A Wish
Four years. It had been four years ago today, and Christine could not shadow out the memories of her father. Her father with the kind brown eyes and musicians' hands. He had been a violinist for years, and Christine was his melody.
She was his music.
For hours, she would close her eyes, and listen. She made pictures out of the music, and thought up stories to go along with his song. That was her secret delight. Her very own picture show dancing behind her eyelids. Christine cherished the soaring sound of that violin, even as an infant. He played it to peaceful, tiny ears as she rested in the womb of her mother, and still to the enraptured five-year-old who sat before him in the modest parlor.
"Will you teach me, papa?" Christine's father halted and turned round to face her.
"You wish to make your own music do you? Does mine no longer satisfy?" He stretched his face out into a playful smile. Light reflected brightly in his eyes, and Christine couldn't help but expel a silly girlish giggle at his reply, despite the insistence that her request was completely and totally serious. Well, as serious as a five-year-old girl could get, anyway.
"I mean it, papa, I want to learn how to play! You can teach me, can't you?" It was very true…he could teach her. It could be very easy in fact, given her desperation for the instrument and young age in her favor. He hadn't told her, but he had considered teaching her many times. He ultimately came to the conclusion, though, that this was an impossibility, given their current financial situation. There was simply no money to purchase Christine a violin of her own, and countless more after she grew out of them in size and accomplishment. A weak smile, and,
"Perhaps in a few years, Christine." Christine's young heart broke instantly. Her eyes welled up with tears at the injustice, and she stomped her little foot in a display of outrage. Christine's father was not without alternative ideas, though, and suggested that she begin singing with him. She retorted that she didn't want to sing. She wanted to play.
"I remember when I used to play for your mother—she would sing with me. She had the voice of an angel." Christine's blue eyes grew large at the mention of her mother. He hardly ever mentioned her, and when he did, it was always very brief, but very touching. His admiration for her was obvious, even to the naïve little five-year-old girl with the big blue eyes and curly flaxen hair.
But that was in the past. That particular incident had been over four years ago, after all, and when she was not dreaming, Christine could hardly recall the sound of her father's violin. She became distressed because she could no longer remember the exact shape of his kind eyes,
or his perfect face. She was forgetting her father's face and sounds, but she could never ever forget the things that he taught her.
"The world is really quite simple, Christine, as long as you have faith." He said one afternoon. She was out with him, sitting on the verandah playing with her toy horses and dolls, he relaxing in the wicker rocking chair sipping coffee. Christine had heard him speak, but his intended message gave way to her Arabian Bay, Charles. "Sure, your faith may be tried from time to time," He puffed a perfect ring of smoke from his cigar. "But you must never give up. Promise me, Christine Daae; you'll never give up." She looked into the face of her father and smiled. It was the best she could say.
Her father chuckled. "I know you don't understand now, but someday all this nonsense that comes out of my mouth will make sense to you."
"I know," she said, and she did. That playful afternoon soon melted into the bright red sunset of an august evening. A calm, dense wind wisped the grass and Christine could taste rain in the air. She stayed outside long after her father had retired into the parlor for his violin, and she looked up into the darkening, starless sky.
"I will. I will have faith, Mamma. I promise." A warm breeze tussled Christine's curls and she giggled to herself. She would always have faith.
"That's it, I give up!" The frustrated blonde buried her face in a pillow and screamed. She kicked her legs in fury, much to the amusement of her companion.
"Chrissy, you are being ridiculous. I swear, if you are so into this guy, why don't you just go talk to him?" Christine took the pillow off her face and shot Meg a sour glance.
"I've tried that, Meg, but every time I see him look at me, I feel like I am going to throw up." Meg smiled compassionately.
"Well, I'm no expert, but I'd say that's definitely not a good sign." Meg ducked a flying teddy bear. "I'm sorry, Chrissy," she laughed. "I really am, but you have just got to man up and grab the bull by the horns." Meg raised her eyebrows suggestively, hoping for a laugh, a smile at least from Christine. She hated seeing her friend so upset, especially over some guy. Seeing neither, Meg sighed sympathetically. "Come on," she insisted and grabbed Christine by the arm. "I know exactly what you need."
