Author's Note:

Hello to you, lovely reader. Hey Arnold is amazing and you are, too.

Though I battle blind

Love is a fate resigned

Memories mar my mind

Love, it is a fate resigned.

-Amy Winehouse

/A few moments in the life of Stella Shortman, six months post-TJM./

1: On Breaking

She's rifling through the shoebox again, breathing in every inch of its dust-coated contents. Sometimes it's as if she feels she might become a part of the scenes in the pictures simply by looking hard enough. It's been six months already, and she still can't get enough. She could pore through these pictures for hours. She could pore through them for the rest of her life.

"Oh, look, Miles, have you seen this one yet? It's Arnold at his second birthday party!" Stella exclaims. "Look, you can tell he's exactly two. He can stand up on his own."

Miles grabs the somewhat ancient photograph with fevered hands, his mouth slightly parted in anticipation. "Hmmm. Sweetheart, look closer - it's got to be his third birthday. There are three candles on the cake."

"Three candles! Threeee caaaandles! But one's for good luck, of course!"

Both Shortmans blink as Gertie springs from the rocking chair to her feet, hair tumbling in wild gray curls from her bun. It's always difficult to tell whether she's asleep or listening - sometimes it seems she does both at once.

"Why, Tex had a fabulous time at that birthday party!" Gertie continues spiritedly. "We were roaring and singing, we were hollering and hooting! The Ringling brothers themselves were there! Elephants everywhere!"

"Pookie, not you and your story about the Ringling brothers again!" Phil looks on rather crossly from the doorway, with a pointed glare in his wife's direction. He's still a bit irritated after being served radish juice and uncooked steaks for dinner, Stella supposes. But Stella, who's eaten every kind of dish imaginable over her course of years on the planet, finds Gertie's unique culinary tastes simply charming. She always has.

"Why shucks, Slim. But we had such a grand old time!"

"We did not." Phil moves closer to the couch, bending to examine the pile of scattered snapshots on the coffee table. "We've never had a pair of Ringlings, or an animal bigger than Abner, in this house in our entire lives."

"Oh yes," Gertie says, shrugging. "I must be thinking of the Battle of the Alamo. We brought in war elephants for the occasion, you know."

"Oh, look at this one, Stella," Miles says breathlessly, dangling another photograph in his wife's face. This picture appears to have been taken in a classroom. A young Arnold, perhaps six or seven, is laughing in front of a chalkboard with a wide gap in his mouth where his two front teeth should be. He has one arm slung around an equally gummy-smiled little Gerald Johanssen.

Stella takes the photo in her own hands. She brings it up to her face, so close she could kiss it.

"Oh, I love this," she says.

"And take a gander at this one here," Phil chuckles richly. "Oh, mercy, this is when Pookie and I took Arnold to the park and he lost his hat in the sandbox. Gust of wind blew by and swept it right off his head. We must'a spent the whole day running all over the city, trying to track that thing down. Wasn't the first or last time we had to chase after that hat, either."

"Well, where was it?" Miles asks.

"The sandbox!" Phil shouts. They all laugh at this punchline, their voices hearty and full of the kind of lifelong love one can only have for family.

But the happiness that floods her heart is splintered. It's broken, like shards of glass that will never form one whole again, no matter how desperately she wants them to.

"Something wrong, Stella?" Phil asks, seeming to notice the faraway look in her expression.

Miles reaches over to rub her shoulder. His hand is warm. But his eyes are full of something lost and wild.

Like Stella, he carries the jungle in those eyes. Like Stella, he carries all of those broken-winged butterflies and all of those dead bodies.

She's beginning to understand that the two of them always will.

"I knew Grandpa was lying about the killer clowns!"

Stella laughs. "Don't be too hard on him, Arnold. He just wanted to make you happy."

"Oh, I know," Arnold smiles. "But it's nice to finally know the truth."

"It's nice to finally tell you the truth." She kisses him on the forehead. "Well, you'd better rest up for school tomorrow. You don't want to fall asleep in class."

"One more story, Mom. Just one more. Please?"

