Chasing Helga Bittle

Chapter 1
 

There was no mistaking Helga Bittle. Of the almost 3,000 guests aboard Royal Caribbean’s Explorer of the Seas, Helga was the passenger who stood out the most to Frances Colburn.
 

The moment Frances exited the Holiday Inn shuttle bus, she was greeted by a rush of porters at the Port of Miami, where the hulking cruise ship stood behind like an inviting giant. They were three white-shirted, black men wearing hard hats that were barely sweating despite the near 90 degree
temperatures common to South Florida during September. They approached Frances en
masse—anxious to fetch her stuffed black Fendi suitcase and add it to the nearby stack—which, at first, caught Frances by surprise. She had spent a fitful night just hours prior—wondering if the decision to vacation alone had been the right one—and wasn’t prepared for the porters’ brusqueness in the initial moments of what was meant to be a restful Caribbean cruise vacation.
 

But it was Helga Bittle who ultimately garnered Frances’s attention—for her own blunt behavior as a steady stream of passengers filed their way from taxis, shuttle buses, and other vehicles through the maze of the Port to set foot aboard Explorer. Helga was fighting with a taxi driver, who’s broken English competed with Helga’s peculiar New England accent, as the two rehashed the details of the ride. When Helga spoke, people often wondered where she came from. She did not have the accent typical of residents in central New Hampshire, or any other region in New England for that matter. It was a sound she had fashioned all her own—part rural librarian, part English mistress. It was nothing like the accents she heard on television or in movies, when actors and actresses who didn’t hail from the region tried to mimic Bostonian articulation. They all made the mistake of trying to sound like President Kennedy. “But nobody sounds like the Kennedys except the Kennedys!” she’d yell. “When you’re that rich, you can make up your own accent!”
 

Helga wasn’t rich—at least not by monetary standards. And she was certain the taxi driver had “pulled a fast one”—there was no way such a short trip could cost $32 before the tip. She stood no more than five foot, three inches, with large eyes behind the thick spectacles overshadowing much of her face. When agitated, Helga would raise her right arm in the air and point an inconvenient finger in the face of an adversary.
 

“Listen, HOR-HAY— if that’s really your name—I didn’t just fall off a turnip truck,” Helga bellowed. “If you think you can bilk an old woman of her hard-earned dollars, you’ve got another thing coming.”
 

“Senora, please,” the taxi driver protested. “The meter is not incorrect. You can see for yourself.”
 

“You’d think we drove to the Everglades and back!”
 

“We were nowhere near the Everglades!”
 

Helga had also experienced a restless night’s sleep, with far too much concern for the daily occurrences of Dentonberry, the small New Hampshire town where she lived. Although she would never have described herself using this word, Helga was a bit of a gadfly. She made everybody’s business her own business, and was not shy about offering her opinions—whether wanted or not. She wondered how the townspeople would fare in her absence and whether the town meeting that would be held as she cruised the Caribbean Sea would render the results she desired. Some out-of-state developers had plans to build a big box department store at the outskirts of town—the type of monolithic ode to capitalism the townspeople loathed. Most were convinced that it would kill the small businesses at the center of
town and ruin the rural character of their beloved village. And, oh the traffic! Vehicles filled with
bargain-seeking shoppers wear ill-fitting, and often inappropriate, clothing filing day and night into a parking lot the size of two football fields. They would come with their pajama bottoms and Uggs, sifting through bins of plastic merchandise, and buying oversized portions of nutrient-deficient food (Cheetos on steroids, Helga lamented.) Motorists already drove too hastily on Route 17, creating a raceway atmosphere and wreaking havoc with the scenic serenity cherished by the townspeople, young and old.
 

Helga had been one of the project’s most vocal critics—jumping up to interject during Dentonberry
Planning and Zoning Board meetings despite protestations from the board members.
 

“Robert’s Rules of Order, my arse!” she would cry.
 

