we'll dance to the music of tears
Amy used to sing in the shower. Pop, country, classics, random movie theme songs.
When we were in our hotel room between frantic death chases by our lovely relatives, I would hear her humming echo between the faded wallpaper, between the chaos of the streets, between us and the darkness of the future as she harmonized with the consistent torrential deluge.
Later, I asked her about it. She blanched, blushed furiously, muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath, and told me to mind my own business, dweeb.
Really, if you ask me, Amy's not much of a singer. You would be disappointed when you actually hear her- from the fuss she makes over hiding and denying it, you would think it would cause people to drop dead and weep or make them do the chicken dance on national television.
Her voice isn't famous pop star worthy, nor is perfectly in tune. Her voice isn't sweet, nor is it rough. I guess it's just normal. I don't know how to describe it- it's just always been there. Something constant. It's reminder that I'm not alone in this world. The slow, constant melody that's almost whispered, it's so quiet. It's my lifeline, guiding me to the surface every time I begin to slip.
After the shower incident, the songs stopped for a while, and she would always glance at me out of the corner of her eyes after a shower. I pretend I don't notice and tell her about the latest video game which she just had to get me. A few weeks and a couple of countries later, the humming resumed. It was tentative at first, hesitating every so often, and then back to the soft constant melody I had come to recognize as synonymous with Amy and home.
Throughout her boycott of vocalizing, I don't think she ever stopped singing inside. She just held herself back when she thought I was listening. I didn't mention it again.
And when it rained, I could always find her by the huge window seat overlooking the garden at Graces' or whatever window she could find during the Hunt. She would have a book in her lap, the latest tune flowing with the rhythmical turn of pages.
Occasionally, she would even run outside to spin and twirl and leap and splash. These impulses seemed to catch her when she was most unaware. Amy would be making cookies one minute, and outside the next.
The episodes always made me snort and tease her when she regained her senses. Despite my jokes though, I never could bring myself to videotape her for blackmail. It just didn't seem right to tape something that's so- so impossible to record. So I just sat there and watched.
Once, I caught her trying to catch raindrops on her tongue as I was struggling to break my record on the number of cookies I could stuff into my mouth at one time from my seat by Amy's window.
With her head raised toward the sky, she didn't see the giant puddle of soggy mud she promptly fell into.
Spewing an arc of saliva-coated crumbs across the room (another record breaker, I'm sure) I couldn't help but laugh at her confusion. Not that I tried to restrain myself. When I finally had the strength to look out the window again, I expected her to have returned to reality. But her song never stopped as she ran back into the house, giggling, leaving a trail of mud.
Amy came in and dragged me out into the pouring drops. She gave no escape, despite my mumbled excuses about ninja games and cookies. We danced together, in time with the music of the skies, as I spewed cookie crumbs into the air like edible confetti.
Later, as we sniffed and sneezed and mopped up all the mud and crumbs, I denied that I had ever danced. Amy just laughed.
Amy doesn't sing in the shower anymore. The hotel rooms are empty now, a slab of stone blocking her songs.
After the hostages were captured, I asked her why she didn't sing anymore. She stared blankly at me before turning away. The next day she said that there wasn't time for it anymore.
She didn't even tell me to shut up or call me a dweeb.
Amy is always giving me lectures and sneaking worried glances at me now. She says that I am different, that I have grown up too fast, that I have changed. She doesn't realize she has changed too.
And now, when the skies pour, the windows are empty of her silhouette, and only the faint wisps of her shadow remain as nostalgic wishes. The raindrops fall, big and fat, like tears rolling down the face of life.
The music is still there, I think, but Amy can't hear it anymore. I can't hear it either. Maybe I never could, never can, without Amy. But I think, if I could hear, it would sound like a song of sadness, like the sky is giving up and just letting all the sorrow fall.
The curtains are shut to keep out the rain and gloom. But sometimes Amy lifts a corner and stares into the various shades of ashen sky. When she does, she doesn't remark on the terrible weather or complain about the never-ending weeks of continuous rainfall. She just stares, unmoving, as her face is illuminated by rain-gray light. She doesn't sing.
The serum is almost finished now. I'll drink it and Amy will sing again and dance in the rain. She'll have time to sing then. And then we'll dance together to the music of tears. Amy, me, and Mom and Dad- together. We'll dance to the music of tears.