Page 60 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

HELENA

S ome people say life is like a blank canvas.

Those people are either rich or delusional… or my mother.

For the rest of us, life is more like a restoration project. A painstaking effort to mend what others broke. You start with cracked plaster and missing pigment, and you try to make sense of the outlines. You try to fill in the gaps with whatever you’ve got left.

No instructions. No matching colors. Just what’s left, and what could be.

The prison visitation room smells like bleach and bureaucratic failure. Ben sits beside me, holding a paper bag with muffins from the deli across the museum. He said if it works for Pat, it’ll work for him. But on a more platonic level. He was hoping it would make her laugh.

Right now, the muffins aren’t doing their job yet. The air just feels heavy and the two of us aren’t wearing any smiles. We’re just staring at the door like it might open and let a ghost walk through. And in a way, it does. Because when the guard opens the heavy door, she steps in.

Wearing beige. It looks like they swapped orange for beige. They must’ve figured depression pairs better with earth tones.

She’s smaller than I remember. Or maybe the jumpsuit just makes her seem that way. Her hair is tied back, her face bare of the usual lipstick and mascara.

When she sees us, she stops.

Her face crumples.

I rise before she can take another step, and then I’m moving, fast, arms outstretched, breath caught. We collide in the middle of the room. Her arms wrap around me like we haven’t seen each other in decades. She’s trembling.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” she whispers.

I choke out a laugh that’s halfway to a sob. “Of course I came. I promised.”

When she notices Ben join us quietly, she pulls him into the hug as well. Then she lets out a tiny, broken laugh, tears streaming down her face.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says.

Ben clears his throat. His eyes are watery too. “We brought muffins,” he says and hands her the bag.

She laughs again, properly this time, then pulls away, sniffling as she wipes her face. “You probably have questions.”

My knees barely hold as I make my way to the seat. All of us sit down slowly. “Just one,” I say carefully. “What’s your name?”

She hesitates. Her expression shifts—like something breaking free inside her. “Bea. Bea Rita Beck.”

I nod. Slowly. “I figured,” I say. But hearing it still feels like a chisel splitting marble, revealing a wound I had carved around for years.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “I should’ve told you sooner. I was… scared. And stupid.”

“No,” I whisper. “Well, yes. You probably should have. But it’s okay. You can tell me now. Tell me all of it.”

And so she does.

She tells me about the drugs. The first high after I was born. The shame. The nights she curled up in bed thinking if she just stayed still long enough, the hunger in her veins would pass. She tells me about my dad—how he tried to save her. How Grandpa tried.

“I thought I was saving you by leaving,” she says. “I told myself that lie so many times I almost believed it.”

She tells me about her first overdose, and about her second.

Then she tells me about a friend she made, and about her overdose.

A girl named Elaine who used to sing songs from The Specials, and who brought her soup from the shelter.

She talks about how Elaine died in a motel bathtub while she was out attempting to score.

“That was my wake-up call,” she says quietly. “I went cold turkey after that. Then I stole her name.”

Elaine Hyde. No priors. No controversial past. No family who might come looking for her. Just a clean slate and the terrifying freedom of starting over.

“I got a job cleaning at a museum. I had tried to keep tabs on you three back home all along. I was still struggling, but it went reasonably well for a while. At least it did until your father died… which is when I relapsed,” she admits, shame washing over her face.

“He was the love of my life, Helena. And when I heard… I just—I broke.”

Ben keeps pulling tissues from his pockets.

“I contacted your grandfather. Your dad and him had told you I was dead because they figured it was the best for you. And I think they were right. I had put them in an impossible position, but both of them did their best to protect you, to do what I couldn’t.

” She sobs through trying to keep it together.

“He helped me too. Helped me enroll in a university program. I had to lie, and claw my way into it, but I did get accepted.”

All I can do is stare at her and listen.

“I didn’t know at the time, but I think he chose an art program on purpose. He was hoping you’d go the same route eventually. And you did.”

