Page 25 of Trailer Park Billionaire
I wipe away the tears that inevitably run down my face once the laughter morphs into a bittersweet chuckle. Somehow, this time, the tears feel a little less like a gut-wrenching blow to my stomach. They almost feel like a relief. Probably because I’m losing it. But also because this is one less thing I now have to worry about.
The bag with the ash is surprisingly light. He would have liked his urn. It’s even the brand of paint he preferred. And‘Whatever Remains’would make a great name for a color. I look around my apartment and eventually settle on placing him on a shelf near one of his paintings. I guess he’ll live here from now on. At least for the time being.
For the rest of the evening, I wonder what could have caused Mr. Lyon to do such a thing. Such an odd and peculiar thing. While wondering, I also stuff myself with more Condolences Casserole than should be humanly possible in an attempt to make up for not eating properly the past few days.
When I wake the next morning, my warm, cozy bed tries to coerce me into not getting up, even though it is already past 5 AM. My thoughts still linger on Mr. Lyon’s weird home delivery. For a few moments, I even indulge the idea of just staying in bed, but then decidedly reject that fantasy by throwing my blanket to the floor and yanking the windows open. Cold air sneaks up my bare legs and creeps all the way to my chest, making my nipples turn rock hard. A muted throbbing between my thighs joins the already annoying sensation and makes me question my sanity even more. This is no time to feel aroused—horny, even. I twist my nipples roughly, tug on them, and tell them to get a grip. We don’t have the time or energy for this. We need to follow the routine. That’s how we stay out of trouble. And out of jail.
So that’s what I do. I hop under a cold shower, throw on a pair of underwear (ones I didn’t soak through in my sleep), and head to the museum.
As always, I am the first one there—apart from whoever is on night shift. And as always, I get to work and don’t stop until the sun is once again setting behind the museum’s sky lounge. The offices empty out around the same time admission for the general public closes. After sitting in my chair for a solid thirteen hours straight, I decide to take a stroll through the museum before going home to get some rest. So as folks are heading towards the exit, I head towards my second sanctuary.
Over the course of the day, the knot in my stomach has returned, my thoughts circling around my grandpa, my dad, and even my mom. She died when I was three, so I don’t really remember her. My dad at least made it until I was thirteen.
From one of the upper levels, I look down over the atrium and, in a distant room, spot an installation of a single lightbulb blinking at irregular intervals.
My dad would have hated that. Would’ve called it‘pretentious garbage’while pronouncing the wordgarbageasFrench as possible.‘I could’ve done that in my garage with a faulty fuse,’I can hear him say and feel the knot in my stomach twist.
My footsteps echo against the polished floors as I move along. In another room, I pass by a Caravaggio. One of his darker works, all shadow and drama. Dada used to say life was like a Caravaggio painting: a fucking struggle.
I look at the painful expression on the person’s face whose head is currently being cut off.A violent struggle in this case.But my grandpa wasn’t just a pessimist either. He didn’t sugarcoat life, but he also never stopped looking for the light either. My gaze shifts to the woman holding the knife—her front illuminated by what must be the moon.
On a sigh, I keep walking, letting my feet guide me aimlessly, until they inevitably take me where I usually end up: Ophelia.
It’s beautiful, almost too beautiful for what it is. The water is soft, dappled with flowers, the greens and blues so rich, all of it looks like a dream. But then there’s her—floating, limp, lips parted as if she’s about to whisper something before the river takes her under. I wonder if my mom would have looked anything like her. If she felt like her.
Grief is a strange thing. I miss my dad and my grandpa, because I knew them. I loved them. But my mother? I don’t even know how to miss her. How do you miss someone—something—you’ve never even known? In a way it hurts even more.
The ache swells in my chest before I can stop it, and then tears fill my eyes as I turn a corner and stare right into the face of a life-sized Greek statue—naked, of course, because Ancient Greece was hella horny.
I wonder if I should send Mr. Lyon a thank-you card, as I inspect the chiseled features before me. Instead of my eyes, other things start getting wet again. By now I’m fairly certain that I am about to have my period with this array of emotionsthrowing me off balance all day long. I do get unreasonably aroused that time of the month.
The resemblance is almost unsettling—same height, same muscled frame, same… amount of veiny arms. Okay, maybe the resemblance isn’t that unsettling, but there must be a reason why I’m suddenly thinking about him again, and why it feels… the way it feels. Annoying. It feels annoying. And guilty. Like an emotion I’m not allowed to have at the moment.
I’m glaring at the statue like it personally offended me. “At least you know when to shut up,” I mutter and turn around, only to look into a pair of very real eyes standing right behind me.
I shriek, spy the police badge on the person’s chest, and have a mini heart attack, followed by the immediate urge to run away.
Looks like they finally caught up to me after all.
But instead of running, I just stand there.
The person in front of me drops the flashlight he was holding and clasps his hands against his chest. “Jesus, Helena. You spooked me.”
“Spooked you?” I look at Patrick O’Rollings—not part of the police force, but of our security staff. “I thought you were here to arrest me.”
Pat presses a hand over his heart, feigning devastation. “You thought I was here to arrest you? Helena, I am hurt. Have I ever once—once—given you the impression that I’d turn you in? That I’d do anything other than aid and abet your very questionable life choices?”
I narrow my eyes. “I try to stay away from questionable life choices these days.” My eyes automatically wander back to the statue.
He chuckles. “Oh, I know. That makes it so easy to promise you my unwavering support in every and all situations.”
I give him a tired sort-of-smile. It’s probably more of a blank stare.
“Anyway,” he continues. “You’ve been working late again. How do you feel about grabbing some dinner? You must be starving. My treat.”
“Oh,” I let out to buy me a moment to think.Is he asking me out? This isn’t the first time he’s asked to have dinner with me. But he’s old enough to be my dad.“Sorry, I should really head home. I’ve been up since five this morning and I need to be back in early tomorrow morning.”
“Right.” Pat nods his head. “Lots to do for the exhibit, I bet. Elaine also seems incredibly busy these days.”
