Chapter 5 Helena
The apartment was empty when I got home.
My visit with Malia had ended somewhat abruptly when her coworkers had picked up a group of guerrilla taggers who thought it’d be a good idea to give the Eighty-Sixth Street subway a full makeover.
The station filled up quickly, so I said goodbye and continued on my way around the city.
A couple hours later I was home—but my mother clearly wasn’t, or I’d have a missed call from her asking what I was up to.
It was going to be tough, getting used to this round-the-clock surveillance after having my independence in Cambridge, but at least I knew what I was doing this for.
Once again I stood at the foot of the staircase leading to the upper floor, but this time I braved it, taking my suitcase in hand and carrying it up the stairs.
My bedroom was right at the back, on the left, and as I stepped inside, I was engulfed by a cloud of nostalgia and faded memories.
The decor hadn’t changed: light-colored furniture in grays and whites, accented with curtains, rugs, and linens in various shades of berry, pink, and lilac.
I stood on the threshold for a few moments, trying to reconcile myself with this room, but I couldn’t do it.
Here, now, at almost twenty, I knew I wasn’t the seventeen-year-old girl who had lived here before.
How could I be, after everything that had happened?
I went in, put down my luggage, and crossed to the vanity near the window.
I’d begged my parents to buy it for me when I was thirteen, even though they didn’t approve of my wearing makeup at that age.
But I’d gotten my way, and that vanity had meant the world to me.
I wasn’t sure why—even now, I didn’t wear makeup every day, and if I did, often it was hardly noticeable.
But back then, I’d thought the white lacquered table with its oval mirror signified that I wasn’t a little girl anymore.
Or perhaps the only reason I’d wanted it was because Valerie had had one too.
At the thought of Valerie, my gaze turned to the photos stuck to the mirror, searching for one with her in it—but I couldn’t find any.
Instead, there were gaps between the photos of me with my friends from back then and a couple of snapshots of Ian.
My heart began to thump in alarm as I realized that someone had gotten rid of the photos of Valerie—only the ones of her.
Then I was struck by a thought that set my pulse racing even harder:
What else have they taken?
Some internal sixth sense led me out of my room and over to the door opposite, the one I’d been afraid to open all day. But now, I just did it—turned the handle and pushed it open.
And froze.
In front of me was a room I’d never seen before.
There was nothing left. Nothing of Valerie’s borderline-tacky four-poster bed, her pictures, her overflowing pinboard with its ornamental gold frame, her desk.
The couch by the window had vanished, as had the ratty old stuffed hippo that usually sat there, from which she’d been inseparable.
All her shelves and books were gone as well.
In their place stood only a mahogany bureau with an old-fashioned chair, and a strange bed with a neatly tucked-in bedspread.
As though my sister had never lived here. As though she’d never existed.
Another wave of sorrow caught me tight in its grip, trying to drag me down.
This time, too, I fought it with all my might, searching for something to hold on to—and finding anger.
Anger had been such a blessing over the last two and a half years, and I grasped at it now without a second thought.
Being furious made me feel less helpless, less powerless.
I fought the wave for several moments, finally beat it, and the abyss closed over once again. I knew it hadn’t disappeared completely, but the danger that I might fall off the edge had passed—for now.
Then, with shaking hands, I took my phone from my jacket pocket and dialed my mother.
“Helena?” I could hear people in the background. “Is everything okay?”
“No, it is not,” I said through gritted teeth, struggling to keep my voice under control. “I’m standing in Valerie’s room right now. Where’s all her stuff? What have you done with it?”
“Can we talk about this later, when I’m home?” she asked in a hushed voice.
“No, we can’t,” I hissed back.
Mom sighed. “We cleared the room out a couple of weeks ago,” she said without further explanation.
“Why?” I yelled. I was livid, possibly even a little hysterical. “Why would you do something like that?”
“Because we thought it would be easier for you to look to the future if you weren’t surrounded by Valerie’s things, darling.
So we gave them away.” She spoke softly, but I could hear the caution in her voice.
“And judging by your reaction, I don’t know if it was the right decision to let you come back to New York. You’re obviously not ready yet.”
Her words hit me like a slap in the face.