Arnold's face is glimmering with anticipation, his eyes round and hopeful. He's usually so reserved: calm, adult-oriented, endlessly mature. But wrapped up in his green blanket and button down pajama top, wearing the expression of an eager puppy, he looks younger than almost-twelve years old.

It would fill Stella up, if only she could make it last forever. "Honey, it's almost eleven 'o clock."

"I know, but you didn't even get to the part about the Green Eyes' Summer Solstice ceremony. You were going to tell me about their traditional garb. And the annual battle reenactments commemorating the preservation of the secret site from the river pirates. And what about the maize-based breakfast feasts?"

"We have all the time in the world for that," Stella tells him, laughing again. "Just not tonight. We can talk more tomorrow, I promise."

"Okay," Arnold agrees. His eyes soften and he leans back into his pillow, the exhaustion suddenly evident in his slightly drooping mouth. "We'll talk more tomorrow, Mom."

Stella brushes one hand gently across her son's scalp, pushing back several tufts of his messy yellow hair. Arnold's eyes begin to close at her touch.

"We'll have dinner together tomorrow," Stella continues, her voice growing softer. "As a family. I'll make potatoes and stew and arroz con leche."

"Arroz con leche?" Arnold repeats sleepily.

"You'll like it."

"Okay," Arnold says, his eyes now firmly shut.

"I'll tell you all about the traditional Green Eye garb. And you'll tell me all about your science project. And Helga and Gerald. And everything else about the sixth grade."

"Deal," Arnold agrees. His breathing turns heavier. He's fading out and away from her, making his way into his dream world once again.

Stella lifts herself from the bed. She turns to give her boy one last glance before she makes her way towards the light switch on the wall.

She squeezes her eyes shut. And for a moment, just one moment, she sees him again: a baby curled up in diapers, thumb in his mouth. The mobile over his crib plays shepherd to the pools of city lights that swim in through the sky window. The room floods with them - flashing reds and blues and yellows. She runs to the crib, and she holds him again. She sings soothing lullabies for her Hillwood son.

But it's only a moment.

When she opens her eyes again, the baby is gone.

They take a walk on a white-skied Sunday, snow boots crunching across the muddied sidewalks. Arnold had informed them back in the fall - gently, though that didn't seem to soften the message's blow - that walking to school together every day was Just Not An Option. Neither was meeting him in his classroom for a Wednesday family lunch. Regular visits to watch him play dodgeball or run in circles around the gym floor in P.E. class were also to be strictly avoided.

So they'd compromised on a scheduled weekend walk, one which would be specially designated for the three of them. Phil and Gertie have adhered diligently to this unspoken rule, understanding without being told that the younger members of the family appreciate the time on their own. The only person who occasionally (often) impedes on their alone time is one Helga G. Pataki.

Stella doesn't mind. She has a brusque presence, but there's something about the little girl that she finds fascinating. Maybe it's her fervent expressions, or her intelligent wisecracks, or all of it combined. Despite Helga's rather dark undertones, she manages to add a certain lightness to their family sessions - a lightness that none of the three Shortmans possess on their own. Quite aside from the fact that Stella and Miles owe their lives to her, Stella likes Helga Pataki on her own merits.

"So, Football Head, what do you think we should do today?" Helga asks. Her fingertips just barely graze Arnold's; touching but not quite holding hands. "Should we show your mom and dad our techniques for throwing rocks at dumpsters? Steal a couple sundaes from Slausen's?"

Arnold laughs, but Stella doesn't miss the slightly red tint in his face. The kids frequently grow flustered in each other's presence, their awkward adolescent nerves jangling and clattering back and forth in off-key piano medleys.

"She's just kidding," Arnold clarifies unnecessarily to Miles and Stella. "Why don't we take a walk around the park?"

"That sounds like a good plan," Stella agrees, smiling.

They set off, letting Arnold and Helga set the pace.

"So tell us how school is going," Miles says. "Anything new?"

"Well, we got assigned a science project yesterday," Arnold says. "Gerald's going to make a volcano with vinegar and baking soda. I thought that sounded cool. But I can't decide what I want to do yet."

