands and pull her up. She wobbled momentarily on the ice. She looked down
at her feet in surprise. She, too, was wearing ice skates…and a skirt! It had
been a long time since she’d worn a skirt. Tights, too.
Why,
she was dressed just the way she had been that day so long ago…
“George?”
She grasped his arms above the elbows, marveling that he was a solid man. “Is
this…is this 1950?”
George
nodded. “It is. Do you remember?”
Helen
thought she would cry with happiness. “Yes! Yes, I do remember. It was
Christmas, and I made you that scarf.” She touched the red scarf around his
neck. “And you wore it every day in winter until the day you…”
“Died.
Yes, I know, Helen.” Her George sounded so grave and serious. Why wasn’t he
happier? They were together again!
“George,
you left me too soon!” Helen scolded him as she allowed him to lead her across
the ice. His right hand was stretched across her front, grasping her own, and
his left pulled her across his midsection, and together, they glided. Helen was
amazed at how little effort it took to do something she hadn’t done in decades.
She threw her head back and breathed in the scent of pine and firewood burning.
Icicles hung from the trees, and tiny snowfalls fell around them, melting as
soon as they landed upon their clothing.
“Helen,
I didn’t have a choice. It was my time.”
“Well,
it’s mine now. I spent ten years alone, George!” She tried to keep the
accusation from her voice, but found she couldn’t help it.
“No,
it isn’t.” George shook his head as he twirled her in a circle.
Helen
laughed at the sensation, at the sight of trees blurring in front of her eyes.
“George,” she said as they came to a stop once again and she caught her breath.
“I’m with you again. It’s the greatest gift a woman could ask for!” She threw
herself into his arms. She felt blissfully happy, elated. All was right in her
world once again.
He
kissed the top of her hair—no longer gray she’d noticed, as it had blown across
her face whilst spinning, but her dark curls from so long ago. “Do you remember
what else happened this day?”
Helen
just wanted him to shut up and kiss her on the lips as he used to, but she
indulged him. “I gave you that scarf; we came skating, and you proposed. It was
the loveliest Christmas ever.”
“It
was,” he agreed, “and we made a lot of plans, plans for our future and goals.”
Helen
felt a pang stab her heart, and she feared she was having another heart attack
though she was already dead surely. “Well, those things didn’t come to pass, so
let’s not dwell on it.” She rose on tiptoe and sought his mouth with hers, only
he held her out of reach, his hands on her shoulders.
“Helen,
we planned to have children, lots of them, but it didn’t happen.”
Suddenly,
Helen felt cold and shivered. “George, why must you rehash—“
“We
were taught not to talk about such things back then, Helen, but you need to
know something.” George paused, his blue gaze intent on her face, a pleading in
their depths. “It wasn’t your fault. I know you always blamed yourself, but it
wasn’t your fault.”
“What
do you mean?” Oh, why was he talking about this after all these years? So, they
hadn’t had children, and yes, she blamed herself, but what did it matter now?
In the end, they’d had a wonderful marriage, made stronger by their lack of
children—she thought.
“When
I was in Korea, I was wounded.”
“I
know that.” She clutched his sweater in her fists.
“I
was the sterile one, Helen, not you.”
“Oh.”
A rush of air escaped her as her shoulders slumped. It hadn’t been her. She
hadn’t been the reason their dreams hadn’t come to fruition. All this time,
she’d blamed her infertile loins, had cried huge tears of regret. Back in their
day, fertility wasn’t bandied about and made dinnertime discussion, and ten
thousand dollars had been a year’s salary for many. Young people now talked
about it constantly, their fertilization efforts and ovary temperature. It was
distasteful. She’d suggested adoption once, but George had gotten angry at her
insinuations they couldn’t have one of their own. Now she knew why. George had
been ashamed and embarrassed. “Why tell me now, George?” To her great surprise,
she felt no anger, but relief. It hadn’t been her fault.
“Because
I was wrong in not telling you sooner. When I died, you were all alone, and you
became a bitter, old crone.”
Helen
felt as though she’d been slapped. “Of all the nerve!” She struggled to pull
free of him.
“Helen,
you aren’t the woman I married. The woman I married was full of life, laughter,
joy, hopes. You used to welcome all the children into our home, bake them
cookies, tie their shoelaces. Our home was always filled with cheer. Now, you
yell and curse and hate. You hate what you never had. It’s bitterness, Helen.
You can’t keep hating and lashing out at others over something you can’t
control.”
“I…I
don’t know what to say.” And she didn’t. What could she say? He was right, but
it was too late to change things. She was who she was. He’d left her alone, and
she hadn’t known how to handle it.
“Do
you want this all the time?” George made a sweeping gesture, encompassing the
area around them, the frozen lake, the trees with their twinkling lights, the
glistening snow. “Do you want to be young and in love with me forever and ever?
Skating in eternal bliss?”
He’d
asked her those same words sixty-three years before. Helen hurried to give him
the very same answer. “I do. I do!” She reached for him again, desperate, eager
to be in his arms. “I’ve missed you so much!”
“Well,
see, it’s like this, Helen. Your bad deeds are overshadowing your good deeds,
and if you don’t change that, you won’t come here.”
“Is
this about going to church? I attend—”
George
interrupted her by placing a finger on her lips. “No. That has nothing to do
with it. It’s about who you are in here.” He dropped his finger to the space
above her left breast. “It’s about how you treat people. You can sit on a hard
church pew all day, every Sunday, but it doesn’t do you any good if you’re not
a good person. It’s not about what religion you practice—if any—or how many
scriptures you read. It’s about treating others as you want to be treated. Just
be a good person, like you used to be.”
Tears
welled in her eyes. She knew he was right. Without George by her side, she’d
forgotten the most basic rule of humanity. But how could she fix it?
“I
want you with me, Helen, just as I did long ago. Do what you have to. Make
things right. I love you.” George leaned forward then, and their lips finally
touched. They felt as they always had, warm and possessive against her own. She
opened her mouth under his and welcomed him.
As
their tongues touched, she remembered he had kissed her this way right after
his first proposal, too, and it felt exactly the same. Her insides threatened
to melt into a puddle of mush despite the frigid air surrounding them.
But
all too soon, the feeling faded away. He
faded away. She reached for him, but found only air. Someone or something was
beating on her heart. It hurt so bad.
“No!”
she tried to call out, but choked.
The
white light appeared again, blinding her.
Come back tomorrow for more of Helen's story.
I was just complaining on here the other day that people don't seem to know what women's fiction is supposed to be anymore...that books nowadays--wrongly labeled women's fiction--feature heroines whose only goal in life is to either get laid or land a billionaire or get laid by a billionaire and have his baby.
