Coming Attractions (17 page)

Cory approached from behind. Helen swung her chair around and rested her eyes on her. The real prize for surviving looked more comfortable and even more adorable in azure blue. She was her reason for living and for loving again. Cory had spent countless hours at the hospital, mothering, humoring, and showing a spark of jealousy over the attentive aide. Now, devoted to the care of Helen, she had canceled her tour until March.

She pulled up a chair and tossed Helen a Fanny Brice smile. The same smile that had flickered through Helen’s mind as the fuselage exploded in front of her. Helen’s eyes brimmed with tears and Cory held her as best she could.

Cory sobbed. “I thought I might lose you.”

Cool hair brushed against Helen’s cheek. She moved slowly against it. The scent of fresh shampoo blended with Giorgio’s Wings. A citrus garden, a tropical drink, Helen buried her toes into the warm sand.

“I couldn’t help but live.” Helen stole a deep breath. “Still want to be my girl?”

“Still.”

How still it must have been after the crash, after the explosions. So many lives lost. Helen cried in Cory’s arms. Deep, painful sobs wracked her body. Her head felt on the verge of its own explosion. “Don’t let go,” she said. “I feel safe in your arms.”

“You’re safe, but I think you should call Dr. Ingram. I didn’t like your look in the van.”

Helen pulled away. “You look good in that shade of blue,” she said, but Cory wouldn’t buy the flattery.

“I’m serious. I think this is important for you.”

“I’ll call her. I promise.”

*

Helen slept through most of the afternoon. A sound, peaceful sleep, a gift from whatever angel guarded her. Lemon or honeysuckle tickled at her nose. Warm breath against her forehead would alight and then be gone. She drifted back into sleep and awaited the angel’s return.

When she awakened, she was thankful that her place was on the right side of the bed. The farther away Cory was from the facial scar, the better. She traced the tender incision with her finger. From the tip of her chin to the back of her jaw—but she stopped there and thanked God she was alive.

“Hey,” Cory said, when she entered the bedroom. “How about a cup of tea?”

“Sounds good.”

Cory assisted Helen’s move from the bed and into the wheelchair. That was a cumbersome act which included Helen sitting up and entering the chair in the opposite way that she’d left it. There was time and she took advantage. Cory was a saint with her patience.

On the breakfast table, beside her cup of tea, was a manila envelope. In large letters, obviously Stacey’s handwriting, was Helen’s name.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Stacey gave that to me a few days after your accident. She asked me to take a look and decide if you should see the contents.” She looked at the envelope as though she still weighed the decision. “I’ve decided you would want to see the photos.”

Helen took the envelope and opened it. She reached inside and pulled out a stack of newspaper articles and photographs. Stacey had written a brief cover letter, and Helen read it out loud.

“‘Hey, Blondie. I hope you won’t regard the pictures as a malicious act on my part. I know the reporter in you, and she always wants the full story. Now you have it. I love you, Stacey.’”

Helen studied the newspaper photos of the plane wreckage. Split and mangled, the entire right side of the fuselage, several hundred yards from the plane’s eventual stop, was a blackened shell. Helen’s and Blair’s seats had been on the left side. That side, nearly crushed like a bug from impact, was circled by rescue vehicles and people.

Okay, that’s exactly what Helen had expected to see—carnage, in black and white. She didn’t remember the moment of impact, only what she saw in her dreams, and could now remove herself from the photos in spite of her injuries. What she felt was sadness for the seventy-three people who had died. After skimming the articles Stacey had included, she set the papers aside.

“All I know is I’m hurting and these pictures tell me why.”

“You missed some. There’s another envelope inside.”

She found the envelope and withdrew several 5x7 glossy and full-color photos. The first was a side shot of a blanketed and bandaged person. On the next was a full facial shot.

She looked at Cory. “This is me?”

“Stacey took the pictures one day when she was alone with you.”

Helen looked back at the bandaged face. “Holy shit.”

Purples and blues and reds. A red, ripened summer plum. It was the closest she could come to describing the small area of her face that remained visible. Only around the oxygen tube in her mouth, and the swell of her lips and eyes, was there evidence that she was a living human being, and not the carcass of a soul bound for a funeral pyre.