With one last point of her right index finger up in the direction of Jorge’s nostrils, Helga heaved one last breath of protest—“Mmmmifft!” was all she could muster, reaching into the leather purse draped over her shoulder and fetching two crisp $20 bills. “You can keep the change, I suppose, HOR-HAY.”
 

With that, Helga was off to join the legions of tourists on the brink of their vacations, and disappeared like a waft of smoke into the port. It is precisely the type of chance encounter that Frances’s best friend Sheila Belfry said cruise vacationing is known for. Thousands of passengers, each with his own plan, criss cross the ship like ants huddled inside a sand ant farm, digging paths to the outer reaches of the vessel and then back again. You will see some passengers the first day, Sheila warned, and then never see them again. Others you will greet like old friends each time your ant-like path happens to coincide with theirs. You will share the stories of your lives, like tuning into a soap opera for a week’s length. Will Anthony, the fetching 21-year-old man vacationing with his parents, join the Marines as he planned? Or would he apply for a position with the cruise director’s staff aboard the ship? Would Nicole’s boyfriend “pop the question” as she hoped, or would she be forced to wait until Christmas to receive the ring she so desired? “Cruises are cliffhangers,” Sheila was fond of saying. “You become intimately entwined with these people for a short period of time and then never see them again,” she said. “At least with television, we finally got to find out who shot JR.”
 

With the impressive size and features of Explorer, there was much to engage passengers aboard the
ship, and swallow them into the trappings of cruise life. At 1,020 feet in length and 157 feet in height (including the portion of the ship below the water’s surface— and who wouldn’t— afterall, it kept the ship upright and barreling forward in peaceful weather as well as inclement), Explorer was a sight to behold. As Francis discovered in researching the vessel (as a journalist, she was always compelled to get the facts), she found that the ship weighed 138,000 tons, could hold 3,114 passengers, and had 1,180 crew members. Its maiden voyage was on Oct. 28, 2000, almost six years prior to Francis’s maiden voyage on a cruise ship. Friends thought she was crazy for choosing to sail in September, when Florida’s hurricane season was still in full swing, but Francis wasn’t worried. Despite their high profile when they
did occur, hurricanes were a relatively rare happening and, cruise ships had the ability to sail around them. Frances had selected an Eastern Caribbean itinerary, but was told the cruise lines could switch to a Western Caribbean itinerary to circumvent an impending storm.
 

Frances was a sensible sort, at times to her own detriment, but Explorer had many features that she
hoped would help her shake loose from her pragmatic mold. The large pool deck was an absolute must for Frances, with an added bonus of a solarium pool meant only for adults. The Royal Promenade on Deck 5, a kind of Main Street with bars and shops, held appeal, as did the Chamber, the multi-deck nightclub fashioned in the style of a dungeon or crypt. The ice skating rink on board seems a bit frivolous, if not silly, and Frances wasn’t much of a gambler but thought the casino might offer a welcome distraction on days the ship was not in a cruise port. She like playing slot machines on occasion, for their simplicity and lack of commitment, despite the poor winning odds they offered. From a gambling standpoint, other games featured more favorable odds, like black jack for instance, but Frances never felt comfortable sitting at a table with strangers for too long a period. By contrast, you could slip a few quarters into a slot machine, pull the handle, and then leave if you so chose—no salutations, no “see you laters”, no explanations for her departure.
 

Although she was cruising alone, Frances had decided to choose a balcony cabin, for the fresh air and night time star viewing it would accommodate. A romantic partner, or even a friend, would have been a nice addition, thought Frances, but that was not to be. Her romantic life was non-existent these days, and her social life a mere shell of what it used to be in her younger, post-college years. As the Editor-in- Chief of Real Estate Monthly, her life was her work; her daily fascinations were more in the realm of the cast of characters that collectively comprised the New York City real estate industry than in her romantic suitors.
 