Meg led Christine into the kitchen and opened the pantry. She buried her face in the selection of 'feminine necessities' and pulled out a brown bag.
"Oh, jeeze, Meg, I can't possibly eat those. Not now…what if I—"Meg interrupted her thought.
"If you say that you are going to get fat, I may have to destroy you. I'll have none such nonsense in my kitchen." Finally, a smile from Christine. It wasn't as bright as normal, but at least Meg was making progress. She dumped the contents of the bag into a bowl in the center of the kitchen table, and carried it back to their room. Christine followed eagerly. No matter what the situation, there was no refusing M&M's. They were Christine's favorite vice.
"Now," Meg said, landing on her bed with a mouth full of candies, "tell me what happened. Exactly."
Christine sighed nervously, even reliving the memory made her anxious. "Well, it was in European Lit. He turned around and asked me if he could borrow a pen." Christine paused, giving Meg an impression that was quite false.
"Sounds terrifying." Another flying teddy bear almost hit Meg in the face.
"That's not all, let me finish!" Christine snorted, and then quickly changed her expression to a somber one. "This is very serious."
"Obviously." Christine ignored Meg's sarcasm and went on with her story.
"Well, I heard what he said, and was fully intending on reaching for a pen, I really was…but then he looked at me."
"Dear God, how frightening."
"I got lost, Meg. I forgot where I was, I forgot my name, and I certainly couldn't think of where any pens were. All I could see were his eyes…looking at me. Smiling at me." Meg saved her face from yet another stuffed animal and shoved a handful of M&M's into her mouth before some sarcastic statement or other could come out. Sometimes she had absolutely no control over what she said.
"I was so awkward, Meggy!" Christine grabbed a pillow again, and buried her embarrassed face in it. "I must have sat there staring at him for a half a minute. Then do you know what he did?" For obvious reasons, Christine didn't allow Meg the pleasure of venturing a guess. "He turned back around. He turned back around and got a pen from Carla. He must have thought I was an idiot, just sitting there staring at him." Meg put a comforting arm around her best friend.
"Listen, Christine, I know that I'm not good at this gushy romantic advice…I don't really have the best track record, but speaking from a spectator's point of view, maybe you should practice or something." Christine's eyebrows jumped in skepticism.
"Practice?"
"Yeah, you know…talking to other guys." Meg obviously didn't get it. Other guys were no problem. Christine could talk to practically any guy she wanted to, but when it came to Raoul de Chagny…she was nothing more than a lust puddle. A drooling, stuttering lust puddle who didn't know a pen from a parakeet. And rightfully so…Raoul de Chagny was a dish!
He stood at a glorious 6'2", five beautiful inches taller than Christine, and had a rugged, manly face that mismatched him in the most perfect way. He was anything but a typical male. Raoul's family was rich (which, for some, added to his magnetism), and he and his brother Philip spent a lot of their time funding and attending plays, musicals, operas, ballets, and other arts at the local theatre. Raoul had a reputation around town for his sensitivity and empathy to others. He was involved heavily in charities, and rescued 3 stray cats in the past year.
He sat in front of Christine in her European Lit class, which was nothing short of a miracle. How lost she would get in class, staring at the back of his perfect head. His blonde locks, a shade or two darker than Christine's, feathered down the back of his muscular neck, and were effortlessly voluptuous and perfect.
This was the man of her dreams. Forlorn as she was though, Christine thought perhaps her dreams were the only avenue in which she would ever speak to him.
"Man, I'd do anything for some fatherly advice right about now." Meg gasped. How could she have forgotten today?
"It's been four years now, hasn't it?" Christine nodded sadly. Meg could relate to Christine since she virtually had not father. Meg's parents had been divorced since Meg was only seven, and she hardly ever saw him since then. There had been three Christmases and four birthdays since the divorce until he stopped sending cards. He was very faithful in the beginning, sometimes sending them without occasion, but gradually, these became less and less frequent until they finally stopped altogether.
