Page 159 of Misery
She responds hours later, probably at a gas station somewhere in the desert:
I will. I'm sorry. For everything.
Not your fault.
It is though.
No. You were a victim too.
Victims don't get other people hurt.
I don't know how to respond to that, because yes, she gave information.
But she was a woman manipulated by a trained operative.
Where does blame really lie?
With the lonely girl who talked too much or with the system that made her a target?
That night, Oskar and I lie in bed at the cottage.
The sounds of spring are different from winter—insects, birds, life returning.
The world is moving on like it always does, indifferent to human grief.
But all I can think about is Helle, driving through the dark toward Texas.
Toward a new life built on exile.
Probably listening to music too loud to drown out her thoughts, stopping at sketchy rest stops, eating vending machine dinner because she won't want to spend money on real food.
"Will she really not come back?" I ask.
"Maybe not. Sometimes leaving is the only way to survive something."
"But family?—"
"Family can be the thing that saves you or the thing you need saving from. Sometimes both at the same time."
I think about that.
About my father's cruel words to Helle.
The way he must have looked at her—I'veseenthat look, when he's disgusted by weakness.
About my mother trying to hold us all together while everything falls apart.
About the price we all pay for this life we didn't choose but can't escape.
"I'm angry at him. At my father."
"You should be."
"He drove her away. She made a mistake—not even really a mistake, she was deceived—and he drove her away."
"The guilt drove her away. He just made it unbearable to stay."
"Same thing."