So she chose cabin 8336, on Deck 8, near mid-ship but closer to the ship’s aft. It was just steps away
from a set of elevators, which Frances knew she was bound to use despite her vow to use the stairs for the duration of the cruise. Afterall, exercise was the only way to mitigate the effects of the thousands of added calories a cruise filled with excessive eating and drinking would bring. Work it off by walking was her motto, along with a daily trip to the ship’s fitness center, with 20 minutes of jogging on the treadmill followed by another 20 minutes of walking—one more, no less. Routines were important to Frances and should not be shunned just because of a vacation.
 

After pushing open her cabin door—God, it weighed a ton—Frances was a bit taken aback by the cabin’s diminutive size. As a journalist specializing in real estate, she should have had a good understanding of what 179 square feet looked like, but the sparse ceiling height threw her for a loop. At 52 square feet, the balcony offered a bit of a reprise from the tiny bedroom surroundings, but that would be little comfort during the daytime, functional hours filled with showering, dressing, and the like. The bed, by contrast, seemed enormous at 82 inches in length and 72.5 inches wide. A small sofa and end table marked the cabin’s “living room”—if it could be called that—with a television set nearby.

 

But if Frances was shocked by the cabin’s small size, she was even more shocked by the bathroom
revealed after thrusting back another heavy door (were all doors aboard the vessel this heavy, she
wondered?) The small space was filled with an unflattering illumination, revealing the tiny sink, toilet, and shower within. Flushing the toilet was a first-time adventure for Frances, who was startled by the loud whooshing sound and sucking noise (could my rear end be sucked to the sea’s bottom, she feared?) And what of the shower stall? Cylindrical in shape, with plastic doors that slid in a circle, it looked the space Captain Kirk entered when he was beamed up into space on Star Trek, albeit much tinier. She stepped into the shower, closed the door, and spun in a circle. How the hell did fat people fit in this thing?
 

Fortunately, there were a chest of drawers and a closet to hang the dresses she had brought to wear to dinner. The suitcase hadn’t arrived yet, but Frances did the pre-planning her pragmatist self so
fashioned, and selected the spaces best suited to each of the items in her suitcase—the items she had carefully folded the night before (yes, even the under garments) and placed in the order she dressed. Shoes were placed at the bottom, with right toe facing left heel, with pants folded in thirds and shorts folded in halves on top. T-shirts and polo shirts, folded in neat square box shapes, were next, with bras and panties on top. Although there was scarcely a need for them on a Caribbean cruise, socks were tucked in the outer edges of the bag along with swim suits. Dresses, slacks, and blouses were hung in the garment bag, with cosmetics and toiletries in her carry-on bag. It was the perfect analogy for Frances’s life—a life lived in neatly appointed layers, with a designated spot for her each of her worldly articles, and a zipper to wrap it all up—even hide it—whenever necessary.
 

By contrast, in the often topsy-turvy environs of Helga Bittle, order was never the highest of priorities. In fact, Helga cherished the moments of disorder she often created in her world, never shy about breaking the rules or at least bending them on occasion. Like the defiance she showed navigating her way through the security line during the embarkation procedure. She was miffed at the idea of having to pass through a metal detector and even became even more fractious in spirit when a security official ordered her to enter another line for her carry-on bag to be inspected. Helga was carrying a stash of Stolichnaya vodka that would have shocked even the most casual of observers had it been discovered, but that didn’t concern her. Disinclined to accept the invitation to enter another security line, Helga put on her best “daft old lady” expression, clutching the bag with the contraband just a little bit tighter, and marched straight past the security detail.
 

“Umm, ma’am, excuse me, ma’am,” the officer pleaded. “Ma’am, you need to go through…ma’am, I’m talking to you!”
 

But it was no use. Helga was through security without a word or a gesture, and off again, like fading footsteps into the sand, to mingle with the crowds milling aboard the decks of Explorer. And there she found herself—staring into the bewildered looks of strangers, watching mothers wrangle wayward toddlers, spying on teenagers plotting mischief, pondering couples in a kind of quiet stupor—transfixed with calmness and clarity. With the cruise ship, a modern-day mish mash of pastel-colored fraternity as her guide, Helga spotted the sun arched high and strong that afternoon. She sat with poise and presence, her back stretched like the peaked ears of a Doberman and a smile cast across her time-trawled face. It was the perfect start to a perfect trip—to the culmination of a lifetime marked equally by buoyancy and misadventure, to the first steps in the twilight of her life’s journey.
 