Meg's mother and Christine's father had been friends since their adolescent days. They knew each other originally through Christine's mother, who was Mrs. Giry's childhood best friend. That is how Christine ended up living with the Giry family. On his death bed, Christine's father had instructed Mrs. Giry to look out for her and keep her safe. She took this very seriously, and adopted Christine at the age of thirteen into her family. Meg was glad for it, since they were best friends themselves, and times got lonely when all she had was her mother to keep her company.
Since then, they were inseparable. They had the bond of sisterhood without sharing any blood. Their dispositions and humors were almost identical, though their looks could not be more opposite.
Christine's bright blonde curls were leagues away from the straight dark brown tresses that Meg had. Each was insatiably jealous of the other's hair, openly willing for a trade if ever possible. If their hair wasn't enough to set them apart, their eyes certainly were. Christine's were a curious shade, somewhere between blue and green, and Meg's were dark as night. Never before had Christine seen eyes as dark as Meg Giry's.
Upon questioning, she told Meg that she had something very important to do, and after some consolation from her best friend, and way too many M&M's, Christine wandered into the basement. Christine's usually light footsteps creaked the old stairs that had buckled over time. Christine was accustomed to that sound, and it never really bothered her before, but tonight, something about that interrupted silence vexed her usually serene temperament.
She walked over to a small box that she had kept hidden in the basement. She took it out and looked at it once every year on this exact date. She knew that dwelling on the past would not bring her father back, but she could never imagine totally leaving him behind, so once a year, she opened this box and looked though her past.
She mostly had pictures in there. She spent an hour and a half at the very least looking at pictures. She saw a small blonde girl smiling affectionately at the man with the rugged brown mustache. She saw that same small blonde girl, a little older, fishing with her still-mustached father off a bridge that has long been gone since the picture was taken. And still, she sees this blonde girl every day, walking past mirrors or in the reflection of dark windows. She knew this girl so well, but the man with the mustache was only ever seen in pictures. She couldn't even imagine his face if she wanted to. Christine frowned to herself.
She sat in front of that small box, looking at pictures, theatre ticket stubs, stuffed animals, and any other random assortments that reminded her of her father. She despaired that she was not allowed to have her father's violin…not just yet. Mrs. Giry had it somewhere that she could never find, despite incessant searches conducted by Christine and her partner in crime.
Christine closed her eyes and tried to put her memory to the test. She tried to imagine his voice, his smell…anything. Searching was fruitless, and the seemingly matured version of this small blonde girl began to cry. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn't bother to brush them away. She welcomed them to wet her face and smear her make-up. She was alone, after all…
"Chris—tine?" The feeble voice of her best friend snapped Christine out of whatever mindset she had been in. A mixture of extreme nostalgia for her father, pity for herself, and also anger in her obvious abandonment of his memory—what kind of a daughter would forget her own father? She became suddenly ashamed and embarrassed of the hot tears rolling down her face. She wiped them away quickly, trying to turn her thoughts once more away from her
father. "Chrissy, are you alright?" Meg knelt down beside her friend, who had put the lid back on her memory box.
"Yeah, I'm—I'm fine, Meggy." Christine forced a smile.
"Mom was wondering where you've been. She sent me down to make sure you were ok." Christine stared at the wall. "Are you? Really?" Christine nodded.
"I know you understand, Meg. I can't bring him back, but still, I sit down here and I…"
"Pray?" Christine pondered that for a moment, but realized praying was probably something Meg did in regards to her father… that assumption was incorrect in Christine's case.
"No…not pray, really. I used to pray for him to come back every night after he died…back when I was 13…no, not praying anymore." Christine knew that a prayer like that would never ever be fulfilled.
"Then what?" Christine thought for a second. She hadn't even really thought about it until now. She hadn't tried to put reason behind her actions.
"Wishing. I'm wishing, Meggy."
"For what?"
"Not for anything really. I'm just wishing that he was somehow with me…wishing he was somehow here again."
They sat like that for as long as they needed to. Best friends brought together by the abandon of their fathers. Their situations had been different of course, but neither was really better off. They both knew this, and understood it in mutual taciturn.
With no fathers, and only one mother between the two of them, they had realized four years ago exactly what it was that they really needed. And right now, they had it, in its purest, most beautiful form.
All they needed was each other.
