Content warning: themes of death
Helen stood at the bank of a creek listening to Flaubert whisper: she wanted to die, but she also wanted to live in Paris. Not that she’d ever read Madame Bovary. Not the whole way through. It was a passage the women in her Women’s Studies class in undergrad liked and quoted whenever they found the opportunity. Helen thought a woman who said this must be a woman who was introspective but impulsive and optimistic. Helen wished she was like that, but she was a woman who was usually weighted firmly to the earth.
Helen sunk heavily onto the wet ground, which had just begun to thaw. She let the mud ooze around her and felt the sharp crack of the thin layer of remaining ice. She pulled off her hiking boots and socks, pushed herself off the bank, and waded into the freezing April water. It was still too cold for water bugs or tadpoles and also for mosquitoes or black flies; for this, she was grateful. The creek smelled of sulfur, a smell that used to gag her. “Stay present,” she reminded herself. “Think of Paris.” But Paris wasn’t even really a city where she wanted to live. The truth was that Helen liked it right where she was, not here in the freezing cold stream, but here in Maine. She squatted in the water, then sat. The iciness took her breath away. She knew if she sat long enough, hypothermia would set in, she’d fall asleep, and that would be that.
“I’ll stay here, and I’ll freeze to death,” she said. She thought of the dog she’d never owned, the vegetable garden she’d never tended, the trails she’d never hiked, and the house she’d never bought. “Not today,” she said. She rose, wet from the waist down, shaking. “Great, now I’ll freeze to death on my way back to the car.” She sat down in the same muddy space and pulled her socks and boots back on. There was no other choice but to walk back soaking wet. Her shoes squelched with each step. She wondered if her lips were blue. Her teeth chattered until her jaw hurt. She could barely feel her toes and worried briefly about frostbite and subsequent gangrene. She’d live but without feet. Somehow, she knew she’d pay for today because there was always a price.
Helen heard her phone go off in her pack. She let it go. Who would be calling? No one called except her mother, and Jen could wait. Her mother would leave a message with her worried voice; something about having an intuition that Helen needed her. It would irritate Helen that Jen was right, so she’d downplay her situation. The phone stopped briefly, then it started again. “Damn it.” She was too cold to stop to get the phone, so she imagined another conversation. This time with a stranger.
“Hello?” a gentle person would say.
“Yes?” Helen would be curt.
“Is this Helen Dulaney?”
“It is.”
“This is St. Vincent’s Hospital calling.”
“Is it my mother?”
“No, it’s not. Are you nearby? Are you with someone?”
“I just nearly died in a freezing cold stream in the middle of the goddam woods. I’m soaking wet and tired.”
There’d be a pause, then, “Are you all right?”
Helen would sense a 911 call being made on her behalf.
“I’m fine. I’m freezing.”
“Your wife Emily is here.”
“My wife? Emily? She’s not my wife. We didn’t get married. I called it off. It was all too much–the wedding plans, trying to get a mortgage, her Baptist father who kept sending anonymous bible verses through the mail as if we didn’t know who it was.”
The voice on the other end would be silent for a moment, waiting for Helen to finish.
“Your girlfriend, then,” the voice would gently say.
“She’s not. I told you. We broke up.”
“Emily Rogers, then. You’re her contact.”
Helen began running. Emily was hurt. She was sure of it. Possibly dead. Why had she been so selfish, going out into the woods on a cold April morning to sit in a freezing creek when Emily, who genuinely loved life, was on the verge of death? The phone stopped, and Helen remembered that the conversation was all in her head. She was back at the trailhead.
Helen reached into her pack to grab her key and phone. She started the car, cranked the heat, and checked her calls. It was Daniel, Emily’s father. “Shit,” Helen said. It could only mean tragedy. Shaking, she forced herself to pull off her mittens to call him back.
“Hey,” the voice on the other end wasn’t Daniel; it was Emily. “I figured you wouldn’t answer if you saw it was me, so I borrowed my dad’s phone.” Helen didn’t respond. “Are you still there?” Helen was barely breathing. Just the sound of Emily’s voice broke her. “Helen? Say something.”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“You left your collection of Neruda poetry. I thought you might miss them. The books. The poems.”
“You borrowed your father’s phone to call me about Neruda? I thought you were dying. Or dead. I thought you’d died.” Helen wanted to sound grateful, but instead, she sounded annoyed.
Emily chuckled. “You thought I died?”
“When I saw Daniel’s number, yeah.”
“Helen, he wouldn’t call you even if I died. He’s going to be prostrate and praying for days when he sees your number. Are you okay?” The concern was genuine, like everything else about Emily.
“I’m freezing. Literally. I’m freezing to death.” She heard yapping in the background. “Did your parents get a dog?” She still sounded sharp. She felt happy to hear from Emily, happy to be talking to her, but she sounded irritated.
“Shush,” Emily said. “Sorry. That’s Fern. My puppy. You were right. We needed a dog. She’s a lot of work, but–”
“Fuck you,” Helen said and hung up. She banged the steering wheel, then sucked the edge of her hand. She had spent months trying to convince Emily to adopt a dog.