Chapter 2

Helga had booked cabin 9390, at the ship’s aft, with an ocean view. As was the case in her everyday life, she preferred seeing where she had been over where she was going. At this stage in life, she feared the road stretched out behind her was a lot longer than the one she faced in front of her. To be sure, it was a road littered with the restlessness and complications of youth, followed by the steady keel of midlife, and into the unknown stretch of her final miles. Taking the cruise had been a gift to herself—for retiring from the International Truss Company a few months prior.
 

She had served the company for almost 30 years—first as an administrative assistant and then in various positions within the accounting department. Saving goodbye to her colleagues had been difficult, but she wasn’t sorry to part ways with the company. It had changed so drastically in recent years, from the family-friendly environment it had been in the ‘70s to the calculating, corporate drone it had amalgamated into. When she first started with the company, it seemed like everybody in Dentonberry, and the surrounding towns in the mountainous central New Hampshire region that she called home, worked for the International Truss Company or knew somebody who did. In those days, people spoke fondly of the humbling ways of upper management and looked forward to the summer ritual of the company picnic. It wasn’t an extravagant affair, but it didn’t need to be. Families arrived with children, blankets, and picnic baskets in tow, and camped a glorious afternoon in one of Dentonberry’s many open fields. And for the day, the vestiture of small-town life littered the landscape—boys with Whiffle balls and bats, girls with Lemon Twists, men with cans of Schaefer beer, and women with menthol cigarettes poised gently between their lips. They lunched and laughed, and everybody stayed the hours
of the afternoon and then some. Life could wait for a day back then. These were the simple years before cells phones and rushing off to soccer practices, before endless games of tag were replaced with hand-held video games.
 

Helga never understood how she had managed to weather the layoffs at the International Truss
Company over the years, which seemed to come with regularity, along with the mitigating lingo of its time. First, the company was “downsizing,” and then “it’s really not downsizing, it’s ‘rightsizing’” because, somehow, there were just too many people employed for the company’s own good. Ever the office iconoclast, Helga greeted each pronouncement with more distain than the last. “Yes, we’re just positively tripping over each other in the ladies room,” she’s say. “I had to literally wrestle Josephine for a spot on the commode last week.”
 

Still, each year, the company managed to turn a profit despite its dire predictions to the contrary and money never seemed sparse when it came time to hand out bonuses to the corporate executives, who were already paid 300 times more than the average worker. Management worked harder, to be sure, and deserved to be paid more, but how much more, thought Helda? “The last I checked, there are still only 24 hours in a day, and you still have to sleep, eat, and shit no matter how important you are!” Helga would say to her peers.

 

Helga had considered it, but ultimately balked at the idea of staying in a cabin with a balcony, for it
seemed a dangerous way to travel. One false move and off you could topple—plunging into the raging seas below. No, thank you. A porthole, the bottom of which stood just above her height of vision, was enough for Helga. The sea looked royal blue, but calm, from the vantage point of the porthole and not nearly the foreboding enemy she had imagined. But the height from the cabin to the ocean was still impressive and she was glad she had stuck to her original plan.
 

Helga scanned the contents of her cabin and noticed a paper on the bed with a blue and gold masthead on it. It read “Cruise Compass” with Royal Caribbean’s logo next to it, and Day 1. “WELCOME TO THE FIRST DAY OF THE MOST AMAZING VACATION OF YOUR LIFE” it beamed, along with a list of “Today’s Tips” detailing the various activities offered onboard. Helga leafed through the six-page brochure. The small print made her head dizzy and so did the list of times and activities. And bars. There were so many bars aboard. Helga thought of the bottle of her beloved Stolichnaya, just minutes from being snatched away by port security and now sitting at the bottom of her carry-on bag. It begged to be taken out and placed in the open, like a trophy of her brazenness, a tribute to the free spirit she had become on the brink of her golden years.
 

