Summary: After the death of her beloved grandfather, Odette feels as if there is no one left to love her; except for a mysterious angel who claims to have been sent by her grandfather. However, on her eighteenth birthday her angel kidnaps her (presumably for voice lessons) and shatters her entire world. Trapped in her angel's secluded mansion, Odette is excluded from the details of her predicament. Confused, disorientated, and shrouded by secrets, Odette must uncover the truth and rebuild her world if she is to ever live her life again.
To add interest (and a twist) all character names have been changed. OdetteChristine
VardenErik, GiselleMeg, etc.
I appreciate all (relevant) criticism. Especially in the grammar department! Please read and review! Thank you!
Papa's Angel
I broke a glass when I first heard.
"Jesus Christ, Odette," was all my father said as he ran his fingers through his coffee-and-cream hair.
"Clean it up," My mother, said pointedly coming to place a light hand on my father's shoulder. Jerking away he slammed his fist on the shining countertop. The bistre crock, filled with state of the art utensils, responded with a rattle.
"The old fool never wrote down anything important! It's going to be a bloody mess sorting out his affairs."
"Calm down, Matthew, your father died, he's not being sued. We're his only relatives—it shouldn't be that hard to settle his affairs." Grumbling my father stared intently at the oak dining set, all the chairs tucked in neatly.
"We'd better leave now," grimacing, he walked the short distance to the garage door without looking back. My mother turned to look at me, her face blank.
"We'll be at the office for the rest of the evening. Make whatever you like for dinner and be in bed by nine,"
"Mommy?" I interrupted, my lower lip quivering, "Is grandpa really dead?" My mother's hazel eyes stared at me, unseeing.
"Yes." Snapping out of her reverie she quietly gathered her purse and cell phone. "You may spend the night at Giselle's if you wish," I shook my head, more to clear the droplets of tears than answer her suggestion. Nodding my mother started towards the garage, her ebony heels clacking on the slate floor. As her hand reached for the doorknob she turned back for the last time, "And clean up that glass."
I waited until the Jaguar vroomed to life. Until the garage slid shut. Until I was quite sure the car had rounded the corner, speeding away to my parent's law firm. The tears came faster and I buckled, narrowly missing a sparkling shard.
Gone? My dear, dear Papa gone? Forever? I couldn't understand why God would do this to me. Papa had been the only one to care about me. The only one to take pride in me. The only one to love me. God had given me two career-driven, uncaring, unsupportive parents; but he had blessed me with Papa. And now, in one mysterious swoop he had taken him. The tears came harder and harder, smothering my face with salt water. The kitchen became blurry until the whole world seemed part of a dreamscape. My ten-year-old self couldn't understand. I still can't understand.
When the tears had slowed to a trickle and my breathing became rhythmic I began to gather shreds of glass. But a tidal wave of emotion rained down on me and with a gasp, the tears began again; only this time I began to tremble vehemently. At one point my hand was shaking so hard the glass shard between my fingers slipped and sliced my left index finger. Vermillion welled and flowed down my finger in a watery trail. As I watched the blood slide it hit me: how had Papa died? Papa had visited only a week ago and seemed in perfect health: what happened? I finished picking up glass, my mind churning with questions.
The glass residing in the trashcan I made my heavy-footed way up to my bedroom. Flopping on the pink bedspread I promised myself two things that day: one, I would honor Papa's memory by partaking in all the activities we use to do together—namely, singing, dancing, acting, and painting. Second, I would never let this happen to me again. Never.
"What's wrong honey? Are you nervous?" Miss. Margaret asked gently, kneeling so our noses meet. I shook my head, my throat clenching uncomfortably. The other ten-year-old dancers had gathered in a ring around us whispering to one another, their pearly white tulle crackling.
"What's going on? You girls are on in ten minutes." At Mrs. Mary's booming whisper the other dancers scattered to the wings on pointed toes—except for Giselle, who remained on the outskirts, watching with uncertainty.
"Odette's nervous," Miss. Margaret, replied rising to meet her sister, her cherub pink tulle rustling. Biting my lip I tried to make a dam against the tears. This would be my first ballet recital without Papa. I had never had a performance in which he did not attend. And now there would be no flowers of pride at the end. No kiss of congratulations. No hug of support. Nothing. My parents hardly ever came to a recital (unless dropping me off at the door counted) and when they did they always arrived fifteen minutes late and usually couldn't distinguish me from the other dancers. Today, they told me they wouldn't be sneaking in through the side door, since they still had to settle Papa's affairs.