“Not yet,” Emily would say. “After the wedding. After we see where we end up.”
“Traitor,” Helen said. She waited a minute, then called back. Daniel answered.
“Leave her alone,” he said. She hung up and called Emily’s number, but the call went straight to voice mail.
Emily texted, “I’ll call you later. Can’t talk now.”
Helen was surprised she acknowledged her at all. Helen wouldn’t have. If Emily had said fuck you to Helen, Helen would wait at least 48 hours before replying to any calls or texts from Emily to make her anxious, to make her pay. Helen didn’t know why she was calling back. She didn’t know if she wanted to fight or to beg Emily for grace and reconciliation, to let them be a family: Emily, Fern, and Helen. She was desperate for forgiveness.
Helen banged the steering wheel again. She should have laid back in the stream and let the ice form around her. She should have stayed there all night, looking for constellations while she slowly froze to death. “You’re stupid, Helen Dulaney.” Emily was probably sobbing into Daniel’s shoulder at the very moment while he prayed for her salvation and Helen’s damnation, which she deserved. Emily’s mother would be heating up some homemade soup for her. Fern would be lovingly licking Emily’s face.
Helen checked her rearview mirror. “Stupid,” she said again and headed to her new apartment. The empty one. Each wall the same color of beige. The floors, with the exception of the bathroom and kitchen, which were tiled in neutral beige, were covered with the same oatmeal-colored rug. It was tidy because it wasn’t lived in. Her friends, the few that stuck by her, told her that her apartment didn’t look lived in yet. Helen, still wet and muddy, sat on the new couch. It, too, was beige. “There. Now you’re christened,” she said to the cushion. She tipped over and buried her face in the matching monotone pillow. She stayed there a long time, occasionally checking her phone to see if maybe Emily had called or texted. She checked settings to make sure the sound was still on. Maybe Emily had picked up one or two things from her.
Helen lay in bed that night, her mind racing with thoughts of Emily and Fern– her Fern. Around 3 a.m., she knew how to make it better, and Helen began making plans. She felt good for the first time in months.
The alarm went off at 6:45, but Helen called into work sick. She lay in bed pounding her forehead, thinking stupid, stupid, stupid. “Focus on the plans, Helen,” she said. At nine, she headed out to buy a crate, food, and toys. Fern would come home with her. She was her idea. She had even chosen the name. She went to Big Lots and bought a black turtleneck, black jeans, a black beanie, and sneakers. She needed to be inconspicuous. She wondered if Fern would protest or if she’d come easily. She wondered if Emily would protest or if she’d capitulate. Helen was pretty sure Emily would relinquish Fern to her if she caught her in the act. It would all work out.
Planning took a few days. Meanwhile, Emily hadn’t called back. The longer Helen went without hearing from Emily, the more she wanted to call her mother. How long had it been, Helen wondered. Months? Had she even told Jen that she’d called off the wedding? Emily probably had taken care of all that, called all the important people to let them know they’d broken up. She remembered that her mother had called her a few times– many times, actually–but Helen always put her off with a text saying she was fine, just busy, and would get back to her soon. Now she wanted her, and she wanted Fern. It was Wednesday. Emily had her book club. Fern would be alone while Emily discussed the latest bestseller, a book Helen would never stoop to read.
Helen called out sick again. She needed the day to prepare. She researched how to gain a dog’s trust. They would, after all, be meeting for the first time at the kidnapping– or adoption, as Helen preferred to think of it. She stopped at the nearest convenience store for bacon treats. She set the crate up in her bedroom, put an old blanket Emily used to use inside of it so Fern would have a familiar smell– the same blanket Helen held at night for the same reason–and put the bacon treats into her pack. She had trouble staying focused and wondered if maybe going to work would have been a better idea. “I just need to get there,” she kept reminding herself. “Once I’m there, everything will be fine.”
Helen was too anxious to eat dinner. “I’m just excited,” she told herself, though somewhere deep inside, a voice pressed on her that she had lost it. Finally, at 6:30, she left the apartment. Emily’s group met at that time at Brewer’s Coffee Shop downtown, so she’d definitely be gone. When Helen got to their old place, she settled down. “This is going to be great. I’ll go in, sit with Fern for a few minutes, coax her with some bacon, scoop her up, and leave.” She knew she had time. Emily’s book club were talkers. She wouldn’t be home before 10. She never was.
Helen was glad it was she who’d moved out; she knew their place–Emily’s place–in the pitch black. Best of all, she still had a key. She noticed nothing on the way to the door. She focused on her feet, which seemed to belong to someone else. She didn’t notice the lights on in the living room; she didn’t notice the car in the duplex driveway. She slipped her pack, pungently smelling of bacon, off her back, took out the key, and made her way in.
“Hey.” She’d startled Emily, who sat on the couch under a bunch of old afghans they’d purchased at the thrift store last year, Fern by her side. Fern bounded over to Helen. “You scared us,” she said. Helen stood in the doorway, staring at Fern. She was a Labradoodle. Helen had wanted a rescue dog. A mutt. Fern was not supposed to be a Labradoodle. “How’d you hear? Who told you? Can you shut the door? It’s cold.” After the initial start, Emily seemed happy that Helen was there.