But a tiny knock jolted Helga from her triumph. Was it port security, she shuttered, come to retrieve the forbidden booze and toss Helga’s diminutive frame into the brig? “Daft old lady, indeed,” she muttered to herself. Gingerly, she opened the door.
 

“Hello,” a smiling young man offered. “I’m Jorge, you’re stateroom attendant.” He was fresh faced and pleasant smelling wearing a badge with his name and county of origin, “Panama.” His hair was trimmed short and he bowed slightly as he spoke. “Jesus, will everybody I meet on this cruise be named HOR-HAY?” Helga wondered.
 

“I was just looking for you,” Helga offered, to which Jorge offered a bemused grin.
 

“Looking for me?” he said.
 

“I’ll have a vodka and tonic, light on the ice.”
 

“Excuse me?”
 

Helga rose from the bed and stepped towards Jorge, fingering the blue stone draped loosely around her neck. “Do you like my pendant, HOR-HAY?”
 

“Why, yes, madam, it’s quite appealing.”
 

“Well, it’s half yours. You owe me 50 bucks!” Helga squealed with delight. This was one of her favorite jokes.
 

Jorge offered a meek laugh. “If you should require anything to make your voyage more pleasurable, please tell me. It will be my pleasure to serve you.”

 

“I need a vodka and tonic, but I can see that’s not in your job description. Never mind. I’ll fetch one
myself.”
 

Suddenly, Jorge didn’t know what to do with his hands, or any other part of his body, for that matter. He was caught in the web of Helga’s habitual non sequiturs, puzzled and enraptured at the same time.
 

“I’ll bring a bucket of ice,” he finally offered.
 

“Very good, then.”
 

Helga was glad Jorge had found a way to let himself off the hook. She understood the effect she
sometimes had on the unsuspecting masses, and while she viewed it with twisted delight, she also had a heart. Better that Jorge dismiss himself unceremoniously, than flicker with uncertainty, Helga thought.
 

Moments later, Jorge returned with the bucket of ice he promised.
 

“If that will be all, ma’am?”
 

“Yes, that’s all.”
 

Chapter 3
Frances walked the pool deck with purpose. Vacationing alone was certainly a challenge. Where would she align herself for the seven days of sailing? Would it be with the raucous drinking crowd forming at the pool bar, with its tattooed and tank-topped patrons alternately smoking and bellowing the day away? That wasn’t her “scene” back home in Manhattan. She couldn’t imagine it would be on the boat, either. Frances spotted a young mother near the main pool, her left hand clutching the forearm of a squirming boy as she struggled to rub sunscreen over his chest.
 

“Hold still, will you?” the mother begged.
 

The boy’s eyes meandered to the glimmering pool just feet away, beckoning him to jump in. Holding still was torture for a young lad—you could see it in his eyes—and, without a moment’s notice, he fled from his mother’s protective grasp. He plunged feet first into the water, sinking to the bottom, only to emerge moments later in a flash of soaking hair flipped from his face with a shake of his head.
 

At the age of 31, Frances always thought she would be one of those women—wearing a sensible, one-piece bathing suit sitting quietly on a deck chair by the pool with a towel placed neatly underneath her. She would be wearing a wide-brimmed hat to protect herself from the sun, traipsing after young children, and rolling her eyes at her doofus of a husband.
 

“Honestly, Richard, I can’t take you anywhere!” she would cry in mock disgust, reaching into a bag
stuffed with the necessities of family life—snack cakes for the children, Richard’s favorite sunglasses, a paperback for herself.
 

