Hearing Helen. Carolyn Morton

      “Talk about taking a part-time job way too seriously,” I said, half to myself and half to the absent Hank, shaking my head at all his stuff.

      I ducked my head under his bed and pulled out the medical books that our parents had bought him at sales at the local library, blowing off the thick layer of dust that covered them. He really needed to vacuum more often. I did too, but the clothes on the floor hid the dust. Sometimes I wished I wanted to become a doctor, just so that I could keep important-looking books like that under my bed.

      My books were mostly worn copies of actresses’ lives: not just of my all-time favourite Marilyn, but also Julianne Moore and Mom’s icon, the screen legend Greer Garson. I always told people the initial of my second name stood for Gina because no one at school had heard of the movies Mrs. Miniver or Goodbye, Mr. Chips, but my mom had watched Greer acting in them over and over when she was pregnant with me. I was born on 6 April, exactly a year after the actress died, and so I ended up Helen Greer Booysens. I actually liked it, but no one would understand. They’d just laugh, so I kept quiet and admired her in secret.

      I was so absorbed in leafing through Hank’s books that I almost didn’t notice when the music from the room down the passage stopped. Becoming aware of the silence, I quickly shoved back the books and stood up.

      Doing that, I saw a note jotted in funky, rounded letters on a piece of paper acting as a bookmark in his most recent Student Teacher magazine.

      “Definitely not Hank’s handwriting,” I muttered, and jerked it out curiously, feeling less guilty than I probably should have. My eyes widened as I read the note, then I shoved it quickly into my pocket.

      I dashed to the doorway and lounged nonchalantly against the frame, just outside my brother’s room.

      “What are you doing here?” Hank asked as he walked in and flung his music book onto the floor before collapsing onto his bed. “I told you to stay out of my room.”

      “Nothing. And I’m not in your room.”

      “You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” he said.

      “So, did you have a good session today with Madame Pandora after work?” I asked smugly, not bothering to answer his question.

      He didn’t answer directly. “Why do you ask?” he said, opening a Student Teacher magazine so he didn’t have to look at me.

      “No reason,” I said airily and sauntered away, pleased to know I had him at a disadvantage.

      I barely waited until I’d locked the door of my room before unscrunching the piece of paper I’d taken from Hank’s room.

      Today’s date was on the top and a cellphone number I didn’t know, with flowers over the 1s. Then followed the words Seeulater –maybeafterwork? and underneath it a row of little hearts that were definitely not from Madame Pandora.

      Very interesting, I thought, scribbling down the number.