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Helpless explores Faye’s relationship with power, especially in the context of sexual dynamics and career success. Faye Heron is actively aroused by encounters in which she submits to Henry’s sometimes humiliating dictates. Her experience of being held captive against her will provokes both fear and pleasure because it literalizes fantasies of non-consensual encounters. However, the exploration of power and agency reveals that Faye only derives true pleasures from submission that aligns with her goals and conversely, she only experiences helplessness when she encounters barriers to her desires.
As a college student, Faye purposefully seeks out a relationship with Henry after hearing rumors that he has engaged in kinky sexual practices with his previous girlfriend. She finds her first sexual encounter with him electrifying precisely because it fulfills this fantasy. During their initial relationship, being with Henry also grants Faye access to financial privilege. Even years later, while held captive, her fear of Henry is consistently matched by a powerful undercurrent of arousal. She reflects that with Henry, “nothing made me feel more alive than being degraded by someone who also happened to worship me” (41). By seemingly submitting to Henry during their sexual encounters (and provoking him into renewing their sexual relationship during their time at the cabin), Faye chases the pleasure that she finds only with him. She is not a passive victim but an active participant in a script of her own choosing, one that validates her desires and makes her feel intensely seen.
This sense of empowered submission is thrown into sharp relief by the emotional wasteland of her marriage. Faye describes her nearly seven-year marriage as rife with sexual rejection and emotional invalidation, a state that leaves her feeling powerless and invisible. She confesses to Henry that the lack of intimacy has made her feel “like the loneliest soul in the world” (194). For Faye, this emotional and sexual neglect is the true definition of powerlessness. It is a state of being unseen and undesired, a helplessness she cannot control or consent to, leaving her feeling “hollowed out and black, drained of a life in color” (173).
Moreover, her husband and his powerful brother pose threats to Faye’s professional success and financial stability. Faye’s marriage makes her feel helpless because it genuinely robs her of power and agency: She cannot pursue a divorce without assuming significant risk. Likewise, she becomes frustrated with Henry when he thwarts her ambitions by becoming distressed while driving her to the airport. She also does become genuinely frightened of him several times on the island and attempts to flee repeatedly; she even tricks Henry by seducing him into a sexual encounter and then locking him in the cabin. When Faye experiences genuine helplessness (rather than the intentional submission that she craves), she reacts with frustration and determination not to submit: She crafts elaborate plans to find a new agent and extricate herself from her marriage with her career intact, and she takes significant risks while attempting to escape from the island. Faye only enjoys feigning helplessness when doing so aligns with her greater goals and deeper desires. When a man genuinely attempts to wield power over her, she becomes determined to fight back and assert her own agency.
Helpless contends that generational wealth allows individuals to operate according to a distinct and more permissive set of rules, allowing them to conceal violent crimes and evade consequences to protect their status and financial interests. The remote, exclusive community of Lake Wanika functions as both a literal and metaphorical space where secrets, and even bodies, can be buried to maintain a pristine façade. Through the actions of Henry, Campbell, and Corrine, the novel illustrates how their privilege grants them the power to rewrite narratives, silence inconvenient truths, and treat human lives as collateral damage in the preservation of their legacy and fortune.
The setting of Lake Wanika is the primary manifestation of the protection provided by wealth. Described as a private community in the Adirondacks accessible only by boat and with limited electricity “by design” (9), it is a world intentionally cordoned off from public accountability. Henry explains that it is a tight-knit, exclusive society with its own membership rules and dues, reinforcing its separation from the outside world. This physical isolation provides the perfect environment for concealing crimes. When Henry and Campbell hit and kill Sarah Toner with their car, their first instinct is not to call for help but to protect their futures. They decide to bury her on PT’s vast, isolated property, confident that in such a private and sprawling domain, their secret will remain hidden forever.
The characters’ primary motivation for their escalating series of crimes is the preservation of their wealth and social standing, revealing a moral code where financial and social ruin is a fate worse than death. The plot to kill Campbell and frame Emma is driven by the desire to secure a massive financial payout from selling the Lake Wanika property. As Corrine bluntly states, the money is for a life where one can “Retire before thirty-five, buy a third house, hire a third nanny” (259). Similarly, Henry’s initial decision to cover up Sarah’s death is fueled by Campbell’s panic that telling the truth would “ruin our lives” (149) and jeopardize Campbell’s spot in a prestigious J.P. Morgan trading program. Their actions are not born of malice but of a chillingly pragmatic belief that their right to a privileged existence outweighs the value of others’ lives.
This power is not confined to the island; the characters confidently leverage their wealth to manipulate systems and individuals in the wider world. When the caretaker sees Henry with Faye, Corrine dismisses the risk by noting he can be paid for his silence: “For a price” (241). The entire conspiracy hinges on this ability to control the narrative, from planting Campbell’s car at the Albany train station to using Corrine’s brother, Win, to drug and frame Emma. They operate with the assurance that their money can erase inconvenient facts, buy loyalty, and ensure that the consequences of their actions will fall upon someone less powerful. Their wealth doesn’t just provide a hiding place; it provides them with the tools to construct an entirely new reality.
Helpless posits that transforming personal trauma into art is a complex act of reclamation, serving as both a method for processing the past and a calculated strategy for survival. Faye repeatedly and consciously leverages her most painful experiences, turning them into successful, Emmy-winning television and, ultimately, a new film pitch. This process suggests that for Faye, storytelling is not merely a therapeutic outlet but her primary tool for asserting control over her own narrative and navigating a hostile industry where her personal history becomes her most valuable commodity.
Faye’s identity as a writer is predicated on her willingness to mine her life for material, a practice she views as an essential, if distasteful, part of her craft. While observing Corrine at the funeral, she internally notes, “I consider myself a writer first and the steal never stops” (12). This creative ethos is explicitly sanctioned by her mentor, PT, who, after witnessing her traumatic breakup with Henry, advises her, “Don’t be afraid to write about this one day” (144). Faye takes this advice to heart, creating a television episode based on the event that becomes a “feminist battle cry” (106) and wins her an Emmy. This success establishes a clear pattern: Her personal suffering can be alchemized into professional currency, a transaction she becomes adept at managing.
This transformation of pain into art is not simply cathartic; it is a strategic maneuver for career advancement which is particularly given the cutthroat nature of Hollywood and Faye’s lack of financial privilege. The Emmy for the episode about Henry solidifies her reputation and gives her industry power. Years later, facing a messy public divorce and a smear campaign orchestrated by her estranged husband, she again turns to her trauma as a weapon. Her final pitch to studio executives is an erotic thriller that dramatizes captivity with Henry. She explicitly frames it as a response to the scandal, using her art to reclaim and reshape public perception. In her world, the person who tells the best story wins, and Faye ensures she is always the one with the last word.
However, the novel complicates this process by showing its moral and emotional costs. Faye admits her award-winning episode was an incomplete, self-serving version of the truth, confessing to Henry that it felt “horrible, like I was pretending to be a victim” (106). Her final film pitch is even more complicated: it may or may not be fiction. By sublimating her trauma, Faye gains professional control, but she does so by creating a polished, marketable version of her pain, leaving the messier, more complex reality safely off-screen. Faye’s attempts to control her own story are also shaped by audience expectations and demands, especially since she needs her art to be commercially viable. She can only provide certain versions of the truth, and she has no control over how her story will be interpreted once it is unleashed. Faye’s attempts to sublimate trauma are partially successful but also reveal the impossibility of exerting complete control over a narrative.



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