They were a reminder that I couldn’t say what I was really thinking or feeling to my family anymore.
I’d known that already, of course, but coming back to the city had thrown me off-kilter.
I shouldn’t have called my mother on impulse like that—if my plan was going to work, I’d have to control myself better.
“I’m sorry.” I backpedaled, trying to suppress my anger. “I’d have just liked to have some of her things, that’s all. To remember her by.”
My mother’s tone turned more businesslike as she continued, “What’s important now is that you focus on the future.
And Valerie’s room being cleared out will help with that.
” Somebody spoke to her on the other end, and she placed her hand over the mic briefly before she came back on the line.
“I have to go now, Helena. I’m going to be here a while yet, then I have to get to the Irvines’ reception.
Why don’t you call your brother; he could come over this evening and you two can order in. Okay?”
“Okay,” I replied, and she hung up.
I stood anchored to the spot in that soulless room, devoid now of any trace of my sister. New floors, new wallpaper, new furniture. All her things just… gone. There was nothing here for me to remember her by, that was for sure. The only thing that hadn’t changed was the view.
I went over and looked out the window by the desk. I’d been a little jealous that Valerie had had a view of Central Park, but she’d shared it with me all the time.
I took a deep breath in and out just like my coach in Cambridge had showed me, and unballed my fists.
The storm raging inside me began to calm a little, and I looked down at the desk.
I’d thought at first that my parents had turned Valerie’s room into another guest room, but there was a neatly organized pile of papers here, and next to it a familiar-looking fountain pen in a narrow holder.
If I wasn’t mistaken, it belonged to my dad.
Puzzled, I turned to look at the room more closely. There was an alarm clock on the nightstand, and a book by Hemingway—Dad’s favorite. Was he sleeping in here? And using it as an office, despite the fact my parents shared a study down the hall? Why?
The weight I felt only grew heavier—nothing was how I’d imagined it would be. It had been two and a half years since I was home. I’d obviously missed a lot.
I picked up my phone to call my brother; surely he could fill in some of the blanks.
But before I could press the call button, something caught my eye at the top of the pile of documents my father had left on the desk: an invitation, on high-quality paper in white and dusky pink, embellished with an ornamental design that was rough to the touch.
Intrigued, I flipped open the card. My family went to these kinds of events every week, though it had been a while since I’d seen one of these.
Blake and Tobias Weston were invited, in embossed gold lettering, to a prize ceremony, something about services to New York City architecture.
Yawn. I was about to put it back on the pile when the name in the center of the card snagged my attention, and for a moment, as though I’d been punched in the gut, I forgot how to breathe.
There, in cursive lettering, were the words: This year, we pay special tribute to Patricia Coldwell for her services to the city.
Trish Coldwell, of all people—special tribute?
For inflicting yet another ugly monstrosity on New York City?
For paying off half the town, probably, so she could build the thing?
My rage returned in full swing now. Why weren’t my parents going to this event to put that woman in her place?
We were one of the oldest New York families, we owned the most important real estate in this city.
Not Trish Coldwell, with those ridiculous phallic symbols she put up left, right, and center.
Someone had to show her, I thought. Someone had to let her know she wasn’t untouchable.
Why not me?
I took the invitation and turned it over indecisively in my hands.
It was addressed to my parents, but surely it’d grant me admission, too.
Of course, Mom couldn’t get to hear about any of this, but nobody had seen me in years, so there was little chance anyone would recognize me and report back to her.
Especially as she wasn’t attending the ceremony herself, which was a clear message that she didn’t want anything to do with it.
There were unwritten rules in society, and one of them was never to broach a subject with a Weston that they clearly don’t want to talk about.
The invitation creased in my hand, but I didn’t loosen my grip.
Instead, I turned on the spot and, without another glance around the unfamiliar room, made my way back to my own.
There was bound to be a suitable dress in my closet that still fit.
I was going to put it on, go to Midtown, attend this award ceremony, and wait for the chance to spoil Trish Coldwell’s moment.
It seemed I’d been mistaken—my plan to avenge Valerie, and all the wrong done to her, wasn’t starting tomorrow.
It was starting right now.