In the afternoons following practice, we visited our "I Remember Spots." A
pond, parks, roads, and the café that we had played at, walked down, eaten
at. All these held precious memories. Together at last, I could see this
places without pain. And our laughter kept us from hurting at the thought
of Papa Daae.
Finally one night we sat at a café, and I asked her about his death.
"Were you there? Was it painful for him, or quick? Did he say anything?" I saw a flash of grief pass over her attractive face. "I'm sorry, if you'd rather not talk about it."
"No, no, it is good for me to talk. I must tell someone or I believe I shall burst."
I nodded understandingly. Pausing, she looked out the window. It was raining out, a light drizzle from gray clouds, with sunlight streaming through the drops.
"I was there with him. We were sitting by the fire, him in his chair, and my head in his lap -so- and talking about my mother. Suddenly I felt him stiffen under me and he gave a low groan." Her face turned toward me, panic- stricken, as if she had seen a ghost. " I tell you, Meg, it was the absolute worst sound I have ever heard in my life. I." She sounded guilty and hesitant. "I fainted dead away. I left my father lying there, dying, while the nurse went into hysterics and called the doctor. I am sure she thought us both quite dead.
"After that, I woke up in my room, lying on my bed with my clothes still on. Cosette, the nurse, she was hovering over me, and she looked so worried. I immediately ran from the room straight to Papa. He was lying on his bed, with the all but one candle out. He was so white, like paper, and thin, and sickly.it was like being in death's face. So morbid." Christine shivered at the memory. "He stretched his arms out to me, and called me to him. I went to his side, but, oh Meg, not without fear. I knew, I just knew he was dying. He brought me to him, and I sat by his side, and he laid there, just staring at me. I could not look at his eyes, for fear of what I might find in them.
"At last he whispered, "Christine." His tone was so sad; his voice, it was hoarse, and hollow. He told me how much he loved me, and how terribly sorry he was to be leaving me." Here Christine burst into tears. "He said he would always be with me, watching over me in heaven. And he-" Her words were stopped by weeping. I sat there, unsure of what to do, or say. Finally, the poor girl composed herself enough to finish.
"He told me to be ready, to continue singing, because he would send the angel of music. And Meg, he told me this as well. He said, "Tell Meg, tell Meg I love her as my own daughter, and that she too should have the Angel, if she will accept him." He also asked me to give you this." Christine reached into her pocketbook and handed me a small gold locket, identical to the ornament she wore with her mother and father's picture in it. I opened it and found, on one side, a picture of me and Papa Daae, and on the other, a picture of a girl who looked so much like me it was frightening. I turned questioning eyes to Christine.
"Who.who is she?"
"Little Lottie. My father was not flattering you all those years ago when he said you resembled her."
I looked once more at his picture, my arms around him and he holding me like a little girl. I started crying. Christine joined in. For several hours we sat there, crying, staring out into the rain, which matched the inside of our hearts just then.
As time went on, it became easier to speak of our memories of Papa Daae. We would remember stories or jokes he told and laugh, or remember the way he scooped us both into a hug and chuckled in the drollest way. Best of all, we remembered his music, the one legacy he had left Christine with. His violin sat on the coveted place over the piano, in the sitting room of her flat. It was never played, for we both agreed no one could bring the music out of it like Papa Daae could, and we didn't want anyone to try. Next to it sat the picture of father, mother, and child that I saw on her dresser so long ago. A picture of Christine and me adorned the mantle above it. Sometimes, when Christine and I talked about him, I would close my hand over the tiny heart around my neck. Doing so brought this man, who was so close to being my real father, nearer than heaven seemed. ~ Christine was not the dancer she had once been. She had not lost the technicality she possessed, but she lost the spirit, the love and fire for the stage. It was this that kept her from attaining special roles, and she remained in the corps de ballet as I continued to work my way upward in the world. She seemed to be always in a daydream, never paying much attention to the music, or instructions, or the people around her. More than once I had to shake her out of her reverie and warn of her approaching superiors. My mother at first was sympathetic toward her, but after several months, it became exasperating. "One who cannot pay attention does not belong with professionals," she claimed.
I excused Christine with justifications, to my both mother and Reyer. Neither was satisfied, but they did not want to turn the young woman onto the streets without a job. Besides, when she was paying attention she was a talented dancer. They spoke to Christine, begging her to focus on the present, but it was as if she couldn't. It was as if her mind was taken with her father, the true Christine buried with Papa Daae. I had felt before that she might be hidden beneath sorrow, but now I was not sure. She was often in a daze, wandering around halls, and daydreaming. Some began to claim she had gone mad. I refused to believe such dreadful rumors. As her best friend, I also defended her. After all she and her father had done for me, it was the least that I could do. ~
Finally one night we sat at a café, and I asked her about his death.