“Hey,” Helen said, not knowing what else to say. “How’d I hear what?” she asked. “I came for the Neruda books.” It was the sanest thing she could think of, and she felt proud of the lie that came so easily. Then she saw Emily’s elevated foot, wrapped in an ace bandage, and the crutches on the floor beside her.
“Let me get them for you.” Emily groaned a little when she stood.
“You okay?” Helen asked. Emily smiled.
“Just a little sprained ankle,” she said. She put her hand on the arm of the couch to steady herself. Staying off her foot, she hopped toward the bedroom. Helen thought about helping her but just stood there because helping her would mean putting an arm around her. Smelling her. Being too close. She thought about going into the bedroom, but that felt wrong, too.
“Helen?” Emily called to her, jolting Helen. “Can you come here? I can’t carry them back to you.”
Helen obediently went in, bringing the crutches. Fern ran circles around her.
Helen looked down at Emily’s swollen and bruised foot. “Are you sure it’s just sprained?” she asked.
Emily smiled and shook her head. “Yeah. I had it x-rayed.”
“How’d you do it?”
“Hiking with Fern,” Emily said.
Helen reached down to pet Fern’s head. Fern jumped and put her front paws on Helen’s thighs. “I can see how that could happen,” she said, and then blurted, “She should be mine. I can’t believe you stole my dog.”
Emily turned away from the bookcase to look at her. “What?”
Helen repeated herself, though in a quieter voice. “She’s mine.”
Emily furrowed her brows. “Fern? What are you talking about?” Helen looked at Emily, then focused completely on Fern. “Helen, what’s wrong?”
“Fern is mine. She was my idea. I even named her.”
“But then you left,” Emily said, dropping onto the bed.
Seeing an opportunity, Helen dropped the crutches near the bed and scooped up Fern. “You can keep the Neruda,” she said. “I’m taking Fern.”
“Helen,” Emily tried putting her foot down, but needles of pain shot up her leg. “What are you doing?”
Helen turned back around. Fern struggled in her arms. Helen held her tighter. “I’m taking her, Emily.” Helen clutched the puppy. She stared at Emily, who didn’t even look mad. Emily must be angry. Anyone would be. But Emily, in her way, looked compassionate. “Say it,” she said.
“Say what?”
“Say, Fuck you, Helen.”
“What?” Emily looked concerned, further igniting Helen’s fury.
“You’ve always wanted to say it,” Helen challenged. “You want to say it now.”
Emily picked up her phone.
“Who are you calling? Your parents? The police?”
“I’m calling your brother. I’m going to tell Jack to come get you.” But she put the phone down. “Helen,” she said patiently, patting the bed. “Sit down. Let’s talk.”
“Why’d you get Fern?”
“I was lonely. You left, remember? We were planning a beautiful wedding, and you left.” She spoke slowly, like she was speaking to a child.
“And you wanted to tell me fuck you. But instead, you stole my puppy.” As if on cue, Fern yipped and all but fell out of Helen’s arms. She pranced, unharmed, over to Emily, who patted the bed again.
“I saw an ad for puppies, and I bought one. I didn’t steal her. You should leave.”
“Not without my dog.”
“She’s not your dog, Helen.” Emily’s voice was tighter now. This happened infrequently, but Helen recognized it for what it was: Emily was angry.
“Yes. She is. You never even wanted a dog.” Fern trotted in a small circle and curled up next to Emily on the bed.
“I never said I didn’t want one. I said we should wait. Then you left, and there wasn’t a reason to wait anymore. Please, Helen, go home.” Emily looked exhausted, and Helen was frustrated at how quickly the anger had drained.
“Fern! Come!” Helen commanded. Fern opened an eye but didn’t move. Emily smiled and protectively leaned over the dog.
“Come!” Helen shouted again.
Fern licked Emily’s hand, and Emily kissed her on the head. Both of them ignored Helen’s commands. “Why’d you leave?” She kept her eyes on Fern.
“Because I’m an asshole.”
Emily rested her cheek on Fern.
Helen was quiet. “I need you to say it,” she finally said. “I need you to say fuck you to me.”
Emily looked up. “Why?”
“Because you’re always so good. You’re always the one who’s reasonable. Just once, I want to be the victim of you. I want you to be bad sometimes.”
Emily giggled.
“You’re laughing?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh, but are you saying you left because I’m a good person?”
“Yes. I’m sick of being the ugly partner. Please say it.”
Neither woman spoke. The room was pulling the air out of Helen’s lungs.
“No,” Emily quietly said and buried her face in Fern’s warm back.
“Fuck you,” Helen said. She grabbed the books, mumbled something about puppy mills, and gently kicked Emily’s crutches just a little out of reach before leaving.
Susan Laurencot is a Connecticut writer who lives and writes in an old farmhouse by the Long Island Sound with her husband and mean, old cat. She’s an active member of the Connecticut Writing Project and sometimes escapes to beautiful locations with these writer friends to write and revise. Her fiction has appeared in The Connecticut Writer Magazine, Fish Food Magazine, Umbrella Factory Magazine, Commuter Lit, and Front Porch Review.
