For the past year I’ve been working on a collection of short stories that are all in some way connected to or associated with New York City. The stories are fiction; however, many have been inspired by true events (or events that I imagine could be true). I plan on releasing all of them as an anthology, but until then, I will publish them one-by-one on my website. If you like what you read, please share the link with friends or on social media, and if you haven’t already, please subscribe!
Without further ado, I give you Helen.
Accident Up Ahead. New Estimated Arrival Time: LaGuardia Airport: 8:54 pm.
Shit, Raymond thought to himself. He stared out at the sea of taillights glittering in front of him. An ornery river of red. If it hadn’t been for Bachinsky’s last minute memo he would’ve been at the airport already. Now he was going to be late. The price of being a partner…
He turned on the radio and recognized the familiar buzz of the Yankee game. It was the bottom of the eighth, and the Yankees were down, but they had runners on the corners and their slugger up at the plate. Maybe they’d pull this one out. They sure could use a win.
The traffic inched lazily across the Triborough Bridge, and in the distance, Raymond could see the outline of two cars wedged together against the guardrail. The accident looked fresh.
A couple of lanes were shut down, and the police and fire departments were already at the scene doing whatever they could to help clean up the mess. An officer beckoned along the rubberneckers with a whistle and a firm wave of his hand.
As soon as he passed the accident Raymond tried to make up lost time. He accelerated along the eight-lane bridge, swerving between taxis and mini vans, before exiting right and veering onto I-278 W towards the airport. On the Grand Central Parkway, a Dodge Charger with a blue under-glow zipped up behind him and flashed its high beams. Raymond glanced in the rearview and eased his foot off the gas. The Charger swung into the lane next to him and the driver gave him the finger before speeding away.
Yankees hit into a double play. Inning over. A commercial for life insurance came on the air. Raymond turned down the volume and for a few moments rode along in silence, but without the backdrop of staticky color commentary to anchor his thoughts, his mind slowly began to drift, and suddenly a blurry memory of his sister entered the foreground of his consciousness.
Helen had called him last week in the middle of the night, distraught and hysterical, wailing about the smell of her linens. “His scent is enmeshed in the fabric,” she sobbed, referring to an ex-boyfriend who moved out of her condo over three months ago. Helen went on explaining that after her dryer sheets and vanilla-scented detergent failed to remove the odor, that she was left with no other choice but to spritz the bedding with lighter fluid and burn everything out on the front lawn. The neighbors called the fire department. The police showed up too.
That following morning, Raymond phoned his sister and begrudgingly invited her to stay with him for a couple weeks at his apartment in New York. It seemed like she desperately needed help; he wouldn’t have called otherwise. The last time the two of them had had seen each other was nearly twenty years ago back in their hometown of Evansville, Indiana. It was the day of their mother’s funeral. Helen was supposed to have made the eulogy, but she got so stinking drunk before the service that she had to be escorted out of the cemetery by a couple of their cousins.
Raymond eventually forgave her for the episode — it had been a difficult day for both of them — but his soul still swelled with resentment towards his older sister. Helen was a troubled woman and often blamed her dissatisfaction and failures on her upbringing. Raymond understood; they came from a broken home, but he managed to handle the disorder with more levelheadedness and grace.
His sister took a different approach.
When Helen turned eighteen, she packed a duffle bag and moved to Costa Rica to work on a pineapple farm. She rarely emailed or called, and the sporadic communication made their mother sick with worry. Then a year later, out of the blue, a letter appeared in their mailbox. It was postmarked from Bolivia and detailed how Helen had found the love of her life and would be getting married later that month. But the whole thing turned out to be a farce, and would be the first of the many ploys to swindle money away from their mother.
Raymond glanced into the rearview mirror and frowned at the sad reflection staring back at him. Unlike his sister, he had followed a more traditional path, dreaming of a stable home, a family, maybe a pool. After high school he spent two years at community college, followed by two years at a reputable state university on a full scholarship. He graduated with honors and decided to pursue his dream of becoming a lawyer. He moved to New York City, enrolled in law school, passed the bar, and began what would be a formidable career as a corporate tax attorney, making partner at the age of forty-four — one of the youngest in the firm’s history.
But his work had taken a toll on him, and his face had borne the brunt of it. His thinning hairline barely reached halfway down his skull, and the deep wrinkles etched into his forehead looked like they’d been applied with a chisel. The skin around his eyes sagged. And so did his jowls. Even his nose hair was going gray, or at least the one currently peeking out from his nostril. The car swerved gently into the other lane as he attempted to extract the offending follicle with his thumb and forefinger.
