Page 30 of Whispers of Helena
With cautious movements, I changed the dressing on my side. The bandages felt too tight, but I left them as they were, tugging on a clean pair of jeans and a shirt. By the time I sat on the edge of the bed, sweat had gathered on my brow, and the exhaustion in my bones felt as though it had settled there permanently.
The past two days sit heavy in my mind: fevered dreams, the fleeting image of Caroline, and Helena’s quiet, unwaveringpresence. It had been too much. Too much of the past, too much of the present. The unease of two women, one a memory and one alive, walking uninvited through my thoughts, and it left me restless.
Memories of my wife had drifted through my mind all night. Visions and memories playing like a movie. Caroline and I met at church nearly a decade ago, not long after I’d taken over the ranch following my mother’s death. Sitting in that pew every Sunday felt like honoring my mother’s memory, and in those moments, I found a shred of comfort in Jesus. Then Caroline came to town, and I thought maybe He’d given me more than comfort; maybe He’d given me a future.
I still remember the way her brown waves swung as she sat in front of me one Sunday morning. Distracted by her smile and the way she tilted her head, I hardly listened to the preacher that day. I asked her to lunch that day, and a few months later, I asked her to marry me. Two years after that, Kiran was born. For two short years, I watched her as a mother, her joy as radiant as the sunrise. And then she was gone.
I stopped going to church after that.
But now, in the strange quiet of these past days, something stirred in me. Something I didn’t welcome but couldn’t ignore. Helena’s presence had been steadfast. She stayed through the fever, sitting at my side, sleepless and calm. One night, I woke briefly and thought I saw Caroline sitting there instead. My fevered mind painted a picture of her, head bowed over the Bible in her lap, her presence warm and familiar.
But it wasn’t Caroline. It was Helena, her dark braid trailing over her shoulder as she read by the faint light of the lamp. I shut my eyes quickly, unable to reconcile the two.
Her attentiveness was unfamiliar, uncomfortable against the settled grief in my heart. Yet it was there, a soft knock on a door I wasn’t ready to open.
I rub my hands over my face, letting out a slow, shuddering breath. My gaze fell to the chair by the bed. The one Helena had sat in for hours. It was empty now, save for the faint indentof her presence, but the sight of it clawed at something inside me.
It wasn’t supposed to be her.
Anger stirred, hot and unwelcome. My hands curled into fists on my knees, the pressure biting into my palms. It wasn’t supposed to beher. That chair should have stayed empty, or better yet, it should have been Caroline. The memory of her, her laughter, her touch, the way she’d sing to Kiran while hanging laundry remains burned in my chest like the wound on my side.
A profound, sickening feeling washed over me, unrelated to my physical wound. Helena had done nothing wrong. She’d cared for me in ways I hadn’t asked for but clearly needed. But her kindness, her persistence, it all felt like a betrayal.
I wasn’t ready for this.
The thought of moving on, of letting someone else into the void that Caroline left behind, felt like standing at the edge of a cliff and being told to jump. It made me want to throw something, to shout at the world for putting this in front of me when I hadn’t asked for it.
I shove myself to my feet, the sharp pain from my side a welcome distraction. My fists press against the wall as I lean forward, head bowed, trying to steady my breathing.
What kind of man lets himself be cared for by someone else, lets himself feel even a flicker of comfort, when his wife’s memory is still fresh in the ground? It had only been four years. Four years since the light had gone out of my life.
And yet, the image of Helena sitting by my bed, her head bent low, her hand resting on mine as I burned with fever, haunted me just as much as Caroline’s absence. That quiet care, that calm determination. It didn’t erase my grief, but it was a wedge, a tiny sliver of something that didn’t belong there.
I slam my hand against the wall, the dull thud doing nothing to release the knot in my chest. It felt wrong. All of it. Caroline deserved better than this. She deserved to be mourned properly, to have her memory carried like a torch, untainted by the shadow of another woman.
But then, why did Helena’s presence feel like something I didn’t know I needed?
I hated the question as soon as it formed. I hated that it lingered in the corners of my mind.
Because it didn’t only feel like forgetting Caroline, it felt like my carefully crafted walls were crumbling.
Storm
Silas
The men gatherat the table, their plates piled high with food, shoulders still damp from the storm. Rain and sweat mingle in the heavy air, mirroring the storm’s lingering presence indoors. An hour ago, the skies turned dark, and the downpour caught us unprepared in the pastures. We worked fast, securing the herd, but not fast enough to stay dry. Now, the dining room is filled with the sound of boots scuffing the floor, chairs scraping against wood, and the low murmur of voices chasing away the storm’s chill.
Eli moves through the room, swapping an empty coffee pot for a fresh one. Steam rises from it, curling lazily into the warm air. Helena hovers near the stove, her movements fluid as she replenishes the platters, making sure no one goes without. I sink into my chair, settling in. The wound I earned two weeks ago has mostly healed, but the downtime left me weaker than I’d like. Age feels like a slow betrayal, each year a reminder of how fragile these bodies are.
From my seat, I watch the others. The scrape of utensils against plates and the deep timbre of laughter fill the space, grounding me in the familiarity of it all. A plate is placed in front of me, drawing my attention. I glance up to see Helena standing there, her face calm.
“I could’ve fixed my own plate, Ms. Toth,” I say, my tone gruff but not unkind.
“You’re welcome, Silas,” she replies, leaving no room for argument. She turns back to the stove without another word.
I grunt in response, a wordless acknowledgment, and pick up my fork. As I take my first bite, I notice Eli watching me from across the table. His eyes gleam with amusement and his lips tug into a crooked, knowing smile.
I raise a brow at him in challenge, but he just shakes his head and turns back to his plate, the corners of his mouth still twitching. Whatever joke he’s keeping to himself, I let it stay there, buried under the rhythm of the storm outside and the quiet comfort of the room.