"I'm gonna make a schematic diagram of the Cretaceous period," Helga pipes up. "But only the carnivores. The plant-eaters are lame."

"Yeah, Helga really knows her dinosaurs. And..." Arnold pauses for a second, giving Helga a sideways glance. "And... Mr. Simmons told us there's a dance coming up in February for Valentine's Day."

Helga's face flushes, but she trains her eyes firmly on the ground in front of her.

"You know, a boy-girl dance where we're supposed to dress up," Arnold continues, still refusing to look away from the pigtailed girl at his side.

"Yeah, and like I told you before," Helga snarls at him suddenly. "Don't get any ideas about that, cause I'm sure as heck not going. I hate all that stuff."

"But - I..." Arnold says, tentatively, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "I just thought it might be kind of fun."

"It won't be."

"They might have some good snacks, Helga. Like punch and... pretzel sticks and... maybe cookies."

Helga rolls her eyes. "Well, criminy, no one told me there'd be cookies. Now my whole life perspective has shifted."

Arnold continues to stare at her, his expression full of something yearning and hesitant. Finally, he leans over and kisses her on the cheek.

For a moment, Helga has the look of someone who's been melted from the inside out with some sort of inner-body hot iron. Sheer joy seems to be emanating from her pores in rivulets. But the second Arnold starts to smile, she shakes herself of it like a dog shaking water from her fur.

"Quit grinning like that, Arnoldo," she snaps. "Do you always have to look at me like I'm some kind of circus freak?"

"No," Arnold says quickly, his eyes widening and fingers fumbling at her words. "Of course not. I mean - that's not how I was trying to look at you. Anyway, I don't really care about the dance that much. It's probably better that we don't go."

"Alright alright, if you have to be so demanding!" Helga responds dramatically, throwing up her arms. "I guess we can go, but don't say I never did you any favors."

Arnold smirks at her. "I won't."

They walk a delicate tight rope, Helga and Stella's little boy. Over the course of the past few months, they've taken to baiting each other, as though silently daring the other to be the next one to put something new on the line. Every time Helga isn't sharp-tongued or insult-laden, Arnold takes blatant notice, and she responds with equal parts embarrassment and delight. And every time Arnold initiates some small gesture that indicates the two are more-than-friends, Helga's enthusiasm swells immediately to boiling, adding an extra layer of awkwardness to the air that Miles and Stella mostly dutifully ignore.

"Well, good," Helga says coolly, shifting awkwardly on her feet.

They continue on like that for the rest of the walk, Miles and Stella answering to the kids when they want to be answered to, and letting them ramble on their own when they want to be left to themselves.

The kids focus on each other more than anyone - it's inevitable, even on family walks. It's normal. But it doesn't stop Stella from faltering, confusion washing over her in spite of her fondness for the little girl.

"Hey, we should get you home soon, Helga," Arnold says an hour later, looking down at the watch Miles gave him for Christmas. They're making their way out of the park at that point, moving back in the direction of the boarding house. "It's almost two 'o clock. You and your mom have that group at three, don't you?"

"Oh yeah," Helga grumbles darkly. She crosses her arms over her chest. "That'll be a barrel of laughs, as usual."

"I think it's good for you guys."

"Well, AA is supposed to be good for alcoholic misfits and their traumatized children. It's just too bad Miriam has the willpower of a wilted rag."

"Have a little faith, Helga," Arnold says optimistically. "She just needs time."

Arnold casts a meaningful glance in his parents' direction. His eyes say it all: I love you, but please don't come along.

Stella looks at her husband. Miles clears his throat. "Well, Arnold, your mother and I should be getting home soon to, uh... um... pick up our medication. Post traumatic stress disorder, you know."

"Good idea," Helga says, nodding earnestly. "Go for the drugs, big time, Miles. I sure as heck would."

Arnold brushes his hand gently against hers and they take off, walking in perfect step with one another. Miles and Stella stand watching their retreating frames until they're completely gone from view.