She looked back at the full-length photo. The sheet that covered her was higher, smoother on the right side, a reminder of the plaster molding beneath it that held her leg together.

In another photo, a heart monitor kept steady rhythm while piggybacked intravenous solutions dripped into long tubes connected to the backs of both hands. Another tube fed blood into her system, while a third led to a smaller bag labeled
Morphine
. Bound by plaster, tubes, and wires, hooked up to life-supporting machines that go beep-beep into the night, she appeared more like a science fiction creation than a woman.

She placed the pictures back into the envelope. “Welcome home, Helen,” she said to herself. “Makes me wonder how I survived.”

Cory nodded. “But you did, and many people are very happy.” She took Helen’s hand into her own.

“Did you go to the services for Blair?”

“She was buried at Ferncliff Cemetery, in Hartsdale. I attended with Stacey and Marty. Marty took it hard. She didn’t want to leave Blair in a can.”

Helen internalized her feelings of guilt. Had she been responsible for Blair’s death? She could only come up with a positive response. With that in her mind, she kept the moment light and responded.

“Ferncliff is where Judy Garland and Joan Crawford rest. Harold Arlen. To name a few celebrities. Blair would have loved the idea. She always liked a good ending.”

“I’m sure she’s still around,” Cory said. “She’s probably lurking about this apartment, trying to think up ways to piss me off.”

Helen smiled a little. “I’m out of energy already. Get me back into bed?”

“Sure, and I’ll stay right next to you this time.”

Chapter Twenty

Although she was tired at the end of an evening, mornings and afternoons were good for Helen. She wouldn’t allow Cory to take pity on her and proved quite capable of doing many tasks.

Those things included keeping a spotless aquarium and well-fed fish, motoring dirty dishes to the dishwasher, watering plants, and any other household chores that she reached from a sitting position. Two weeks went by and she convinced Sam that she was taking fewer pain meds and was well enough to do a weekly column.

The show’s group had carried on with their plans during her hospitalization. Stacey had acted as producer-at-large. There was little remaining for Helen to organize, and with plenty of time on her hands, she felt a need to become involved again. Everyone would have a swell time and she’d simply be a hostess. A Suzy Homemaker of the vaudeville kind. No, she couldn’t let her role be that miniscule. If she was about to fling herself from the closet, she’d make sure she was their equal, if only for that night. But how? What could she do?

She looked toward the music room and then tapped the cast on her arm. For bathing purposes, the cast was removable. She’d found her answer.

Cory, it turned out, was a creature of habit. She was wired, restless, and baby-sitting was not her forte. Helen sensed her need to perform and that need played along perfectly with her intentions, which included a surprise for Cory.

Cory finished shaving Helen’s single hairy leg, rinsed it with warm water, and smoothed cream over the fresh flesh. She topped it off with a kiss to Helen’s big toe.

“Thanks, baby,” Helen said.

“I enjoyed that. I’ll do both someday.” She tapped on the cast.

Helen shuddered. “It’s frightening to think what we’ll find under that one.”

Helen took the shaving paraphernalia back to the bathroom and then parked her ride beside Cory. “Do you think we need time away from each other?”

Cory looked away from a book and to Helen. She closed the paperback. “Are you getting tired of me?”

“No. I just think there’s no reason for you to coop yourself up every minute for me. I can get around pretty well.”

“I would like to get some running in, maybe visit my manager.” After a quick thought, she showed more excitement. “Vladimir Ashkenazy is in town this week. I’d love to see him perform and say hello. Are you sure you’re okay if I leave you alone for a while?”

“Yeah. Maybe Stacey or Marty will drop in. Maybe Yoko.” She smiled. “No, really. Enjoy yourself.”

Cory agreed.

*

Although Helen felt guilty for her harmless scheme, several hours each week were filled with nine feet of grand piano, and Marty who usually arrived right after Cory left. When Cory returned from an outing, she talked amicably with Marty, but there was a small cloud of coolness that alerted Helen to a problem.

“I’m tired,” Cory once said when Helen asked if something was wrong. “We don’t have much in common,” was her most interesting response.

“You’re both artists, entertainers, known to practically all nine planets, and you think you have nothing in common?”

Helen shrugged off Cory’s attitude and attributed it to winter doldrums.