But it was not to be. She had spent her 20s so deeply immersed in pursuing her career that it left little time for socializing. First, it was her undergraduate course at Sarah Lawrence College where she studied literature, earning a grade point average just shy of the mark that would have allowed her to graduate Summa Cum Laude. She had to settle for graduating Magna Cum Laude, an achievement many would have held in the highest regard, but not Frances. It was short of her goals, and to Frances, goals meant everything. She had spent her time post-graduation learning her occupation, which had grown from fetching coffee in the early years to editing in recent months. Although she had always envisioned having a career in publishing, Frances never dreamed she would one day become the editor of a real estate magazine. After graduation, she had landed an editorial assistant position at Self magazine, published by Condé Nast, where she reported daily to her office in Times Square. It was through a friend of her mother, Madeline Colburn, that Frances had switched to another low-level editorial position at Architectural Digest. But while the magazine title had cache, her job did not.
 

A few years into her stint with Condé Nast, Frances realized that it would be years before she was taken seriously there and given the type of writing responsibilities she so desired. So it was on a whim, one day, that she answered a small ad in the New York Times for a Writer at Real Estate Monthly. Although her knowledge of commercial real estate was limited, Frances somehow managed to convince the publisher to hire her. She learned her craft on the job. When the Editor-in-Chief left two years later to pursue a career in public relations, Frances was promoted to fill the vacancy.
 

Still flummoxed by her role on the cruise ship, Frances decided to take refuge on a deck chair near the pool. While she was adjusting the back—she was too anxious to recline at the moment—she spotted Helga Bittle. She was walking towards her as if she recognized her—how was that possible? Had she seen Frances at the port before embarkation? It didn’t seem likely. Had they somehow been in the same location before this moment on the ship without Frances realizing it? Perhaps. And then, as if she knew the thoughts streaming through Frances’s head, Helga stopped walking just a few feet away from her. Their paths were about to cross. The ants were about to collide.
 

“This deck chair is free,” offered Frances, pointing to the chair next to her.
 

“Well, aren’t you kind,” said Helga, as she shuffled past her, placing a large bag next to the chair, and flopping herself into it.
 

“Your name isn’t HOR-HAY, is it?” asked Helga.
     

“What?”
 

“Never mind.”
 

“My name is Frances.”
 

“I’m Helga. It’s nice to meet you.”
 

“It’s nice to meet you, too. You know, I saw you while passengers were boarding the boat. At the port.”
 

Helga took Frances’s words in with a long breath. She looked entertained by the idea, albeit a bit
perplexed.

 

“I’m a sight, aren’t I?” laughed Helga, with her head tilting backwards and hands placed lightly on her belly, which heaved with Helga’s guffaws.
 

Helga laughed at herself often—she was fond of it, in fact. “Where’s your husband?”
 

Frances thought the question presumptuous, and frankly a bit rude, but decided to cut Helga some
slack. After all, the older generation thought differently on the subject of marriage. To women of Helga’s age, marriage was a foregone conclusion, the exclamation point of youth and the official start of adulthood.
 

“I’m not married.”
 

“Your boyfriend?”
 

“I’m cruising alone.”
 

“No kidding! So am I.”
 

“Where’s your husband, if you don’t mind my asking?”
 

“In Nashua, where I left him 13 years ago. I don’t suppose he’s in the exact same spot—it’s been a few years, he’s probably moved some,” explained Helga, smirking at the thought. She seemed to be in the throes of amusing herself again, when suddenly, her face turned serious. “The marriage was over—he knew it, I knew it. There wasn’t much discussion. I just packed my bags and drove.”
 

Frances wasn’t surprised that Helga felt free to share the details of her life story. She often had that
affect on people. They felt instantly comfortable with her; it was one of the qualities that made her a
good journalist. Not that Helga needed much encouragement. She could talk to a stone wall, really, and the filter inside her head that prevented inappropriate thoughts from being vocalized had permanently malfunctioned years ago.
 

“Henry wasn’t a bad man, mind you, just flawed. He was a terrific lay, though, that’s for sure!” Helga bellowed. “Hennie could work it, boy. Those hard to reach places, you know.”
 