A honk shook him from his stupor and he straightened out the car. Raymond checked the clock. It was nearly nine. His sister’s flight had landed over an hour ago. He shook his head as he considered where she might be — most likely an airport lounge, sipping a wine spritzer, making eyes at the pilots. The thought made him cringe. He considered calling her to tell her to wait outside but decided to just focus on the road instead.
A few minutes later, he flicked on his blinker and veered onto the exit ramp heading toward LaGuardia, with the big green sign that indicated domestic arrivals up just ahead. Raymond followed the arrows and drove around in a wide, looping semi-circle. He parked his dark blue BMW snuggly between a couple of taxi cabs and looked around.
He didn’t see Helen. He checked his phone; there were no calls or messages. Why wasn’t he surprised? Raymond killed the engine and stepped out of the car. His lower half throbbed. Damn back. Whoever heard of a lumbar compression at his age? He bent forward, shifted side-to-side, and stretched his legs — just as his physical therapist had instructed…
“Ray!” someone shouted.
He picked his head up and saw Helen running towards him, jacket draped over her arm and beat-up suitcase in tow. Before he could respond, she lunged at him, grabbing him tight around his fleshy middle.
“Hey, bro,” she said giving him an extra squeeze. She took a step back and scanned him up and down. “Love this shirt,” she said, picking at the fabric around his shoulder. “So stylish.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Raymond answered coolly, “but it stretches where it needs to.”
Helen laughed loudly and the rich sound echoed even amidst all the calamity around them. Then she glanced up at him and her eyes turned misty. “You look great, Ray,” she said with a sniffle. “You really do. And I’m so freaking relieved to be back on solid ground. Whew! I hate flying!”
Maybe the shadows cast her in a generous light, but Raymond thought his sister, despite the habitual cigarette smoking and fondness for Moscato wine, had aged with surprising grace. Her hair was grey, but it sat thickly on her head, a crown of cute silvery ringlets. She hugged him again. Her arms felt sinewy and strong. So taken aback by his sister’s healthful appearance, Raymond barely noticed the tall, slender woman standing behind her.
“Oh, before I forget,” Helen motioned to the woman, “this is my new friend — Tile!”
Tile stood an inch or two above Raymond. Her brown hair was tied neatly in a bun behind her long, oval head. She wore a blouse of flowy black lace, black stockings, and a pair of black leather boots. Her eyes, a misty blue, seemed both distant and dangerous.
“Nice to meet you, Ray.” She extended a hand. It was missing half a finger.
“Yes, nice to meet you, Tile,” Raymond said as nonchalantly as he could manage. “How do you two know each other?”
Helen wedged herself in between them. “Tile sat next to me on the flight! Can you believe it? And we had the most illuminating discussions. It all felt like, well, that this was all meant to be.”
Raymond glanced at tile, but she avoided his gaze. He didn’t understand what was going on and feared his sister was as unstable as ever. He opened the trunk and helped Helen hoist her bag inside. Tile stepped up next and rolled her suitcase over to him. Raymond didn’t move.
Helen gave him a hug from behind and whispered into his ear. “I told Tile we would give her
a ride downtown. She looked up your address and she said it wasn’t too far out of the way…”
Raymond gave his sister an uneasy look, but she failed to notice. “You’d be doing her such a favor,” she cooed. “One good deed goes a long way in terms of karmic energy.”
Raymond sighed and readjusted his glasses. He turned his attention towards the mysterious woman. “Where are you headed, Tile?” he inquired.
“Anywhere south of 14th street would be marvelous,” she said, handing over her suitcase.
He took it begrudgingly and fit into the trunk.
“Thanks, Ray. You know how pricey cabs can be at this hour...” The tone of her voice lacked any sincerity. But Helen looked thrilled. She clapped her hands together gleefully and gave her brother a peck on the cheek. Then she hopped into the front seat and closed the door. Tile got in the back. Raymond could only shrug.
A few minutes later and they were back on the road. Raymond merged onto the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, narrowly avoiding a graffitied tow truck that had drifted into his lane. At this hour, the commuter traffic had finally thinned and the ride back into Manhattan was as smooth as one could hope. Then he remembered the ball game.
He flipped the radio back on a burst of static filled the car. It was the bottom of the ninth. Yankees had runners on the corners and no outs. Inside! Full count! The announcer was giddy with every pitch.
