Part 21 (2/2)
”How are you feeling?” Carolyn asked.
”What the h.e.l.l kind of question is that? I'm angry and hurt. I'm p.i.s.sed off. Those are my emotions. Cory's my life and she didn't seem to care about how she's suddenly changed our lives. I can't compromise.”
”But she did care. She wanted to talk and you blew her off. Maybe you should think about your reaction to her.”
Carolyn listened for several minutes while Helen spit and sputtered, cried, and stomped her one good leg.
”I just wanted to jump. There's always too much pain and upset in love and life.”
”Windows are for clarity, not for jumping. You're a survivor in many ways. I want you to rest tonight. Take a Seconal if you have to.”
”Sure. Zombie myself out. The World According to Helen.”
”Helen,” Carolyn said firmly, ”take something to help you relax. Even if it's a shot of bourbon.”
Helen laughed. ”I wanted to jump from a window and you want me to reach for pills and liquor?”
”I can tell by your tone that you aren't going to hurt yourself. Your emotions needed an outlet and you called. That was the right thing to do. I can trust you with some form of a downer. Tomorrow, I want you to call Cory. Sort things out with her. Then, if you still need to talk, call me. I don't care about the time. Just call me.”
”Thanks. I will.”
Helen hung up and let out a long sigh. She looked around her apartment. It looked exactly as it did before she met Cory. Tan carpet, cream walls, brown furniture, and a piano in the corner. No life. Not even a plant. It needed more color, perhaps. Lavender. Lavender with little pink triangles dotting the walls.
”I think not,” she said, then she went into the bedroom and flipped on the light. Right away, she saw what she'd left behind. Life. Over her bed hung an enlarged photograph Stacey had taken one day when Helen and Cory had felt adventurous. An identical copy hung in Cory's bedroom. It was a nude shot, from the waist up.
The black-and-white photo displayed Cory lying in bed with an oversized pillow beneath her head. With her hair splashed around, the look of a woman who had just made love was projected. Helen leaned over Cory, resting on one arm, and their b.r.e.a.s.t.s touched lightly. Their mouths were open, nearing a kiss.
Helen remembered the day that seemed moments ago. She still felt Cory's fingers slide against her cheek and pull her downward.
Theirs was a perfect photograph. Loving, sensual, provocative. It made you want to hold somebody. The photograph of the actual kiss was not as powerful, but the kiss itself Helen remembered well. Cory always kissed her as if for the first time. The pa.s.sion was always there. She closed her eyes and felt that loving touch.
”Baby,” she said.
She reached for the bottle of pills on her dresser and poured its contents into her hand. Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen of the red capsules lay in her palm, like a spreading bacterium.
”False sleep.” She dropped the drug and vial into the garbage. ”I'd only feel worse in the morning.”
Chapter Twenty-three.
The following afternoon, Marty called.
”Cory's told me what had happened. I'm coming over later. I think we should talk.”
A speech, Helen suspected, when Marty's tone had registered disappointment. She was about to hear the age-old ”you aren't healthy and your emotions are getting the best of you” speech, or something boringly similar. Whatever.
While she waited, Helen catnapped in her chair. Her night had been long, not with nightmares, but with continual thoughts of Cory and a fight that should never have happened. Anger had replaced logic. Helen had become reactive. Still, she felt betrayed and wondered if Cory's accusations of infidelity were a redirection of her true thoughts. Maybe a smoke screen to hide how she felt about the show.
A heavy pounding on the door startled her awake. ”Huh?” she said in a moment's haziness.
”Helen, it's Marty. You okay?”
”Yeah.” She steered her chair to the door and opened it. ”Some hostess, huh?”
”I was worried something had happened to you.” Marty closed the door and then gave Helen a peck on the cheek. ”I've brought dinner.” She set the bag on Helen's lap and followed her into the kitchen. ”We have tomato, onion, and cuc.u.mber salad, and fresh salmon. Do you like salmon?” She took the bag from Helen's lap and emptied the contents onto the table. ”Just what are you grinning about? You have that peanut farmer look again.”
Helen teased. ”You said if Chamberlain and I ever-”
”Oh no. You two are already like Gert and Alice B. Hand in hand.”
Helen rolled her eyes. ”Yeah. Tell me about that one.”
”Have you talked to her today?”
”No.”
Marty placed the salad into the freezer for a quick chill and searched the oven. ”I think, and I say this as a friend, I think you should get your head out of your tush and meet her halfway.” She threw her arms into the air in frustration. ”Where's the broiling pan?”
”Top shelf, right side. Our goals are different.”
”n.o.body keeps the broiling pan in the cabinet.” Marty gave it a quick rinse. ”You should have redefined your goals together.”
”She lied.”
”Look. I know Cory well enough to understand that she's panicked.” She sprinkled the salmon with lemon pepper and chives, shoved it into the broiler, and turned to Helen. She crossed her arms and leaned against the counter. ”Coming out is a big d.a.m.n deal to anyone. There's more con than pro. She's scared, but willing to stay in your relations.h.i.+p if you come out alone.”
”Yes, but it doesn't make sense.”
”Yes, it does. In her mind, she feels less threatened.”
”She's too willing to write me off.”
”Come on, Helen. It was tough for her to admit the truth. Besides that, here you sit, writing her off as well.” She took two plates from the cabinet and grabbed some silverware. ”Even if you have to fight like alley cats first, you can come up with a solution. Scratch each other's eyes out if you have to. It could be worth it.”
”I think I'll let her suffer for a while.”
”And how will you handle your own suffering?”
She watched Marty shuffle their dinner around the kitchen and considered her words.
So maybe I am suffering a little. A lot. Okay, a lot. We'd spent nearly three months together, day and night or on the phone when she was away. I love her, I miss her, and what the h.e.l.l am I doing sitting here? I'm pouting. I'm mad. d.a.m.n mad. She didn't put up enough fight for me. Bulls.h.i.+t to her. She was an emotional midget. ”Compromise.” That's all she had to say.
”Compromise,” Marty said and stressed the word with a meat fork. ”I think you owe it to each other.”
<script>