Page 123 of Trailer Park Billionaire
I nod as a realization dawns on me. “Pat… do you know… Did Elaine say why?”
He just shrugs. “I didn’t ask. But it seems like you two are very important to her.”
I nod. “You still want help with asking her out?”
Pat looks at me as if to say‘Duh’.
“Cardamom-rosewater pistachio muffins. Make her some. For the next time you see her. Maybe forego the horse tranquilizer. And then ask her to have dinner with you after, as a treat.”
Patrick nods with a smile on his face.
“If she says no come to me and I’ll force her to go out with you.”
Then he laughs out loud, slides the door to the RV shut and turns back to the museum.
Ben stirs in the back, mumbling something again.
I walk over and sit beside him, brushing my fingers lightly over his forehead, checking the pulse I already know is there. It’s regular. Strong. He’ll be fine.
His eyes flutter open. Glazed. Unfocused. But they land on me.
And he smiles.
“Am I…” he croaks. “Am I dead?”
“No,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
His brow furrows. “But I see you.”
“You’re not dead, you idiot,” I reply as softly as I can muster. “Maybe once I’m done with you.”
“Are you dead?” he asks, still out of it.
I laugh, breath catching. “No. No one died.”
He sighs in relief, closing his eyes again. “Thank God. I thought I got to heaven and all there was to eat was disgusting muffins.”
I press my lips to his forehead. “You’re not in heaven. You’re in a stolen RV. With me.”
“Oh,” he mumbles, smiling faintly. “That’s much better than heaven.” Then he starts to drift again, and just before he slips under, his eyes open one more time. “I love you, Helena,” he whispers.
Then he’s out cold.
43
HELENA
Some people say life is like a blank canvas.
Those people are either rich or delusional… or my mother.
For the rest of us, life is more like a restoration project. A painstaking effort to mend what others broke. You start with cracked plaster and missing pigment, and you try to make sense of the outlines. You try to fill in the gaps with whatever you’ve got left.
No instructions. No matching colors. Just what’s left, and what could be.
The prison visitation room smells like bleach and bureaucratic failure. Ben sits beside me, holding a paper bag with muffins from the deli across the museum. He said if it works for Pat, it’ll work for him. But on a more platonic level. He was hoping it would make her laugh.
Right now, the muffins aren’t doing their job yet. The air just feels heavy and the two of us aren’t wearing any smiles. We’re just staring at the door like it might open and let a ghost walkthrough. And in a way, it does. Because when the guard opens the heavy door,shesteps in.