“Ray?” Tile murmured from the back seat. “Do you mind turning the radio down; my head is throbbing. Must be from the change in altitude.”
"Oh, yes,” Helen chimed in. “The static is quite harsh on the senses.”
Raymond frowned and adjusted the knob without saying a word.
For the remainder of the drive, Helen and Tile babbled on about the magic of New York, stringing together words like zestful, ebullient, thrilling, variegated. As they crossed the Queensboro Bridge, Helen gawked at the glittery city skyline and marveled at the number of cars on the road. “All that smog must be so terrible for your lungs,” she said.
“Oh, Helen,” Tile laughed, “the smog is nothing compared to the ultraviolet radiation ricocheting off all that glass and steel. That's why I always spread a thick layer of coconut oil over my face and extremities whenever I step outside on a sunny day.”
Raymond kept quiet and focused his attention on the cars in front of him.
Helen turned to her brother. “Ray, I know it’s late, but I’m famished. Can we stop to get a bite to eat somewhere?”
Before Raymond could reply, Tile butt in. “I know a great noodle spot downtown. It’s right by my place. Helen, you will adore it. The same Vietnamese family has been operating it for over thirty years. Do you like mock duck?”
“I can’t say I’ve ever tried it.”
“It’s the best in all the five boroughs…Life altering. We must go.”
Helen twisted around in her seat so she was looking back at Tile. “That sounds perfect! My life could certainly use some changing.” She turned to her brother. “Ray, you up for noodles?”
The temptation to chastise his sister was strong, but he managed to choke it down. “Isn’t it a little late for dinner?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“But we’re hungry,” Helen whined.
“Maybe we can just stop at the deli next to my building and pick up a sandwich before we head off to bed?”
Tile interjected again. “Oh, come on Ray. Let’s give your sister a genuine New York experience her first night here.”
“Please!” Helen begged.
Raymond inhaled deeply. He passed his phone over to his sister. “Put the restaurant into the GPS.”
She clapped excitedly. “What an adventure this night is turning out to be!”
Raymond feigned a smile. He glanced back into the rearview and saw Tile’s cool eyes staring back at him, an icy expression tattooed across her face…
The Big Noodle House turned out to be incredibly small, with the pungent smell of fish sauce and onions wafting through the poorly ventilated dining room. But Raymond couldn’t deny that the food tasted fantastic. He squeezed extra lime over his vermicelli noodles, and blasted his wok-fried pork with generous squirts of hoisin and sriracha. Helen seemed to be enjoying herself as well. Tile took a swig of her second beer.
“Do you smoke pot, Ray?” Tile asked.
Tile's casual tone and aloofness were starting to grate on him. “I’m a lawyer, Tile.”
“What’s that got to do with it silly,” Helen giggled, slapping his arm.
“I haven’t smoked in ten years, and I’m not going to start tonight. I could be disbarred.”
“Your loss,” Tile said as she placed her empty beer bottle on the table.
The check came. Raymond paid. The three of them stood up and Helen and Tile exchanged hugs.
“Do you two want to have a night cap at my apartment? It’s really the least I can do to repay you for the ride…and for the dinner. You've been so very accommodating, Ray.”
Before Raymond could decline the offer, Helen bounced up and down. “Oh my goodness! We’d love too! Such a New Yorker thing to do!” She turned to Raymond and clutched his forearm. “Is that okay, Ray? We won’t be more than a half hour, I promise.”
He took out his phone. It was close to midnight. “Helen, I’ve got work in the morning.”
But Helen and Tile wouldn’t take no for an answer, and after a couple more minutes of pleading, Raymond regretfully gave in.
They all piled back into the car and crept through the still buzzy maze of streets that made up the Lower East Side. Raymond found a parking spot just down the block from Tile’s apartment. The three of them got out of the car, and Tile led the trio down the street, until they were staring up at a poorly maintained pre-war walkup. A drunkard laid stretched out on the bottom step of her stoop, an empty bottle of Olde English standing by his head. Helen couldn’t hide her excitement as they all stepped over him.
By the time the three of them reached the fifth-floor apartment, Raymond had his hands on his knees and was thoroughly out of breath from dragging Tile’s suitcase up all those steps.
Tile had already unlocked the door and went in.
“Sorry for the mess,” she said, flicking on the nearest lamp, which cast the tiny apartment in a sickly amber glow. “I had to leave in a hurry. Grab a seat at the table. Oh, and feel free to keep your shoes on; there may be a bit of glass on the floor.”
