Page 80 of Trailer Park Billionaire
Slowly, I pick it up, and look at a page filled with pictures—her grandpa, I assume. I close the album, sit down next to Helena, wrap an arm around her shoulders, and pull her close.
“I knew we should’ve called in an exorcist before moving you in here. I hate when the ghosts start chucking things around for attention.”
Helena huffs through her nose and wipes a tear away. “That’s a job for the Ghostbusters. Not an exorcist,” she mutters weakly.
I nod. “You think Madame Clair offers busting services? We could give her a call.”
“You’re naked,” she sniffles in response.
I laugh. “Well, I am wearing pants. But hey—if you need me to take them off to distract the ghosts…”
Helena sobs and (I’m about fifty percent sure) laughs at the same time. “My grandpa just died,” she says.
Shit.
I guess her grieving had to take the backseat for a while with everything that has been going on.
“Which makes this… not the best time to joke about flashing ghosts.” I take my arm off and turn toward her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be an insensitive ass.”
“You’re not the asshole.” She shakes her head. “I am. My Dada died and I—” Her voice breaks and my heart right along with it. “I feel like I should be drowning in grief. I should be sobbing, unable to get out of bed. Instead, I’m… having fun at flea markets and eating the best pancakes I’ve ever had, and—” Another sob cuts her off.
Fuck.
Am I the cause for this?
“But I’m not grieving. I’m barely thinking about it, about him. I’m too busy with everything else that’s just… happening. And I’m feeling really fucking shitty about it.”
I exhale slowly, brush away the stream of tears on her cheeks. I don’t try to fix it.
Don’t say she’s strong. Don’t offer platitudes. Instead, I just sit there, trying to offer comfort. Until, finally, she leans into me, her head finding the crook of my neck. I reach around her again and pull her close.
After a long moment, she wipes away more tears, then takes the album and opens it up. Her fingers trace a worn photograph of a man with a grumpy face and a little girl perched on his shoulders.
“That’s him?” I ask softly.
“He used to take me to the pond every Sunday. He’d bring peas and sunflower seeds, and he’d tell me, very seriously, that I was feeding the most important members of our community.”
I nod solemnly. “The ducks.”
“The ducks,” she confirms with a watery smile. “We’d draw them while they had their breakfast. I think he thought thatdrawing ducks would hold my attention more than just pretty water lilies.”
She flips the page to a photo of her dad. Helena takes after him—just without the mustache or the beer belly. He’s carrying her on his back, like a pony. She’s laughing manically.
“My dad wasn’t great at baking. Or cooking. Or adulting, for that matter. But every year, on my birthday, he’d insist on making me a cake from scratch. They were usually too sweet, sometimes a little burned.”
I squint at the next photograph. “Is that why there are firemen in the background?”
She chuckles. “He almost burned the apartment down. It smelled like scorched cake for weeks.” Helena has calmed a bit by now, though the pain still lingers behind her eyes.
When she turns to a photo of a young woman, her voice softens. “I don’t really remember my mom. She died when I was still too young. My dad never spoke of her. Too painful, I think.” She sighs. “My Dada only had nice things to say about her though. Said she was quite the ray of sunshine.”
“So you have your dad’s eyes, and your mom’s nature.”
Helena gives me her best side-eye. “I am entirely my dad.”
I shake my head. “You can try to deny it all you want, but I’ve heard you talk about your magic powers. And you can try to hide those too, but I’m afraid this,” I point to her mom’s warm smile, “is one of them. You look very much like her here.”
Another tear slips down Helena’s cheek. I use her blanket to dry it off. With her head nestled into the nook of my neck, she tells me more stories. Some silly, some shocking, all of them raw and revealing.
