grown up clean and pure? she wondered. How dare they? This bewildering resentment made her prone to lash out at everyone around her. She did not want to be like this, but she could not figure out any other way to be.
And it had been a bad couple of weeks. Helen didn’t regret the incident at the debutante ball. Jarvis Bick deserved to be kneed in a certain trouser seam, particularly when he told her no one would marry her after he walked in on her kissing Myra Tompkins in the coat closet — just when the getting had started getting good. (Myra had the sweetest mouth. Like fresh cherries.)
Helen had never wanted to be married in the first place, but how dare he say such a thing. It was his fault she was being shipped west to be dangled like a piece of chocolate in front of icky old Ethan. Let’s just say there was a reason she’d intended to be blind drunk and irredeemably late for her train. She’d wait in the Kissing Room beneath the Biltmore Hotel in Grand Central Terminal until the last possible moment and see what happened.
“I’d rather be dead than doing this,” she muttered. She glanced up. Someone who looked exactly like her, right down to the polka-dot travel suit, looking altogether too pleased to see her. Helen took a drink from a pewter flask she kept in her pocketbook. She squinted and tried to fix whatever was wrong with her eyes.
Her second self didn’t scram like a good little hallucination. Instead, she sat next to Helen, removed her gloves, and held Helen’s hand. Something flowed out of her. Something heavy and awful she was glad to be rid of.
“Follow me,” the Other Helen said.
Helen was delighted to. It felt good, what had just happened. What had been troubling her before? She could not remember. They walked beneath Grand Central’s soaring turquoise ceiling with its strange backward constellations. A lone helium balloon pressed against the stars. The women approached the track, and the rumble of the approaching train shook the ground beneath their feet. It pushed a gust of cool wind toward them, stirring their hair, lifting their hems. Helen put a hand on her forehead and stumbled. Other Helen wrapped an arm around Helen’s waist.
“This,” Helen said. “I don’t … what?” It was all so confusing.
They stood at the edge of the track. The wheels of the oncoming train squealed in the distance. The woman turned to face her. It was strange, seeing herself in someone else like this. But it was also wonderful, almost as if she might finally be understood. She extended her hand to touch her reflection. They stood, palm to palm. Helen’s knees buckled and the woman, her eyes white, held her gaze. Helen felt her life drain away; she saw scenes from her own past travel through the eyes of this strange other.
And then she stood on the platform in numb confusion as a woman who looked like someone she ought to know boarded the train.
The girl — what was her name? — could not remember what she was doing there. Where she had meant to be going. She remembered nothing of her future plans, but also none of her past sorrows. Not even the look of her own face.
People came for her, people who put her in a white room in a quiet hospital with barred windows. They whispered that someone so finely dressed would have family searching for her. But for the longest time, no one came for this girl. Not until it was far too late.
W HEN the train pulled into the King Street Station five days later, screaming and billowing steam, Death could barely contain herself. She could have traveled back to Seattle instantaneously, but she did not wish to face Love so full of souls from the Hindenburg , or so charged with what she’d consumed of Helen’s life. She rode west on the train as a human would, drinking tea and eating stale sandwiches, looking at a crowd of souls through their flesh cases, pretending they held no appeal, making conversation whenever she was called to.
Her self-control was not
And it had been a bad couple of weeks. Helen didn’t regret the incident at the debutante ball. Jarvis Bick deserved to be kneed in a certain trouser seam, particularly when he told her no one would marry her after he walked in on her kissing Myra Tompkins in the coat closet — just when the getting had started getting good. (Myra had the sweetest mouth. Like fresh cherries.)
Helen had never wanted to be married in the first place, but how dare he say such a thing. It was his fault she was being shipped west to be dangled like a piece of chocolate in front of icky old Ethan. Let’s just say there was a reason she’d intended to be blind drunk and irredeemably late for her train. She’d wait in the Kissing Room beneath the Biltmore Hotel in Grand Central Terminal until the last possible moment and see what happened.
“I’d rather be dead than doing this,” she muttered. She glanced up. Someone who looked exactly like her, right down to the polka-dot travel suit, looking altogether too pleased to see her. Helen took a drink from a pewter flask she kept in her pocketbook. She squinted and tried to fix whatever was wrong with her eyes.
Her second self didn’t scram like a good little hallucination. Instead, she sat next to Helen, removed her gloves, and held Helen’s hand. Something flowed out of her. Something heavy and awful she was glad to be rid of.
“Follow me,” the Other Helen said.
Helen was delighted to. It felt good, what had just happened. What had been troubling her before? She could not remember. They walked beneath Grand Central’s soaring turquoise ceiling with its strange backward constellations. A lone helium balloon pressed against the stars. The women approached the track, and the rumble of the approaching train shook the ground beneath their feet. It pushed a gust of cool wind toward them, stirring their hair, lifting their hems. Helen put a hand on her forehead and stumbled. Other Helen wrapped an arm around Helen’s waist.
“This,” Helen said. “I don’t … what?” It was all so confusing.
They stood at the edge of the track. The wheels of the oncoming train squealed in the distance. The woman turned to face her. It was strange, seeing herself in someone else like this. But it was also wonderful, almost as if she might finally be understood. She extended her hand to touch her reflection. They stood, palm to palm. Helen’s knees buckled and the woman, her eyes white, held her gaze. Helen felt her life drain away; she saw scenes from her own past travel through the eyes of this strange other.
And then she stood on the platform in numb confusion as a woman who looked like someone she ought to know boarded the train.
The girl — what was her name? — could not remember what she was doing there. Where she had meant to be going. She remembered nothing of her future plans, but also none of her past sorrows. Not even the look of her own face.
People came for her, people who put her in a white room in a quiet hospital with barred windows. They whispered that someone so finely dressed would have family searching for her. But for the longest time, no one came for this girl. Not until it was far too late.
W HEN the train pulled into the King Street Station five days later, screaming and billowing steam, Death could barely contain herself. She could have traveled back to Seattle instantaneously, but she did not wish to face Love so full of souls from the Hindenburg , or so charged with what she’d consumed of Helen’s life. She rode west on the train as a human would, drinking tea and eating stale sandwiches, looking at a crowd of souls through their flesh cases, pretending they held no appeal, making conversation whenever she was called to.
Her self-control was not
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