To right a life

XXXV

Once Eleven has finally accepted Henry's other gift—a collection of five dolls—he asks her:

   "Want me to help you carry all this up to your room? I imagine that you will spend the day assembling the house..."

   Although she nods in response, when Henry fixes his gaze on the boxes, Eleven takes a step and stands in front of him, obstructing his view of them.

   "Hm?" Henry raises an eyebrow, confusion evident on his face. "Is something wrong?"

   Eleven takes a deep breath. And then, like a Band-Aid, she rips off the words from her chest: "I also... have a gift for you."

   His gaze turns into one of surprise: "Is that so?"

   Eleven purses her lips and goes back to the tree. She kneels in front of it, rummaging through the lower branches for a moment, and finally removes the gift from its place.

   As soon as she has the precarious little box back in her hands, she's assailed by doubts.

   "Uh..." she hesitates.

   "Eleven?" Henry calls to her. "I'm waiting." His voice has a sing-song quality to it, and Eleven isn't sure if he's really that excited or if he's just pretending for her sake.

   Whatever the case, seeing the crumpled wrapping paper that she has clumsily taped together, Eleven feels as if this is nonsense. Maybe it would be better not to give him anything, if her gift is going to be this. She doesn't dare to face him.

   "I... no."

   "No?" Henry repeats, dumbfounded. "What do you mean?"

   Slowly, she turns to him. There, in the middle of the room, in his crisp white shirt and with his arms crossed, Henry is waiting.

   Henry, who has given her everything.

   The dollhouse makes her gift look like something out of a dumpster, and yet it's nothing compared to everything he's given her so far.

   The whole house, she tells herself. My room, my clothes...

   Eleven decides that the only chance to save this situation is to tell the truth: "I... made you a gift."

   "You made it? As in, you made it with your own two hands?"

   "Yeah." She nods to emphasize her response. "But... it's not much and... I think I prefer... not giving it to you because..." She takes a deep breath to force herself to finish the sentence. "Because it's too little."

   Suddenly, the gift leaves her hands and ends up in Henry's, who holds it very carefully, as if it were extremely fragile.

   "He-Henry!" Eleven complains. "Why...?!"

   "Suddenly," he explains, "I had the very vivid impression that this gift was in grave danger. This gift which, by the way, is the first Christmas present I've ever received in my adult life, not to mention the first from someone I'm not related to by blood, and definitely the first someone actually made with their own two hands for me.

   "Call it 'caution,' if you like," he concludes with a shrug.

   Eleven gapes at him. "Henry, I was telling you that it's a very small thing and..." She shakes her head, frustrated. "No, give it to me, just give it to me, give it back to me...!"

   But he takes a step back for every step she takes in his direction. In such an agile way, to top it off: Eleven feels as if she's playing a game of cat and mouse where the cat doesn't stand a chance.

   "I apologize, I remembered just now that you spent almost all your life in a laboratory," Henry comments casually. "That would explain why you don't know how very impolite it is to try to take away a gift once you've given it to someone."

   "But I haven't given it to you!" she protests, extending her hand; this also ends up failing in the face of the invisible shield that Henry, ever cautious, puts up between them. "Ugh! You...! You took it from me!"

   Henry places a finger against his chin as he pretends to ponder her words. "I haven't?" His hands return to the box, which they turn to reveal her shaky handwriting on a piece of cardboard that serves as a card. "Oho, look at that: it has my name written on it. And it's in my hands.

   "I think it is logical to deduce that this present has been already been gifted. To me. Since, you know, it belongs to me."

   Eleven tries to think of anything else to say to him.

   And ends up realizing it's useless.

   Henry smiles after reading her surrender in her eyes and looks down at his gift. Unlike her, he does not tear the packaging, but undoes it gently, starting from the adhesive tape. Eleven watches in true fascination as his long fingers reveal what lies beneath it.

   They're like spiders, she thinks. Deadly, but... also graceful. Skilled.

   Finally, he deposits the wrapping—entirely preserved—on the sofa behind him.

   And he examines her present.

   "I did... what I could," Eleven confesses, as if it isn't obvious. As if the deficient execution of the gift was not evident to the naked eye.

   But Henry says nothing: his eyes absorb every detail of the frame carefully decorated with hearts and...

   "Spiders?" Henry asks. Eleven closes her eyes; that way she can't see his expression. "Eleven, are these spiders? And those red markings on them... Black widows?"

   If her heart stopped right now and she fell dead right there, at Henry's feet... Well, Eleven doesn't think it would be the worst possible thing to happen to her.

   "And this photo..."

   "It's the one we took together... on my birthday," Eleven murmurs, cracking one eye open to look at him, as if that would protect her from Henry's imminent disappointment.

   Henry rests a hand on the base of the frame: Eleven doesn't need to see it to know that he's tracing the initials of their names with his fingers. "'H and E,'" he reads out loud. "How did you get this photograph?"

   "One of Mrs. Byers's sons really likes photography," Eleven explains.

   "Oh, yes, Jonathan," Henry confirms. "Yes, she's told me about him a couple of times."

   "Yeah, him. I don't know how he did it, but... I took the photo from your room one day you weren't there and... I asked him to help."

   Henry nods; his eyes never leave the image in front of him.

   "I know... it's not much," Eleven begins. "Sorry if... you expected something else... It's just..."

   Henry looks at her, then, as if she's grown another head in addition to the one she already has. "Eleven."

   "Huh?"

   "I adore your gift."

   If the way her eyes widen makes her look ridiculous, well, it's not her fault.

   "You... adore it?"

   "I do," he insists. "I adore it. It's..." His eyes return to the photograph, to the frame, to the entire gift. "It's... It's so like you."

   "Like... me?" She thinks about what he could possibly mean by that and asks: "Childish?"

   Henry shakes his head, chuckling. "Like you," he repeats. "Perfect."