"Buck up Odette. You've done recitals before. Much bigger ones too. Buck up." Mrs. Mary attempted to console me in her robust voice: but they did not understand the situation and therefore could offer no comfort. The tears started to press themselves against the corners of my eyes. I threw my eyes to the ground, knowing Mrs. Mary, Miss. Margaret, and Giselle were all watching.
"Odette?" All four of our heads turned simultaneously to stage right. In the dimness was a young man: his clothes and hair blended into the dark and the stage lights cast a waxy amber across his face. The light caught on the angles of his nose and eyes but left his mouth remarkably untouched. It looked nice, but sad and sweet, with its sanguine corners turning down.
"Who are you?" Snapped Mrs. Mary, obviously annoyed that someone had breeched her backstage security. Her security, however, might have been more effective had it not consisted of her perverted fifteen-year-old son whose ultimate goal was to catch one of the senior ballerinas without her tutu. She still employs him, even to this day.
"I'm Odette's cousin." I stared at his lie. Both my parents were only children—I had no extended family.
"Hmph. Well seating is out front."
"I just came to wish her luck."
"Well you can do that after the performance. She doesn't need any luck right now."
"Mary!" Miss. Margaret interjected; clearly repulsed by her sister's behavior she stepped between the stranger and Mrs. Mary. "Of course you may speak to Odette. She is on in about five minutes though…"
"I'll be quick," the stranger promised. Miss. Margaret nodded and began to gather a huffing Mrs. Mary and a confused Giselle. Now would have been the time to call his bluff. To shout that I had no cousin and please don't leave me with this stranger. But I didn't say anything. I've often wondered what emotion had stayed my voice: was it relief at finally being left alone? Curiosity at this stranger? Fear that my dance instructors and Giselle might get too close and see my real pain? Whatever it was, I watched them leave in silence and the stranger approach.
He was younger than I first thought. Fifteen? Sixteen? Eighteen? But that was only his body: the rest of him looked much older with perfectly pressed pants, a buttoned black blouse, and spit-shined shoes. As he came closer I was able to distinguish a hidden item in his hands: a single yellow rose with an extended stem. Catching me staring at it he offered the rose to me and I took it cautiously, the tears sticking in my throat.
"I know you're probably very confused but I…" at the word 'confused' I lost any self-control I had earlier possessed. Tears broke loose and ran down my cheeks following my watery snot. Confused?! Hell yes! And he was here preaching confusedness to me? Like he knew anything that was going on.
"Who are you?" I gasped trying to control my sobs. What I really wanted to know was what right he had to lecture me.
"Shhh. Its alright." He bent down on one knee to reach up and swipe away the tears. His voice was mellifluous and scrapped by an unknown accent--a calming, pleasing sound: still, I pulled away.
"Who are you?" I asked again, my voice a little more steady. He looked across my face searching for an answer.
"My God. You have his eyes." He even sounded like an adult.
Losing my patience and sanity I took a deep breath and repeated in a shrill voice, "Who are you?!" Blinking out of his dream , he looked at me, his face smooth and divine.
"I'm friend of your grandfather's. He sent me to look after you." My grip tightened on the rose so the skin was almost punctured.
"Like an angel?"
"Sort of," the tears began trickling down my face and he reached up once more to wipe them away—and I let him. It felt good to be comforted by someone who loved me. Could love me. But whoever heard of an angel that didn't love? Besides Papa had sent him to me—this angel had to love me in some way. "I know you're frightened and confused," he began to lecture again and I opened my eyes wide to listen, "but I just want you to know that I'll always be here for you and perhaps in a few years…"
"Odette! You're on!" Mrs. Mary hissed from the mid-stage wing. I looked her way but that was the only acknowledgement I gave: my full attention was on my angel. I swiveled my glance back to him, eager for more details—but all he did was sigh and then rise.
"Go to your performance. I'll be watching. Good luck." With that last sentiment he lightly kissed my forehead and disappeared into the shadowy exit. That was the last time I was to hear his voice.
When I cantered onto stage with the rest of my company, I scanned the crowd for my dark-clothed angel and found him standing in the back, silently watching. To this day he has kept his promise, standing back there, watching me perform pirouettes, solos, and monologues. And before each performance he leaves an unmarred rose on my make-up table. Mostly cadmium, or crimson, or coral. Sometimes an orange one. Once there was a stark white rose resting amongst my foundation and mascara. Whatever the color, he always leaves one to brighten my day. I don't know how I could have made it these last eight years without him. Still, I often wonder at one of the last comments he made to me. Something about something happening in a 'few years'. I've been wondering for eight years about what he was going to say, right before Mrs. Mary interrupted.