"Were you there? Was it painful for him, or quick? Did he say anything?" I saw a flash of grief pass over her attractive face. "I'm sorry, if you'd rather not talk about it."
"No, no, it is good for me to talk. I must tell someone or I believe I shall burst."
I nodded understandingly. Pausing, she looked out the window. It was raining out, a light drizzle from gray clouds, with sunlight streaming through the drops.
"I was there with him. We were sitting by the fire, him in his chair, and my head in his lap -so- and talking about my mother. Suddenly I felt him stiffen under me and he gave a low groan." Her face turned toward me, panic- stricken, as if she had seen a ghost. " I tell you, Meg, it was the absolute worst sound I have ever heard in my life. I." She sounded guilty and hesitant. "I fainted dead away. I left my father lying there, dying, while the nurse went into hysterics and called the doctor. I am sure she thought us both quite dead.
"After that, I woke up in my room, lying on my bed with my clothes still on. Cosette, the nurse, she was hovering over me, and she looked so worried. I immediately ran from the room straight to Papa. He was lying on his bed, with the all but one candle out. He was so white, like paper, and thin, and sickly.it was like being in death's face. So morbid." Christine shivered at the memory. "He stretched his arms out to me, and called me to him. I went to his side, but, oh Meg, not without fear. I knew, I just knew he was dying. He brought me to him, and I sat by his side, and he laid there, just staring at me. I could not look at his eyes, for fear of what I might find in them.
"At last he whispered, "Christine." His tone was so sad; his voice, it was hoarse, and hollow. He told me how much he loved me, and how terribly sorry he was to be leaving me." Here Christine burst into tears. "He said he would always be with me, watching over me in heaven. And he-" Her words were stopped by weeping. I sat there, unsure of what to do, or say. Finally, the poor girl composed herself enough to finish.
"He told me to be ready, to continue singing, because he would send the angel of music. And Meg, he told me this as well. He said, "Tell Meg, tell Meg I love her as my own daughter, and that she too should have the Angel, if she will accept him." He also asked me to give you this." Christine reached into her pocketbook and handed me a small gold locket, identical to the ornament she wore with her mother and father's picture in it. I opened it and found, on one side, a picture of me and Papa Daae, and on the other, a picture of a girl who looked so much like me it was frightening. I turned questioning eyes to Christine.
"Who.who is she?"
"Little Lottie. My father was not flattering you all those years ago when he said you resembled her."
I looked once more at his picture, my arms around him and he holding me like a little girl. I started crying. Christine joined in. For several hours we sat there, crying, staring out into the rain, which matched the inside of our hearts just then.
As time went on, it became easier to speak of our memories of Papa Daae. We would remember stories or jokes he told and laugh, or remember the way he scooped us both into a hug and chuckled in the drollest way. Best of all, we remembered his music, the one legacy he had left Christine with. His violin sat on the coveted place over the piano, in the sitting room of her flat. It was never played, for we both agreed no one could bring the music out of it like Papa Daae could, and we didn't want anyone to try. Next to it sat the picture of father, mother, and child that I saw on her dresser so long ago. A picture of Christine and me adorned the mantle above it. Sometimes, when Christine and I talked about him, I would close my hand over the tiny heart around my neck. Doing so brought this man, who was so close to being my real father, nearer than heaven seemed. ~ Christine was not the dancer she had once been. She had not lost the technicality she possessed, but she lost the spirit, the love and fire for the stage. It was this that kept her from attaining special roles, and she remained in the corps de ballet as I continued to work my way upward in the world. She seemed to be always in a daydream, never paying much attention to the music, or instructions, or the people around her. More than once I had to shake her out of her reverie and warn of her approaching superiors. My mother at first was sympathetic toward her, but after several months, it became exasperating. "One who cannot pay attention does not belong with professionals," she claimed.
I excused Christine with justifications, to my both mother and Reyer. Neither was satisfied, but they did not want to turn the young woman onto the streets without a job. Besides, when she was paying attention she was a talented dancer. They spoke to Christine, begging her to focus on the present, but it was as if she couldn't. It was as if her mind was taken with her father, the true Christine buried with Papa Daae. I had felt before that she might be hidden beneath sorrow, but now I was not sure. She was often in a daze, wandering around halls, and daydreaming. Some began to claim she had gone mad. I refused to believe such dreadful rumors. As her best friend, I also defended her. After all she and her father had done for me, it was the least that I could do. ~