10. Helena
Helena
For two weeks, nothing happened. On every front.
On the owl-bear front, neither hide nor hair (nor feather) was seen of the infamous Mount Folio owl-bear.
On the Bertram front, he remained true to his word from that first night.
He was not unkind to her, exactly. He was forthcoming with owl-bear updates—or lack thereof, as the case continued to be.
If she asked for coffee, he passed her the coffee.
Sometimes he even poured it for her. A few times, he even went so far as to offer her coffee, even before she asked!
But that was all.
Sometimes Helena stared at him with longing, slightly mournful glances, hoping to catch his eye, hoping to move his heart.
If he wouldn’t be friendly, she wished he would at least be furious with her.
She wished he would yell at her, scream at her, drive her off the project.
Then she would have some excuse to flee the situation.
Or if he wasn’t going to yell, he could have the decency to truly freeze her out, to completely ignore her.
She could tell Dr. J that she had tried her best, but Bertram’s cold exclusion was too much to handle and she simply could not deal with feeling so isolated.
But this?
This—this—politeness? This pleasantry?
This was excruciating.
Believing Bertram saw her as an enemy was one thing. At least there was passion between enemies. But Bertram was not treating her like an enemy—nor like a lover, nor like a best friend. Bertram was treating her like a colleague. Like an acquaintance.
Helena had never felt lonelier in her life than when Bertram gave her a perfectly neutral smile and asked if she would like coffee.
Did he not know how much her heart ached just being near him? Was he not affected at all?
She didn’t understand how someone could spend ten years deeply entwined in another Person’s life and then disappear as if they never mattered . . . and treat them like a perfect stranger with whom you just happened to be collaborating.
Even if she couldn’t make Bertram love her again, maybe she could make him hate her.
In her bleakest moments, Helena schemed dark and evil schemes of all the ways she could break Bertram.
The next time he offered her coffee with a polite but vacant smile, Helena would tell him that she faked every orgasm she ever had with him (lies), that he had the smallest penis of any of her exes (she didn’t keep track and didn’t care), that the reason she went off to medical school in the first place was to get away from his pathetic devotion to her (lies), that the five years she spent without his presence were the best five years of her life (more lies).
She was having horrible nightmares—ones where she and Bertram were best friends again.
Not even lovers, just best friends. It was devastating, because she spent those first few moments between sleep and waking confused and disoriented, briefly believing that she had her best friend back. Then reality would set in.
Every time she woke from a dream like that, it felt like losing him all over again.
It was after one such dream that her patience finally snapped, and she came to breakfast armed with all the nasty quips and zingers she’d been stockpiling.
Bertram made the mistake of offering her coffee with a polite nod.
“Coffee, Doctor de Narbon?” he asked, and she knew there was a hint of mockery in his use of her formal title.
So, she opened her mouth and fired back with an utterly devastating: “Yes, thank you, and would you pass the sugar?”
Bertram passed the sugar.
Helena put the sugar in her coffee.
They drank their coffee in silence.
Helena’s tent was less soundproof than a hospital broom closet, so when she retreated for her ten-minute sobbing break, she did the weeping into her pillow.
She knew the hateful pieces of her heart would never actually make it to the spoken word. Maybe one day she’d ask for sugar without saying “thank you” for the coffee first. To her credit, Helena hadn’t said “please” when requesting the sugar today, so that was a pretty devastating burn, maybe.
Bertram probably hadn’t even noticed.
She was beginning to doubt that Bertram ever had any passion for her at all.
She wondered how much of it she had imagined—had he ever loved her? Had he ever wanted her? Forget sexually—had he ever generally wanted her? Wanted her around? Wanted her friendship?
Had he simply spent time with her in high school because Dr. J begged him to? Did he fuck her in college because she was there and he knew she would?
But he had plenty of options, no doubt. He was rich and handsome and a count and kind—at least, he had been kind back then.
Surely he must have had some interest in Helena, to have sex with her.
It didn’t need to be that he was in love with her.
Did he at least have sex with her because he thought she was pretty?
Please dear God let him have been using her for her body.