"It's really something, isn't it?" Miles remarks, shaking his head.

"It is," Stella agrees. "There are no words for it."

She rests her head on his shoulder for a moment, wishing the painful hammering in her chest would go away.

Stella tries not to be greedy.

But the truth is, she's hungry. There are holes inside of her. She can't seem to fill them. No matter how hard she tries, she always wants more.

She's never felt so much at once. She was the level-headed one; the smart and resourceful woman. She was independent and she was proud of who she was. Always.

Am I still? she wonders now, staring at her weathered reflection in the bathroom mirror. It's an otherworldly sensation, to look so much older in the mirror than she remembers being. Where did the youthful glow in her eyes go? When did her cheeks grow so skeletal, her face all bones and angles where it used to be rounded and full?

And when did she become the mother of this boy - a boy no longer little, but teetering on the brink of young adulthood? A boy who learns to set clear boundaries, even while his parents can't stop clinging?

"You look so beautiful, Stella."

She's sitting on the quilted bedspread, rubbing her fingers along each red and blue thread. All she's wearing is a nightdress; her eyes tired and worn; her hair uncombed.

Miles sits down beside her. The bed springs creak underneath the weight of his body. His eyes, Stella can see, are glossed with tears.

"I'm so happy," he tells her, taking her hands in his. "I feel like I could cry, every moment of every day, because we're here. I love you so much."

"I love you, too," Stella says. She leans over and kisses him, just as full, as magical, as tender as the day they kissed for the first time. She had known, well before the instant her mouth touched his: she wanted to spend her life with Miles Shortman.

And she has.

"We're so lucky," Miles says after a moment. He brushes a strand of hair from her forehead. "I think I'm the luckiest man in the world."

For a moment, Stella lets herself hesitate. She wants the man in her arms to know. She wants to let the darkness in her heart seep inside of him; let him touch away her sorrows, kiss away the fear.

"You are," she says instead. "And I am, too... so happy, Miles."

He smiles into her hair. They turn off the lights.

But Stella lies awake, long after her husband is snoring, her eyes on the ceiling, her stomach in her throat.

"Man, Arnold looks so weird in all of these."

Helga is sitting on the couch, sifting through the photographs still on the coffee table - Stella has yet to put any of them away. The unibrowed little girl is waiting downstairs while Arnold finishes dressing for the dance. She looks quite pretty, Stella thinks, wearing a pink dress with spaghetti straps and her blonde hair in a half-ponytail fastened with her usual bow.

"Weird?" Stella repeats.

"Yeah, weird," Helga says. "It's like the person taking them couldn't keep a steady hand to save their life. He's all blurry and off-center in most of these."

Stella understands what she means. But she shrugs good-naturedly. "It's all we have, honey."

Helga whips her head up. Stella can see something inquisitive in her face; something wondering and almost wistful. But all she says is "oh," looking down again to continue leafing through the snapshots.

"So," Stella says, smiling kindly. "Are you excited for the Valentine's dance?"

Helga grimaces. "Nah, not really. But your son over here is so... so idealistic, ya know? He likes everything a certain way. So I go along with it. I wouldn't want to dash his weird-headed little hopes. No offense, Stella," she adds hastily. "You know I really do like his weird head... I mean... wait, that's not what I meant..."

She trails off, seeming to feel she's said too much. Her face is glowing slightly pink.

"I know," Stella says, sitting down beside her on the couch and giving her a comforting pat on the back.

"How does it feel?" Helga asks suddenly. Her eyebrow is raised, but Stella can tell she's genuinely curious. She's not the kind who asks questions for the sake of conversation. "What's it been like, being awake again after nine whole years? Isn't it weird?"

Stella stares at her for several beats. Helga's lips are parted, her eyes darting back and forth in a hurried scan of the older woman's face.

"You know, Helga," Stella says finally. "It's been over six months now, and I think you're the first person who's asked me that."

Stella's veins are pulsing with gratitude for the child in front of her.

"Really?" Helga says in surprise. "But how could people not? It must be the weirdest thing in the whole world. I mean, you can't be the same person you were before... can you?"