Raymond stepped inside and was immediately accosted by the sour perfume of barnyard, sandal wood, and rotting plants. Helen didn’t seem to mind it, though. She ran into the apartment as if it was her own. He stayed put.
“Mr. Ray, can I pour you a cognac?” Tile shouted from the kitchenette.
“No, nothing for me, thanks,” he mumbled. He wasn't in the mood for a drink. His attention had been seized by the smell and general disarray of the place. Smack dab in middle of the studio apartment stood a small circular table, surrounded by a few chairs, and shrouded in a black tablecloth. In the center looked to be a human skull, with a long, tapered candle planted atop the upper part of the cranium. Sitting next to the skull were a small bronze-plated bell and a thin, unsheathed dagger.
Immediately a chill tip-toed along the back of his neck. It only took a minute to realize he had stepped into a house of horrors. On the shelves floating around him sat a freakish collection of bones, skeletons, and other mummified body parts. He saw a bat, dry and brittle, tacked to the wall just above the dresser. Pushed against the adjacent corner stood a narrow glass cabinet filled with all sorts of terrifying oddities: a shrunken head, a sinister collection of antique restraints, and a hazy glass bottle labeled only: PRIVATES.
Tile stepped out with two snifters of brandy. She handed one to Helen. They clinked glasses and knocked the drinks back in one simultaneous gulp. Helen handed the glass back to Tile who brought them both into the kitchen and dropped them loudly into the sink.
“Pardon me for a moment,” Tile said. “I have to use the restroom.”
Raymond remained standing in the doorway, while Tile disappeared into the bathroom. His sister glanced at him over her shoulder as she made her way towards the table. She plopped down in an exasperated huff, before motioning Raymond over with a twist of her hand.
He shook his head.
"Oh, come on, Ray. How about you lower the drawbridge and just relax for a little?"
"I'm not the least bit relaxed," he spat back. "I want to get out of here -- now. It's late and I'm exhausted."
Helen reacted as if he had just flicked her on the tip of her nose. She shoved the palms of her hands into her eye sockets and whispered something inaudible under her breath.
"Please," she whispered. Her lips parted as if she had more to say, but she quickly closed them. After another few seconds of eerie quiet, she spoke again: “I want to talk about mom,” she murmured.
Raymond straightened up and instinctively shook his head in disbelief. “What? Why? What is there to say?”
“I…” she sputtered. “I think it’s time.”
“Stop it, Helen,” he hissed. “It’s been twenty years. I will not stand here and let you use tonight as an opportunity to get drunk and reminisce about our past.”
“I’m not drunk, Ray” she replied, her diction slightly slurred. “God, you always think I’m such a fool…such a fucking fool.”
He shook his head. “I don’t care whether you’re drunk or on drugs or have simply lost your mind. But I’m certainly not doing this now, and I’m certainly not doing this here.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not appropriate! We’re in a stranger’s apartment and we haven’t seen each other for two decades.”
Helen worked to keep her composure. “Tile is not a stranger.”
Raymond could only shake his head. “This is not healthy,” he muttered, “not for me, not for you. This whole thing was a big mistake.”
“Don’t say that, Ray.” She looked up at him with the expression of a scared teenager rather than a middle-aged spinster. “I need closure,” she murmured. “I can’t move forward without it.”
The toilet flushed. Tile emerged from the bathroom and stood next to Raymond.
He turned to her. “Is that why you brought me up here? To ambush me?” His eyes burned with rancor. “What did you tell her?” he yelled. “My God! The woman is a walking medicine cabinet. She was nearly admitted to the psychiatric ward!”
“Ray! Stop!” his sister howled. She jumped up from the table, threw her arms around him, and buried her head in the nape of his neck. In a moment, he could feel warm tears soaking through his shirt collar. “Tile promised to help me!” she sobbed. “To help us! To help us move on!”
Raymond stepped away from his sister. She gasped and began to pant like a tired dog. Tile moved between the two siblings and put her hand tenderly upon Raymond’s shoulder. It was the one missing half a finger. He immediately shook it off, but she tried again, and this time he let the hand stay.
The peculiar, long-faced woman gazed into his eyes and spoke softly. “Ray,” she began, “I know what happened, between you and your sister and your mother. You don’t need to be afraid anymore. The scab has been lifted. The mending has already begun.”