Just then, a beverage server approached the two women, carrying an appealing-looking tray filled with rainbow-colored drinks. He was dressed in a Royal Caribbean uniform—a blue and white floral-print shirt, with blue shorts and a white cap. His badge indicated that his name was Fabien and he came from Jamaica.
“Would you care for one of our ‘Welcome Aboard’ special drinks?” he asked, with an appealing island lilt in his voice.
 

“What’s so special about them?” asked Helga.
 

“Special ingredient, mon,” he said, pausing for emphasis. He leaned into Helga, as if he were about to share a secret. “Don’t think, just drink,” he whispered.

 

“Should we?” asked Frances.
 

“I like how you think, Frannie!”
 

Nobody had ever called Frances that name. Madeline Colburn loathed nicknames, along with many of the informalities of modern-day life. Frances never considered herself “Frannie,” or even “Fran,” but somehow when Helga uttered the name, it made sense.
 

“We’ll take two,” beamed Helga. “It’s on me!”
 

Helga handed over her Sea Pass, a plastic card that served as both a credit card and form of
identification, to the server. She had only spent a few hours on the boat, but already it seemed as if it was filled with a host of bartenders, clerks, and others angling for her Sea Pass. Everything on Explorer seemed to have a price tag attached to it.
 

“To new friends,” said Frances, raising her glass.
 

“And here’s to swimmin’ with bow-legged women!” offered Helga, who immediately thought of the character Quint from the movie Jaws. He was just the type of crusty New Englander Helga loved—drank too much, cursed too much, and looked much older than his years. The harsh winters had a way of doing that to people back home, especially in the northernmost parts of the region. People started to look like bears after a while, just a mass of hair and flesh struggling to keep warm in the snow then riddled with heat in the summer.
 

“So why are you vacationing alone?” asked Helga. “I’m an old lady and nobody wants my company, but you? You’re young and pretty.”
 

Frances never thought of herself as “pretty.” She wasn’t bad looking, mind you, but a bit plain and not the type of woman men went out of their way to speak to at a party. A brunette with short hair cut in a simple bob, Frances had trim features that gave her an air of politeness and, at times, ambiguity. At five foot, five inches, she stood higher than Helga but was never the tallest—or shortest—woman in the room. Her figure was on the slender side, which often made her the envy of her peers, but Frances didn’t find anything remarkable about her body. It was as routine as she was.
 

“I don’t feel young,” Frances sighed. “I thought I’d be married by now, or at least engaged. Most of my friends are. I’ve been to three weddings in the past year.”
 

“Marriage isn’t everything—take it from me,” said Helga. “I know, you probably want children, and that’s understandable.”
 

“Do you have children?”
 

“No. Hennie and I tried, but it just didn’t happen. I never understood why, and never cared to find out, either. After a time, I stopped wondering, and just let life happen. You don’t always have a choice.”
 

“I want to be a mother.”

 

“I know. And I’m sure you will one day.”
 

“Well, I won’t be a young mother, that’s for sure.”
 

“You will become who you are meant to become,” said Helga, for she did have motherly instincts,
despite her biological fate. “And you don’t become yourself all at once. You’ll see. One day you’ll look at your face in the mirror and take secret delight in what you’ve somehow transformed into. And wonder, all the same, how it all came to be. Take the word of a daft, old lady.”
 

Helga’s words made Frances immediately think of a book she’d read as a high school student for
psychology class called Dibs in Search of Self by Virginia Axline, which chronicled the life of a boy named Dibs who rarely spoke and had isolated himself from the world. The book detailed Axline’s therapy sessions with Dibs over the course of a year and how he learned to express himself, literally bringing himself back to life and to the world of other children.
 

Am I Dibs, she thought? Searching for myself on a boat in the middle of the ocean?
 

“You’re not old, and you’re certainly not daft,” Frances managed, after a pause.
 

“You want to bet?” said Helga, reaching into the bag beside her and retrieving the bottle of Stolichnaya.
 

“Look what I have! You want another drink?”
 

Frances roared with laughter.