Anything other than it being pity sex. Anything but him giving in because she had practically begged, because she had thrown herself at him.
Heartbreak was one thing, but embarrassment—
“Helena. Hel.”
Helena wondered how long Bertram had been standing there, trying to get her attention as she stared off into the forest. It must have been a decent amount of time, if he resorted to using his old nickname for her.
“Look what I found,” Bertram said.
Bertram held up a feather the size of Helena’s forearm and Helena couldn’t help but gasp.
What a feather it was! All soft tans and bright golds, gleaming as it caught the sun.
“Oh, Bertram,” Helena said, breathlessly, “it’s stunning. Where did you find it?”
“It was off the path, just up that trail there.” Bertram pointed off into the forest. “Less than two miles away from basecamp. I looked for tracks, for any other signs. Nothing. But at least I got this.”
“No, that’s—that’s incredible work,” Helena said. “Do you think . . . do you mind if . . . may I hold it?”
“Sure.”
Bertram handed her the feather, and his fingers brushed against hers. Helena pretended not to notice or care. She wondered if he was also pretending not to notice or care, or if he truly didn’t.
Helena examined the feather, particularly entranced by the gold shaft and the gold-lined edges and thick golden stripes running through it in perfect Vs.
The gold was not simply a “golden” color, the way that the feathers of a golden eagle were “gold” (though truly more brown) or a golden pheasant were “gold” (though they were more of a bright yellow-orange).
The feather of the owl-bear was truly gold.
As if it had been hammered from metal itself and simply painted with white and tan stripes.
“I can see why owl-bears striate on film,” Helena murmured, turning the feather in every direction. “Gosh. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
“Isn’t it wonderful? I’m going to take it to the lab so we can get a closer look at it. I’m sure Mom will be equally enthralled.”
“Or close to it,” Helena said. “Keep it somewhere super, super, extra safe.”
“I will. But Helena?” Bertram said.
“Yes?” said Helena, eagerly.
“You need to actually let go of the feather in order for me to do that.”
“Oh! Right!” Helena blushed and handed the feather back over to Bertram. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay,” Bertram said with a smile.
He smiled at her. He actually smiled at her.
And that would have been the best part of Helena’s day . . . if it hadn’t been for the owl-bear feather, which would eclipse a smile from the gods themselves.
Helena spent day after day searching for an owl-bear feather of her own. Or for zygodactyl footprints on the trail, or a glimpse of an owl-bear in the sky even from great distance, or talon-like claw marks in a tree, in case they performed some bear-like behaviors with their owl-like feet . . .
But Helena found nothing.
Day after day. Nothing.
She vaguely recalled now that this had always been her least favorite part of fieldwork. Over the years, she had missed it so much that it was only the fun, exciting, breathtaking moments that had stuck with her.
She had forgotten all the boredom and tedium that could creep in between sightings.
It was coming back to her now, with a vengeance.
“You just have to be patient,” Dr. J and Bertram said at the same time when Helena whined about it over breakfast.
Dr. J and Bertram exchanged knowing smiles, which Helena did not care for.
“Or go back to your human hospital,” Bertram suggested.
“Bertram,” Dr. J said, reproachfully.
It was only a few hours after Helena’s very unprofessional minor meltdown that Dr. J found owl-bear scat, which was significantly less glamorous than the feather, but more useful on a practical level.
They searched the area where the scat was found for any other signs of owl-bear activity but had no luck.
However, the scat was as revealing as they hoped.
“Now,” Dr. J said carefully, “we can’t be certain of baseline owl-bear hormone levels, but comparing levels to owls, bears, dragons, and manticores . . .”
Helena held her breath.
Dr. J smiled. “The levels of progesterone found in the owl-bear scat indicate that she may indeed be gravid.”
Helena let out a little scream of delight and excitement.
“Or pregnant,” Bertram added. “Either works.”
Helena wheeled around to correct this heinous misstatement, but when she caught sight of Bertram’s smirk, she realized he was deliberately provoking her.
Whether it was to get under her skin to be a true menace, or whether he was being playful, that was much harder to discern. Was he smiling at her expense, or was he smiling . . . at her?