"In some ways, honey," Stella says slowly, now rubbing her hand in circles across Helga's back. "In some ways, I think I am. But in other ways... not at all."

Helga's eyes bear into hers like lasers.

"What has it been like," Stella asks, "Growing up here?"

"You mean, for me?" Helga blinks. "Oh, I dunno. Really sucks in a lot of ways, Stella."

"Why is that?"

"Well, my family sucks sometimes. Don't get me wrong, we're trying. But Arnold was always..." She looks down at her hands, the pink glow in her face deepening in intensity.

"What, honey?" Stella urges her, trying to swallow her own eagerness.

"Listen, I'm gonna tell you this because I trust you. But I swear, you breathe a word of this to anyone and I..." Helga winces, shuddering up and down. "Arnold was always the best part of everything for me. You know how he is now? All good-hearted, and dumb, and totally blind to reality? That's how he always was, Stella. He's just like you and Miles. I mean, criminy, I should know. I've loved the boy since I was three years old."

Stella fights frantically against the tears welling up out of nowhere in her eyes. "You have?"

"Yeah," Helga slinks further into the couch cushion, eyes full of defeat. "From the second I laid eyes on him, I was a goner. Hook, line, and sinker."

Stella tries to speak, but she can't. Her voice is trapped, caught somehow between despondency and pure euphoria.

"Does that..." Helga attempts, quaking suspiciously, as though afraid Stella might burst out laughing at her at any minute, "Do you think that's pathetic?"

"Helga," Stella manages. She can't help it: she presses her lips against the little girl's forehead, kissing one of her only sources of hope. "No, I don't. It's the least pathetic thing I can think of, actually."

"I have more, Stella," Helga mumbles nervously. Stella isn't sure what she's talking about until she follows Helga's gaze to the coffee table. "I have a lot more than these dumb shoebox polaroids, ya know. A whole bunch of pictures. Videos. Even poems. They're my poems, not his," she adds quickly. "But they're about him. If you really want them... you can have them. But you have to promise not to tell."

Stella's heart speeds like a jackhammer. She opens her mouth to respond. Before she can get a word out, however, they hear the staircase creaking and Helga slides one hand across her throat as if to say, Put a lid on it.

Miles and Arnold appear in the doorway, Miles' hands on his son's shoulders. Arnold is dressed in a collared shirt that matches his hat, his hair freshly washed and combed. As he draws closer, the scent of something familiar and spicy overwhelms her, and Stella wonders if Miles insisted on dousing Arnold in his cologne.

Helga might be wondering this too, judging by the vaguely lightheaded expression on her face.

"Hey, Helga," Arnold greets them, taking in Helga's appearance a bit anxiously, his voice low and strangled-sounding. "You look really nice."

"You don't clean up so bad yourself, Arnoldo," Helga replies, but Stella can tell she's barely stifling a swoon. Helga rises from the couch and gives a salute to Miles and Stella. "Well, folks, we'll be back within the hour."

"Maybe two hours," Arnold says hopefully. "Two or three?"

"Don't push it," Helga snaps as the two exit the doors of the boarding house together. Miles and Stella can still hear them arguing as they make their way down the front steps.

She's staking out the fancy cheeses section in the grocery store, pushing a cart filled with fresh produce through the crowded aisles. Grocery stores are some of her favorite things about living in the states again. It's just nice to have such a wide selection of foods available - all within walking distance and easy to buy.

Smoked Gouda? No, too strong. Accasciato? Too rich. Aged British Cheddar? No, Phil will think it smells bad.

Finally focusing in on a package of fresh mozzarella, Stella almost doesn't see the woman who brushes her shoulder as she slouches past. But a roll of Saltines drops from the woman's food basket as she's in Stella's vicinity. Ever the helper, Stella hurries to pick it up.

"Excuse me," Stella says, holding out the plastic package. "I think you dropped this."

The woman, blonde-haired and dressed in lavender, blinks at her from behind a pair of square glasses. She looks tired, and mildly bewildered, as though she can't quite figure out how she ended up here.

