Author's Note: It's over! Sigh…oh, the nostalgia. Never, fear, I'll have
some new stuff up soon. My mind is percolating busily…
Anyway, thank you all for the reviews. I'm only 8 away from my goal now! ( I've tried to tie up a few loose ends in this final chapter…there's plenty of room for a sequel, because a) they still have to go after the Lotus, and b) they never actually SAW Eddie dead, so… But I'm not sure if I want to go back to this story. I have a few very different ideas, and my original stuff, which I'm working on at the same time. So who knows?
Disclaimer: Once again, despite all my efforts at seducing the Craigster, it is to no avail…Hey Arnold is still not mine. So don't sue. 'Cause all you'll get are a lot of taped Hey Arnold episodes and some clothes. And lots of half-used things of lipgloss. Enjoy.
Part XVII: Epilogue (Love)
Cities have colors. New York is gray and silver. Philadelphia is brown, while Boston is a redder, earthier tone. Miami, and in fact all Florida cities, are terra cotta and stucco. Cairo had been golden and white, while Paris was black, and Rome was pristine and flecked with tropical greenery.
LA, or at least the part of it that Arnold could see from his hospital window, was as gray as New York. That didn't mean it felt like home—only Brooklyn, with its warm reddish brown townhouses all jumbled together and crumbling against the banks of the East River, was home. LA was an alien city, something different and exciting; the hospital, all with all hospitals, was not homey and never could be, with its stark whiteness and cool uncomfortable efficiency.
There was someone, however, who made LA home for Arnold, and she was breezing in right now, looking like a beam of sunlight in a floaty little dress of pink silk. He saw that she wore a pink ribbon in her hair and he smiled affectionately, turning from the window to great her.
"The doctors say I can leave tomorrow," he told her as she came in. He wanted to kiss her, but it was too awkward.
"That's great," Helga replied, setting her purse and a shopping bag down on the bed. "I brought you some decent food—there's a great deli around the corner. How are you feeling?"
"Much better," he said, absently letting his fingers graze over the bandage at his side. "It's still not completely healed, but they say I'm fit to travel now—I'll rest up at the boarding house for a couple of weeks and the doctors in New York can keep an eye on it. Then I can go back to work."
She didn't meet his eyes. "You're going back to New York, then?"
He nodded. "I'll have someplace to stay, there."
He hated this awkwardness that had come between them. After they had escaped, on the plane ride home, everything had been right. And when he had come out of surgery, she had been waiting for him to wake up. But they hadn't really known what to say to each other, and though she visited him ever day over the past week, bringing him snacks and silly little gifts and keeping him company, there had been a strange distance keeping her from him. He loved her, he knew that with certainty, but he didn't want to pressure her. He was willing to wait for her to tell him how she felt—but it seemed circumstance wouldn't allow it.
"You have someplace to stay here," she offered, sitting down on the bed and staring at her hands as if she had never before noticed that they were attached to her wrists. She wanted to tell him to stay, to never leave her—or that she would follow him anywhere he wanted to go—but she was so afraid. What if he had decided that he didn't want her anymore? What if he had changed his mind? Maybe even offering him a place to stay was too much, would scare him off.
He sat down next to her. "You mean—with you?" he asked, hoping that was what she meant. Maybe she was talking about a hotel or something; maybe they had a friend living in the area that he didn't know about.
"If you want to," she said, examining the curved flat nails of her right hand. He didn't want to. He didn't want to have anything more to do with her. He probably wanted to get to New York to be as far away from her as he could.
He studied her profile out of the corner of his eye. Her hair was up in a loose ponytail with the famous pink ribbon, and a slender, pale wisp was loose, hanging across her classic profile. Her black eye had all but healed, with just a slight yellow discoloration around it, and he knew that the cut down her torso had healed into a thin pink line, which would fade even more with time, until only someone who knew her intimately would know it was there. Her battle scars did not make her less attractive—they made her more so, her courage and verve proudly displayed.
"I think I should see my parents and grandparents again," he said, knowing the minute the words were out of his mouth that it had been the wrong thing to say.
"Oh," she replied softly. "Yeah, you're probably right."
There was another long silence. "You could come with me," he offered. "They'd love to see you." Again, the wrong thing. He wasn't inviting her for them, he was inviting her for himself.
"Maybe," she replied, staring into space.
Impulsively, he reached up and tucked the wisp of hair behind her ear. She looked at him, and something tugged on his heartstrings. She looked so scared, so lonely…could she actually not know? Was it possible that she didn't realize he loved her?
"I guess we're even now," he said. She looked at him blankly. "I mean, you saved my life, freed me, and reunited me with my parents. Well, I saved your life too, freed you, and reunited you with your parents. I owe you nothing, right? We're even?"
She shrugged. "I guess so…you never owed me anything…"
He cut her off. "So we are even?"
