FINAL CREATIVE DISCOVERY James Paik

Helen came into my life twenty years previous, as a vibrant young woman in
dogged pursuit of a musical career that had led her to a pianists maiden recital. My
maiden recital. I too had only just emerged victorious. Recipient of first place in
the International Tchaikovsky competition, and prospective apprentice to worldrevered soloist: Vladimir Horowitz. I had procured a life with nothing to gain and
everything to lose. To keep things short, we met and we loved and we promised.
Looking back, I think Helen completed my image as a musician. She had elegance,
humour, and came from worthy familial stock. If, for example, I was scheduled to
tour New York, she was there to accompany me and to smile for me, to spruce the
musical mechanisation of my schedule. Things were looking good, to put it mildly.
I can confidently say that if a future as promising as mine were to be taken from
me, I would have afflicted mortal agony on the entity responsible. Little was I to
know that the very entity of which I spoke would be myself
It was two years after our marriage, that she first showed signs. The voluminous
concert hall erupted in applause. Flowers fell at my feet, as I struck the final chord
of Chopins first concerto. It was an emphatic conclusion to my mentor Horowitzs
testimonial recital. Helen joined me on stage to deliver a vote of thanks for his
service to my development as a pianist, and I was silently confident that she would
do me proud, that she would reciprocate my performance with an equally
sumptuous delivery of her own. Yet. Yet even as she guided herself forward from
backstage, her eyes told a shockingly different story. They darted from me to the
grand piano to the flowers by my feet, and back to me. Trembling lips. Her hands
wrung in her debilitating confusion.
Then she hugged me, reaching at me as though I were a lifeline, and whispered
hoarsely into my ear Thomas why am I here. Where- the audience, whom saw

only the seemingly warm embrace between Helen and I, simultaneously broke into
applause, cutting her off mid-sentence. My voice shook with suppressed shock and
what I think might have been embarrassment, as I cajoled Honey, theyre waiting
on your speech calm down now dear. Helen made no effort to extricate herself
from around me. All the while, the audience applauded, with a renewed vigour as
each second passed. I suddenly realised how prudish I appeared, so I hugged Helen
back. Please honey, you must get going now. The audience clapped louder.
Helen, you have the words, itll be over in a minute. Louder still. Helen
LOOK AT ME WOMAN! Overwhelming frustration and pride rent apart the
frontiers of my patience. She faced me, eyes uncomprehending and breath
staggering. I had expected tears, but this was different. She hadnt been afraid, she
had been lost. And as the audience peaked their cacophony, Helen went limp.
She was diagnosed the next day. Early-onset Alzheimers, they had said. There is
no cure. We can stave off the worst of it with the right treatment, but eventually,
she will be lost to you. I composed myself and stared at her, the collar of my shirt
slick with sweat, the air conditioning thrumming frivolously in the curt office of
our faceless doctor. Helen returned my gaze dolefully. Her face registering nothing
but a distant sadness that I knew was wholly for my sake and not her own. She
loved still. The iPhone in my chest pocket began to vibrate. Instinctively, I knew
that it was my manager David, calling in to finalise details for my flight to Paris
the coming evening. I extracted the device, laying it flat on my palm and paused. I
faced a choice: to stick by my beloved Helen even though I knew that she would
slowly lose recognition of me and forget that I even existed, or I could leave her. I
knew it could be done quietly... And raw emotion surged through me once again, as
seeds of doubt instinctively bloomed and took hold of my being. I didnt want her
anymore. I raise my head, momentarily perusing the nappies that I knew Helen
would need soon. Lowering my gaze back to my vibrating phone I hovered my
index finger over the display. I pressed green.

And so it was arranged. I found a man that agreed to act as my wifes husband for
an indefinite period. His fee would be handsome, and I knew that as my wife began
to forget, she wouldnt have the slightest inkling that it was not I who kept her
company. Except, events panned out quite unexpectedly for the both of us. Helen
soon began to recuperate from her disease. Though I knew full well that
Alzheimers was incurable, the medicine and her youth had thrown off the bulk her
disease; long enough for her to fall in love with the paid husband. He in turn
reciprocated an affection for Helen. I no longer played a part in their lives. And she
would have forgotten my face by that point. That would be that, or so I thought.
------------------------------------------------------Much, much later, as the seeds of doubt had done to spring up and seize my
conscience, similar seeds of remorse flourished to drag down the freedom that I
had afforded myself. Because what I had had with Helen wasnt love. It was
unprincipled opportunism. My mechanised self, that egocentric perspective, had
blinded my scope for a truth beyond the piano and the superficial riches that
ensued. I had been subjugated by the media, drunk on a fame that never fulfilled
yet left me perpetually hungry for more. So thank you Helen.
Exactly thirty years after striking the deal with the anonymous candidate for
Helens husband, I made my way back to our old abode. She would be there but I,
in a deeper sense, would never make it back. I knocked on the door, and there
Helen stood. She was soon accompanied by her mercenary husband, followed by
their infant daughters. They held hands, staring into the face that was starved of
genuine love and heartfelt skinship. Too soon old too late smart.