"Oh..." she says vaguely, taking the bag of crackers. She places it in her basket, which is filled with several bottles of wine. "Thanks."

"Hey!" Stella tells her, a jolt of recognition running through her chest. "Hi, Miriam. I'm sorry, I was lost in my own world. I almost didn't recognize you there for a second."

"Huh?" Miriam Pataki asks in confusion.

"It's me, Miriam," Stella says. "It's Stella Shortman."

"Stella Shortman?" Miriam repeats blankly, blinking.

"Arnold's mom," Stella clarifies. "Your daughter... and my son, they..."

"Oh... oh yes," Miriam replies, still wearing that dazed expression. "Arnold's mom. I remember now. Isn't that funny, it feels like you've been just everywhere lately. You know, before this year, I felt like you didn't even exist." She gives an innocuous little laugh.

"Oh," Stella says. "Well, I sort of didn't. I was asleep for nine years."

"Asleep for nine years, you say? I know how that feels," Miriam tells her, casting a guilt-ridden glance down at the bottles in her basket. "Anyway, Sarah, it's nice seeing you. I'll just be on my way."

"Miriam, wait." Stella reaches out her hand, placing it cautiously on the other woman's shoulder. "I was wondering if you... if you wanted to grab some coffee sometime. Just the two of us."

"You and me?" Miriam says. "Coffee?"

"Yes," Stella nods. "I could really use a friend. Could you?"

She watches while the blonde woman hesitates, seeming to weigh the options in her mind.

"Yes," Miriam says finally, and Stella releases the breath she hadn't realized she was holding between her teeth. "I could. And I'd really like that."

Surrounded by darkness, she breaks.

"I don't want to smile anymore, Miles."

The air between them hums and vibrates. Their bodies knot together in the too-small bed; her legs between his knees, his arms across her waistline.

His chest shakes against hers as he draws in a sharp breath of air. "What do you mean?"

"If I had to start my life over again," she whispers into the warmth of his neck, "I wouldn't do a thing differently."

"I wouldn't either, Stella. Never."

"Never," she agrees. "The Green Eyes are our family. They always will be. But I..." her voice cracks. She can feel the heat burning at the back of her throat. "I don't feel the same as I was. I don't know if I can pretend to be happy all the time anymore."

"Pretend?" Miles repeats. She knows the word tastes foreign in his mouth.

"I feel angry, Miles. I feel sad. I feel like we were cheated."

There's another breath: a long second during which the prospect of having said too much plows across her heart.

Then Miles closes in on her.

His musky scent envelopes her. His hands begin working their way through the tangles in her still white-streaked hair.

"Stella," he whispers into her ear. He begins to scatter kisses across her neck, cheeks, scalp. "Stella, honey."

"Yes."

"It's okay to be angry."

"I don't think it is. Think of all the people who died. Think of everyone who would have given anything to be in our place. To have made it out in the end, the way we did."

"If they had made it out in the end," Miles whispers in fragments, his kisses growing faster and harder, "They would be angry, too. Of course they would be. Being angry doesn't mean you're not grateful. It doesn't mean you're not strong."

"Then what?" she begs. The tears stream down her face and into the pads of his fingertips. "What does it mean?"

His eyes are sturdy, fire-filled. They're the only things she can see.

"It means you're human. And you have to accept that, Stella. You don't have to smile. All you have to do is accept that we're human, and we're going to be human for the rest of our lives."

Arnold is a gentle sleeper.

His breath curls in and out, his chest soft and graceful in its rhythmic movements.

"I love you," Stella tells the preteen. "My grown up boy."

She shuts her eyes. The baby crawls out of his crib, scared by a thunderstorm. He's alone, crying out in the night to parents who abandoned him - parents whose faces he might not remember in the morning.

"I'm sorry," Stella says, opening her eyes. "I'm so sorry."

But Arnold, almost-twelve years old, is safe and sound. He can't hear her.

She opens the door and tiptoes down the staircase, making her way through the broken light.