She looked slightly irritated at his businesslike manner. "Yeah, so?"
He took her hands in his, meeting her eyes. "So now will you believe me when I say I love you?"
It was strange. Helga's heart felt like it was breaking, but in a good way. She was breaking free of her own self-imposed prison, freeing herself from the constraints her own low self esteem had placed her in.
She tried to read Arnold's eyes, but the emotion in them overwhelmed her. She had never seen anyone look at her with real, genuine love—just infatuation. "You mean it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled affectionately, as if he couldn't believe that she was so unsure of herself. "You know I do." Suddenly uncertainty passed over his face. "And you…? Do you…um…"
She laughed. "Oh, Arnold, you dummy! Of course I do! I have since we were three years old!"
His jaw dropped. "You what?"
She smiled, placing a hand on his cheek. "It was raining…and you held your umbrella over me…and you've been holding it over me ever since…and I've always loved you."
His grin spread out across the whole of that beloved football face of his. He gave a whoop and stood up, picking her up and twirling her around.
"Arnold, your side! Be careful!" she admonished, laughing all the while. He put her down and cupped her face in his hands.
"Say it again," he commanded, their noses an inch apart. "Say you love me."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you. I love you!" Helga felt her fears evaporate like smoke on the wind.
Arnold broke into another joyous yell and swung her around again. "Stop it!" she said, giving him a playful slap on the arm. "I will not have you hurting yourself again."
He put her down, and she pulled his head down to hers, kissing him tenderly. "So where are we going?" she asked when they broke apart after a sweet, brief eternity.
He knew what she meant. "Let's go to Brooklyn," he suggested. "Let's go home, and see our families. And then…"
"Then let's go to Boston and see Phoebe and Gerald," she continued. "And then…I don't want to stay still yet. I don't want to settle down. Not yet."
"Well, there's a lot of traveling in my line of work," Arnold reminded her. "And I still have the Lotus of Nefertiti to find. I think you could get some good poems out of that."
"I could get some good poems out of you," she replied, kissing him again.
"I want more than poems out of you," he teased, tickling her. She swatted him away, and, laughing, he drew her in for another kiss.
LA was a gray city, under a blanket of smog and pollution. The hospital was a sterilized spot of misery and pain in the center of that gray, alien city. But in the center of that cold, ugly hospital in the center of that cold, ugly city was a bright burning pinpoint of love, so strong that for a moment even the city itself seemed something rare and beautiful and enchanting.
Anyway, thank you all for the reviews. I'm only 8 away from my goal now! ( I've tried to tie up a few loose ends in this final chapter…there's plenty of room for a sequel, because a) they still have to go after the Lotus, and b) they never actually SAW Eddie dead, so… But I'm not sure if I want to go back to this story. I have a few very different ideas, and my original stuff, which I'm working on at the same time. So who knows?
Disclaimer: Once again, despite all my efforts at seducing the Craigster, it is to no avail…Hey Arnold is still not mine. So don't sue. 'Cause all you'll get are a lot of taped Hey Arnold episodes and some clothes. And lots of half-used things of lipgloss. Enjoy.
Part XVII: Epilogue (Love)
Cities have colors. New York is gray and silver. Philadelphia is brown, while Boston is a redder, earthier tone. Miami, and in fact all Florida cities, are terra cotta and stucco. Cairo had been golden and white, while Paris was black, and Rome was pristine and flecked with tropical greenery.
LA, or at least the part of it that Arnold could see from his hospital window, was as gray as New York. That didn't mean it felt like home—only Brooklyn, with its warm reddish brown townhouses all jumbled together and crumbling against the banks of the East River, was home. LA was an alien city, something different and exciting; the hospital, all with all hospitals, was not homey and never could be, with its stark whiteness and cool uncomfortable efficiency.
There was someone, however, who made LA home for Arnold, and she was breezing in right now, looking like a beam of sunlight in a floaty little dress of pink silk. He saw that she wore a pink ribbon in her hair and he smiled affectionately, turning from the window to great her.
"The doctors say I can leave tomorrow," he told her as she came in. He wanted to kiss her, but it was too awkward.
"That's great," Helga replied, setting her purse and a shopping bag down on the bed. "I brought you some decent food—there's a great deli around the corner. How are you feeling?"
"Much better," he said, absently letting his fingers graze over the bandage at his side. "It's still not completely healed, but they say I'm fit to travel now—I'll rest up at the boarding house for a couple of weeks and the doctors in New York can keep an eye on it. Then I can go back to work."
She didn't meet his eyes. "You're going back to New York, then?"
He nodded. "I'll have someplace to stay, there."
