Chapter 7 7

The tests took two hours.

Helen emerged into the corridor with a folder of results she wouldn't read, instructions she wouldn't follow, the mechanical completion of a role she was finished playing. She walked toward the elevator, toward escape, toward the parking garage and her dented Corolla and the life she needed to begin constructing.

The door to Room 714 stood open.

She knew the number. She'd heard Duke mention it to the receptionist, his voice low with concern that had never been directed at her. She told herself to keep walking. She told herself it didn't matter. She told herself a thousand things that her feet ignored.

She stopped. She looked through the gap between door and frame.

Duke sat beside the bed, holding a fruit knife with the awkwardness of a man who'd never prepared his own food. An apple turned in his hands, peel curling away in a single spiral. He was trying. He was failing. The gesture was so domestic, so intimate, so completely unlike anything he'd ever offered his wife, that Helen felt her breath catch in her throat.

Adelia reclined against the pillows. She wore a silk robe, monogrammed, presumably her own. Her hair was arranged on the pillowcase with artistic care. She looked like a painting. She looked like a trap.

"-don't know why you insist on these old-fashioned things," she was saying. "There's a café downstairs. They have fresh-pressed juice. Green. Very cleansing."

"I want to do this." Duke's voice was soft. The voice Helen had waited four years to hear. "Let me take care of you."

Helen's hand found the doorframe. Her fingers pressed into the wood until they hurt.

Adelia's eyes moved. They found the gap, found Helen's shadow, found the witness to this private performance. Her lips curved. Not a smile. A signal.

"Darling," she said, louder now. "My throat. It's so dry. Could you-water?"

Duke stood immediately. He turned toward the room's small kitchenette, and in turning, he saw Helen.

The transformation was familiar now. The softness vanished. The hardness returned, defensive and angry and desperate to maintain control.

"Helen." He made her name sound like an accusation. "What are you doing? Spying?"

"I was leaving." She didn't move. She couldn't move. "The elevator-"

"Since you're here." Duke's voice shifted, found that register of command she'd learned to obey. "Adelia needs water. Get it for her."

The words didn't register immediately. They hung in the air, foreign, incomprehensible.

"What?"

"Water." Duke enunciated as if speaking to a child. "In the kitchenette. A glass. For Adelia." He paused, letting the weight settle. "Unless you're incapable of even that."

He was offering her humiliation. He was demanding her submission, her participation in her own erasure. He wanted her to serve his mistress. He wanted her to acknowledge her place in the hierarchy he'd constructed: Adelia above, himself in the middle, Helen below, always below, serving those who deserved service.

Helen walked into the room.

Her heels clicked against the tile. The sound was sharp, deliberate, nothing like the silence she'd cultivated in the Long Island house. She crossed to the kitchenette. She found a glass. She filled it from the filtered tap, watching the water rise, feeling the cool weight in her hand.

She turned.

Adelia had arranged herself for this moment. The robe slightly open. The smile of anticipated victory. The hand extended, palm up, waiting to receive the tribute.

Duke watched from the bedside, satisfaction evident in the set of his shoulders. He'd won. He'd reasserted control. He'd reminded everyone of their proper places.

Helen raised the glass to her lips.

She drank.

The water was cool, tasteless, perfect. She swallowed once, twice, three times. The sound of her throat working was loud in the quiet room. She emptied the glass completely, then lowered it, meeting Duke's eyes over the rim.

"What-" he started.

"I don't serve." Helen's voice was quiet. It didn't need volume. It had something better: certainty. "Not you. Not her. Not anyone."

She placed the empty glass on the marble countertop. The sound cracked like a gunshot.

"I don't know what you think you're doing-" Duke began.

"I know exactly what I'm doing." Helen wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. A crude gesture. A deliberate gesture. "I'm leaving. I'm done. With this. With you. With all of it."

She walked toward the door. Duke moved to intercept, his face dark with rage, with the particular fury of a man whose authority had been questioned.

"You'll come back." He said it as fact. "You always come back. You have nowhere else to go."

Helen stopped at the threshold. She looked at him, really looked, at the handsome face and the expensive clothes and the emptiness where a soul should have been.

"You're wrong," she said. "I've always had somewhere else. I just didn't use it."

She walked out. She didn't run. She didn't look back. She moved through the corridor, past the nurses' station, past the original art and the potted plants and the entire apparatus of wealth and privilege that had never been hers, that had only ever been lent to her on condition of her good behavior.

In the elevator, she checked her phone. Three missed calls from Duke. She deleted them without listening to the voicemail.

The doors opened. She walked toward the garage, toward her car, toward the rest of her life.