My grandpa’s face appears once more before my eyes, the pain on it visible. But maybe it wasn’t pain after all. Maybe it was just a last attempt to tell me what he had been hiding. I don’t blame him. He tried to do what he thought was best. He always did.

“So, I’d sleep three or four hours a night and cleaned stairwells between lectures,” she continues. “And I never stopped thinking about you.”

I bite my lip so hard it almost starts bleeding. Ben grips my hand.

“I considered telling you. But I didn’t want you getting your hopes up for someone who might not survive the year.

Then at one point, I figured… if I could at least be near you.

If I could give you something—anything. If I could at least try to make up for everything I had done, and missed.

I had to try. So I got my degree. I got it faster than anyone ever had before. And?—”

“You built yourself a new life,” I whisper. “And hired me.”

“I didn’t,” she corrects, shaking her head.

“HR did. I had no say in it. You got in on your own merits. I only set things in motion. I let your grandpa know about the job opening. And the moment they decided to hire you, and you walked through those museum doors, I was the happiest person on this miserable planet.”

She pauses then, her breath trembling.

“And when Ben showed up… in that ridiculous RV… I knew something was happening. Despite everything, despite your resistance, he made you laugh, Helena. Like a real laugh. Like when you were small and your dad would pretend to be your pony. I hadn’t heard that laugh in over two decades.”

She wipes her cheeks again.

“The brownies…” I throw in. “And the cookies, and cakes. You made those because Dad made them for me when I was little.”

My mom nods with a pained smile. “I did. Because I didn’t know how else to say I love you.

I just hoped brownies would let you know that there was someone…

someone in your corner.” She blows her nose into a tissue.

“And that’s what I saw in him. In you, Ben.

I saw you two in that fake prison at your grandpa’s funeral and I knew.

So I looked into him. Found out the truth, some of it at least, and pieced together the bigger picture.

What you two were doing. I didn’t understand it all, but I figured out enough.

And I figured I had to help any way I could. ”

“And so you…” I trail off.

“I made my choice,” she finishes, then leans in and whispers.

“Because he loves you. And because I love you. And because I owe you. So I kept him from doing something stupid, and took the fall. He had told me what he was planning on doing, the tape, the forgery. I knew what the cops needed to find. So I made sure they did. After I knocked you out, I got the St. Clairs to talk, and I’ll give the court whatever I can once the trial comes. I’ll put them away for good.”

“But you didn’t have to,” I whisper. “You didn’t have to give up everything, everything you struggled for so hard.”

“I’m not giving up anything I care about, darling.

The apartment, my job, my tantra class… there will be a new apartment, a new job, new hobbies once I get out.

The only thing I care about is you, and I gave you up once before,” she says, her voice cracking.

“This is me trying to make up for it, to right my wrongs. I know it’s not that easy, it’s not how this works, and I’m not expecting you to forgive me for what I did, but this is all that I have, all that I can do. ”

My throat closes. I lean forward, forehead pressed to her shoulder.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there. But I love you, Helena. More than anything in this world. More than my name. More than the life I built.”

I cry then. Properly. Not pretty tears. The kind that make your chest heave and your ribs ache. My mom pulls me into her, and, eventually, Ben wraps his arms around us both.

We sit like that—still, quiet, almost whole—for a long time. A family made from broken pieces. From stolen names. From second chances.

Eventually, the guard comes back and tells us that our time is up. So we stand and we hug again. My mom whispers something to Ben, something about keeping me safe.

He nods.

And as we leave, hand in hand, I look back at her one more time.

She’s smiling. Through tears. And so am I.

Some people may say life is like a blank canvas.

But I know better.

Really, it’s like a half-finished fresco. Covered in grime. Cracked and crooked. And if you’re lucky—if you’re really lucky—someone will hand you a brush and help you clean up the mess.

My fresco is still cracked, still crooked. The colors are still a mess. But for once, I’m not trying to restore what was. I’m painting something new. With him. With the person I love.