He hated this awkwardness that had come between them. After they had escaped, on the plane ride home, everything had been right. And when he had come out of surgery, she had been waiting for him to wake up. But they hadn't really known what to say to each other, and though she visited him ever day over the past week, bringing him snacks and silly little gifts and keeping him company, there had been a strange distance keeping her from him. He loved her, he knew that with certainty, but he didn't want to pressure her. He was willing to wait for her to tell him how she felt—but it seemed circumstance wouldn't allow it.
"You have someplace to stay here," she offered, sitting down on the bed and staring at her hands as if she had never before noticed that they were attached to her wrists. She wanted to tell him to stay, to never leave her—or that she would follow him anywhere he wanted to go—but she was so afraid. What if he had decided that he didn't want her anymore? What if he had changed his mind? Maybe even offering him a place to stay was too much, would scare him off.
He sat down next to her. "You mean—with you?" he asked, hoping that was what she meant. Maybe she was talking about a hotel or something; maybe they had a friend living in the area that he didn't know about.
"If you want to," she said, examining the curved flat nails of her right hand. He didn't want to. He didn't want to have anything more to do with her. He probably wanted to get to New York to be as far away from her as he could.
He studied her profile out of the corner of his eye. Her hair was up in a loose ponytail with the famous pink ribbon, and a slender, pale wisp was loose, hanging across her classic profile. Her black eye had all but healed, with just a slight yellow discoloration around it, and he knew that the cut down her torso had healed into a thin pink line, which would fade even more with time, until only someone who knew her intimately would know it was there. Her battle scars did not make her less attractive—they made her more so, her courage and verve proudly displayed.
"I think I should see my parents and grandparents again," he said, knowing the minute the words were out of his mouth that it had been the wrong thing to say.
"Oh," she replied softly. "Yeah, you're probably right."
There was another long silence. "You could come with me," he offered. "They'd love to see you." Again, the wrong thing. He wasn't inviting her for them, he was inviting her for himself.
"Maybe," she replied, staring into space.
Impulsively, he reached up and tucked the wisp of hair behind her ear. She looked at him, and something tugged on his heartstrings. She looked so scared, so lonely…could she actually not know? Was it possible that she didn't realize he loved her?
"I guess we're even now," he said. She looked at him blankly. "I mean, you saved my life, freed me, and reunited me with my parents. Well, I saved your life too, freed you, and reunited you with your parents. I owe you nothing, right? We're even?"
She shrugged. "I guess so…you never owed me anything…"
He cut her off. "So we are even?"
She looked slightly irritated at his businesslike manner. "Yeah, so?"
He took her hands in his, meeting her eyes. "So now will you believe me when I say I love you?"
It was strange. Helga's heart felt like it was breaking, but in a good way. She was breaking free of her own self-imposed prison, freeing herself from the constraints her own low self esteem had placed her in.
She tried to read Arnold's eyes, but the emotion in them overwhelmed her. She had never seen anyone look at her with real, genuine love—just infatuation. "You mean it?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled affectionately, as if he couldn't believe that she was so unsure of herself. "You know I do." Suddenly uncertainty passed over his face. "And you…? Do you…um…"
She laughed. "Oh, Arnold, you dummy! Of course I do! I have since we were three years old!"
His jaw dropped. "You what?"
She smiled, placing a hand on his cheek. "It was raining…and you held your umbrella over me…and you've been holding it over me ever since…and I've always loved you."
His grin spread out across the whole of that beloved football face of his. He gave a whoop and stood up, picking her up and twirling her around.
"Arnold, your side! Be careful!" she admonished, laughing all the while. He put her down and cupped her face in his hands.
"Say it again," he commanded, their noses an inch apart. "Say you love me."
"I love you."
"Again."
"I love you. I love you!" Helga felt her fears evaporate like smoke on the wind.
Arnold broke into another joyous yell and swung her around again. "Stop it!" she said, giving him a playful slap on the arm. "I will not have you hurting yourself again."
He put her down, and she pulled his head down to hers, kissing him tenderly. "So where are we going?" she asked when they broke apart after a sweet, brief eternity.
He knew what she meant. "Let's go to Brooklyn," he suggested. "Let's go home, and see our families. And then…"
"Then let's go to Boston and see Phoebe and Gerald," she continued. "And then…I don't want to stay still yet. I don't want to settle down. Not yet."
"Well, there's a lot of traveling in my line of work," Arnold reminded her. "And I still have the Lotus of Nefertiti to find. I think you could get some good poems out of that."
"I could get some good poems out of you," she replied, kissing him again.
"I want more than poems out of you," he teased, tickling her. She swatted him away, and, laughing, he drew her in for another kiss.
LA was a gray city, under a blanket of smog and pollution. The hospital was a sterilized spot of misery and pain in the center of that gray, alien city. But in the center of that cold, ugly hospital in the center of that cold, ugly city was a bright burning pinpoint of love, so strong that for a moment even the city itself seemed something rare and beautiful and enchanting.