Raymond shook his head and pushed past her. He reached for his sister and grabbed her by the wrist. “Helen, we’re going. Now.”
She squirmed away and wedged herself into the far corner of the apartment. Tile must’ve turned off the lights without him noticing, because now the room stood in semidarkness, with only the glow of a few candles illuminating the small, musty space.
“I’m not going!” she said.
Raymond took another step forward, but once again Tile stepped into his path.
“Get out of my way,” he bellowed.
But Tile didn’t move, nor did she appear rattled in the slightest. Actually, she looked at ease. “Please sit down, Ray,” she said quietly. “And let’s allow the process to play itself out.”
Raymond glanced at his sister. She stood huddled in the corner, her breath exiting her body in short, punctuated burst. It was a stinging reminder of their past. He tried to shake the thought away.
“I run seances,” Tile said, her voice was smooth and matter-of-fact. “Helen believes the animosity between you two, the tension, is deeply rooted in the trauma of your past, specifically the untimely and tragic death of your mother.”
Raymond stared into Tile’s eyes. They looked grey and empty in the candlelight. “Are you insane?” he stammered. “How dare you interfere with our lives — my sister’s sanity! I should call the police and have you arrested for fraud!”
Tile didn’t move. Slowly, Helen dislodged herself from the wall and hobbled over to Raymond. She glanced at him, as if in a trance, and mouthed a few unintelligible syllables.
He leaned in closer. “What are you saying, Helen?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
“She’s powerful, Ray,” Helen whispered. “She knew things about our mother — about her death — things I held back.”
Helen dug into her handbag and pulled something out. She set it down on the table. The delicate gold chain shimmered eerily in the candlelight.
“How about we all sit down,” Tile cooed. “It’s nearly the midnight hour, the time when the spirits are most likely to communicate with us from the realm of the dead. They feed off the raw emotion. We may never have as good an opportunity as this.”
With a trembling hand, Raymond pointed to the gold necklace. “What is that?”
Helen stood next to her brother. “You know what it is.”
“It can’t be…” he said under his breath.
“It is,” Helen replied, choking back another sob.
“But the EMTs, the police… they said mom’s necklace was never —”
“I snatched it when they weren’t looking,” Helen interrupted.
Bewildered and exhausted, Raymond slipped into one of the folding chairs positioned around the table. Tile and Helen followed suit.
“I believe we can connect to your mother’s spirit,” Tile explained, her voice clear and controlled. “The process is actually quite simple. We have a close personal item,” she motioned towards the necklace, “as well as the lifeblood of a living descendent.” This time she glanced at Helen. “My dear, may I see your hand?”
Raymond’s eyes lit up. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Don’t worry, Ray,” Tile whispered, knife in hand. “I’ve already sterilized the blade. And all we need are a few drops.”
“NO! STOP!” Raymond howled.
But Tile had already run the sharp edge clean across Helen’s palm. Helen grimaced and held her dripping hand over the necklace. Raymond could only watch in horror as a slow trickle of blood dribbled onto the jewelry. Tile offered Helen a bandage.
Raymond couldn’t take any more of it. He stood up from the table and pointed at Tile. “You’re insane!” he shouted.
But Tile didn’t stir. Then he turned his attention to Helen, who sat in quiet repose in the seat across from him, her eyes begging.
“Please, Ray. I know it all sounds crazy — and maybe it is — but I’m…” she croaked, “…I’m desperate.”
Even in the blackness, Raymond could see his sister’s cheeks were stained with tears.
“We can get you help, Helen. Real help. Not like this.” He motioned around the room.
“You don’t think I’ve tried? You don’t think I’ve been to the doctors, the psychiatrists, the therapists? I’ve tried their medications and drugs and cocktails, and they just make me feel emptier than before! I even spent three days in the Colombian jungle on ayahuasca. But none of it has worked. None of it! This is my last resort. I’m desperate, Ray! Desperate! Can’t you see? Isn’t it obvious?”
Raymond glanced at her bandaged hand, then at Tile and her Modigliani-like face. Suddenly he found himself slowly lowering himself back down into his chair. Helen smiled shyly.
“Now we hold hands,” Tile announced to both of them, apparently undisturbed by the sudden outburst, “and coax the spirit out from the nether realm into our plane of existence.”