Three weeks later, Marty finished reading aloud the latest chapter of a lesbian novel, while Helen practiced the left hand to Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” She’d chosen the piece for the memory of Cory in the Jacuzzi, and also because of its simplicity on the lower register of the piano.

“Why do I have to read this mushy stuff to you?” She flung the book toward Helen. “It’s about a green woman.”

“She’s a witch who’s in love with a mortal, and Cory thinks I’m reading when she’s out. You read, I listen, and I learn the sonata at the same time. I tell Cory about the book, and everybody is happy.”

Marty collapsed to the floor and stretched her leg muscles. “Not me. That romantic stuff makes me ill. Give me horror. Bite my neck and send me screaming into the night.” She expressed amusement when Helen stopped her practice and grinned. “I haven’t seen a smile like that since Carter was president.”

“There was a time when I would have bitten your neck.”

“Well, sweetheart.” Marty stopped exercising and shuffled up to her. “Let’s get you into bed.” She fooled with the brake on the wheelchair, a playful attempt to grant the wish of yesteryear.

She slapped at Marty’s hand and laughed, then held her aching belly. “Was. I said was.”

“All right, but if you and Chambermaid ever split—”

“I’ll be sure to let you know.” Helen returned to the music, while Marty continued stretching. “Listen,” she said. With both hands, she played. To her ear, it was slow but promising. She played to the thirty-eighth measure and stopped. “What do you think?”

“It sounds nice.” Marty grabbed the coat she’d flung over a chair. “I have to go.” She kissed Helen’s cheek and headed to the front door. “You’re looking much better every time I see you, and life with Cory seems to agree with you. Bye-bye.”

Helen nodded and practiced an appropriate fingering for what could be a sloppy run up a series of keys. On her third attempt, she stopped and wheeled back into the living room.

“Hey,” Cory said when she entered the apartment and closed the door quietly. She pushed off her running shoes.

“Hi, you. You’re covered in snow.”

“It’s crazy out there. Traffic’s at a crawl and my exercise turned into a power walk.”

Her wintery cheeks tugged at Helen’s need to feel fresh air swirl in her lungs. She was still bound to the chair, so asking for an hour in the snow was out of the question. Helen glanced out the window. She’d wait for better weather.

Cory reached for her jacket zipper. “The storm should end around—”

“Will you take me to the park?” Helen blurted and wheeled to her side. “Let’s build a snowman. We’ll catch snowflakes on our tongues.” She might have sounded like she’d taken too many meds. The idea was crazy and Cory hadn’t responded with the least bit of interest. “Never mind. I’ll wait.”

“I’ll take you. The park roads are reasonably clear,” Cory said without much enthusiasm, and rummaged through the closet. “I can at least get you over to Strawberry Fields. Give me a minute to find some warm woolies for you.”

There was something on Cory’s mind, of that Helen was certain, but she didn’t let it burst her bubble of freedom that she was about to experience.

“Thanks, baby. This means a lot to me.”

*

Bundled and cozy in a coat, hat, blankets, and mittens, and well beyond Ono’s mosaic “Imagine” tribute to John Lennon, Helen sat within Central Park. The setting was a winter wonderland. Heavy snow settled quickly and turned her lap and leg into porcelain art. She didn’t care that January’s winds stung her cheeks and frosted her breath, but intermittent seconds of the snowy night of the plane crash smashed at her brain. The cries of a baby, the groans of adults. Blair.

“Are you all right?” Cory asked.

“Yes. Just…thinking about that night.” And the fire. Smoke that choked her. She held back her tears. “I often wonder why I’m alive.”

Cory crouched beside her. “Because you’re strong and because you were very fortunate.” She slipped her hand beneath the blanket and held Helen’s hand. “Have you talked with the psychiatrist?”

“Not yet. I’ll call her soon.”

“Would you rather leave? Go back to the Dakota?”

“No.” She smiled. “Let’s finish the snowman.”

Cory rolled another ball of snow. Helen took deep breaths and geared her mind back to the beauty, the fun, and of the lives and land that surrounded her.

She poked stones into the snowman to form his jacket. Then she changed her mind. “I want a snow woman,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone, and scooped up enough snow from her lap to form the beginning of breasts.