Helens-of-Troy by Janine McCaw Page B

Helen. She’s not
the only one who dresses like that. There are quite a few
non-confirming gothic teenagers conforming in this town, let me
tell you. It's just a phase she's going through. And you do too
know what's gotten into her. You just weren't that clever when it
happened to you.”
    “When what happened to me?” Helen
asked, sitting down at the table.
    “When you looked twelve when you were
really fifteen. It can't be easy for her. It wasn't easy for you.
You stuffed your top.”
    “I did not!”
    Helena choked on her coffee. “You went
from a 32a to a 34c overnight.”
    “I was a quick blossomer,” Helen
replied, putting her head in her hands. “Oh God. I did do that,
didn't I?”
    “I still have the pictures. Maybe
that's why you're so insistent on covering your boobs up to this
day.”
    Helen pulled her flannels closer to her
chest. “Not everyone has the uncontrollable urge to expose their
mammaries to perfect strangers like you do, Mother.”
    ‘Well it’s an icebreaker, that’s for
sure. Do I need to remind you of your short-lived punk rock period?
You used to buy your belts extra long so you could wrap them around
your leg and then up around your waist. Now that was a look a
mother could be proud of. Bondage. You may recall I chose to ignore
your fashion experimentations at the time. Thankfully you seem to
have been able to make the jump to Armani. I’m sure in time, Ellie
will too.”
    “Please don't tell her about that. I'm
trying to instill her with a sense of what it means to be a
successful career woman, and if she gets even the slightest hint
that I wasn’t always so conventional, it’ll be game over. It’s not
easy, you know, trying to get her focused on what she wants to be.
She’s got it into her head that she wants to be a
plumber.”
    “Maybe she should be a plumber. Your
PhD in medieval history hasn't done you that well in the long run.
Or should I say mid-evil?”
    “That’s not fair. There’s just not a
lot of demand for my particular expertise right now.”
    “You should have listened to me and
majored in Archeology. Archeology/grave digging, what's the
difference, really? You'd always have a job.”
    “Nice to see you too,
Mother.”
    Helena looked at her daughter, wishing
she could break down Helen’s hard exterior. “Where is your sense of
humor, Helen? I was kidding. Of course it's nice to see you. Is
everything okay?”
    “Not exactly. I've left
him.”
    “So everything's fine then. I warned
you not to marry that man. He reminds me of Napoleon.”
    “Napoleon was French.”
    “He was a mouthy little dictator. End
of story. You know you and Ellie are always welcome here. How long
are you staying?”
    “Thanks for your concern, Mother. What
time is check out?”
    “That’s not what I meant.”
    “I know you didn't like Tony, but I
thought I’d at least get some empathy from you. I know sympathy
would be out of the question.”
    “He’s not dead and that's not why
you're here. I wasn't born yesterday, Helen. If you just wanted to
move away from Tony, you could have moved anywhere, anytime. Like
perhaps before school started this September. I don't think here in
Troy, with me, at the end of October, would be first on your list
if that were truly the case. What's really going on?”
    Helen stood up and began to pace in the
kitchen. “Ellie's having nightmares,” she finally said, her voice
trembling.
    “What kind of nightmares? Have you had
a talk with her yet?”
    “I don't even know how to begin that
talk.”
    “Well darling, don't you think it's
time you figured that out? It’s not like the sex talk. She’s not
going to figure it out on her own.”
    Helen glared at her mother, her eyes
revealing the anger her lips failed to emote.
    “Calm down, Helen, before you give
yourself an aneurysm.”
    “I'm sorry, Mother. I haven't seen the
talk show episode yet where the psychologist says, ‘Helen, you need
to look your daughter in the eye and tell her