Raymond knew he was approaching a threshold from which he could not return. But he decided to shake the thought away. After a loud inhale up through the nostrils, he relaxed his shoulders and linked hands with two women, silently hoping that Tile was not actually a fraud after all. With his eye gently closing, he could barely make out the soft luminescence of the candle light humming in the darkness. As if suddenly placed under a spell, Raymond could feel his ever-whirring thoughts finally start to slow and his mind lull into a peculiar comfort amidst the eeriness.
The three of them sat motionless together, eyes gently shut, the only competing noise being a few stray shouts from the neighborhood bar down on the street below. Tile began to hum, and Raymond could feel her guttural reverberations deep in his chest. Then the chanting began, and as if by instinct, Raymond and Helen began repeating the sound themselves. Together, they recited the deep, primitive noises over and over again.
But nothing happened.
The chanting continued for another few minutes with the same results. The novelty of the whole event had dwindled to a droplet and Raymond had just about lost interest. But right as he went to slip his hand from Helen's grasp, an inexplicable rush of cool air fluttered between the three of them. Raymond’s eyes jolted open in time to see the flame of the candle flicker. He peered around the table and saw Helen and Tile in quiet repose. The muscles in his forearm began to twitch, and he felt an inexplicable force inching his hand towards the blood-splattered necklace.
“She’s here,” Tile whispered.
A throaty sound came from across the table. Helen began panting, each breath coming quicker than the one before it.
“Don’t be scared,” Tile reassured her. “The spirit is attempting to communicate. Your mother wants to talk to you. Ask her a question, but choose wisely; we don’t know for how long she will remain in our presence.”
Raymond shut his eyelids once more.
“I don’t know what to say,” he heard his sister whimper.
Tile spoke gently. “She is still your mother, and I’m sure she loves you just as much as she ever did.”
There was another moment of silence.
Then Helen spoke up. “Mom?” she asked cautiously. “Is that you? I can feel you around me. I miss you so much. Everyday.” She paused. “Ray’s here, too…”
Silence.
Raymond figured it was his turn. “Uh, hi, mom. Would you believe Helen and I are in some stranger’s New York City apartment conducting a séance? So…um…unpredictably predictable, right?” He stopped to think. “Well, we love you and hope that you’re proud of us. You’re always in our hearts.”
Another burst of cool air filled the apartment and a lull settled over them.
Helen jumped in. “Mom. I know we haven’t communicated in a long, long time; well maybe it hasn’t felt so long for you but…but…” her words tumbled forward like water gushing through a ravine, “but I want to talk to you about that day — your final day on Earth. I don’t think Ray knows the whole story, and I need your help to tell it.”
Raymond felt his chest tighten.
“Ray,” now Helen was addressing him. “I know I told you that the day mom died, she was coming to rescue me — to save me from that monster I’d been dating...”
Silence.
“Well, she did come to my rescue. But it wasn’t from the guy. He and I had done a bad batch of something…and my breathing stopped. He was on probation, so rather than dial 911, he found my phone and called mom. She was outside his house when the truck hit her…”
Suddenly, the knickknacks around the room began to rattle. The air swirling around was colder than ever. Raymond shivered but determinedly kept his eyes shut tight.
“Ray?” Helen called out again. But the sounds just bounced hollowly around the apartment.
His face stayed stoic. Then, in measured tones, he began to speak with his words aimed in no particular direction.
“Hi, mom,” he began shakily. “I feel you here. And, I’m sorry for how I treated Helen after you died. I should’ve told her; I should've told her I knew the truth…that I had talked to her boyfriend after it all happened…that he told he about the overdose. I was just so angry with her, and I guess, well, I guess part of me wanted her to suffer for taking you away from me." He paused. "But...but...now I know that what I did was wrong…”
No one spoke.
Then, out of nowhere, Raymond called out: “Mom! Listen! I’m sorry! I'm sorry I abandoned Helen — that I abandoned my duties as a brother. Please forgive me! Please! Please!"
A muffled sob. The crackle of the wick. Darkness.
For a few moments they just sat there in silence. Then Tile gradually released their hands. Raymond opened his eyes and gave them some time to adjust. Then he stood up from the table and walked around to his sister, who sat in a huddled mass, head down, dry heaving quietly. Raymond put his hand on her shoulder, then gently lifted her at the armpit. She didn’t resist. Without another word, he carried her through the room and led her through the apartment to the door.
“When you leave,” Tile said softly, her eyes still peacefully shuttered, “just be careful as you make your way downstairs. At this hour, the man living on the second-floor tends to sleepwalk in the nude.”
Raymond nodded without turning around and closed the door carefully behind them.