The rest of the afternoon was quiet, as was the evening. They had sandwiches for dinner and Maleta went to do her math homework. Later that night, they watched The Office together, as they always did. Right before Maleta was going to go to bed, Kimi ventured the question that had been bothering her earlier.
"Mally, dear?" Kimi didn't call her daughter Mally as much as Tommy did--he'd come up with the nickname--but it was getting easier to call her the name.
"Yeah, Mum?" Maleta was getting a bit tired and was going to ask her mother to tuck her in soon, but first she was curious as to what her mother wanted to know.
Kimi's question was not asked in the forceful, I'm-talking-and-you'll-listen tone she used with other people--and with Maleta, when she wasn't doing as she was told. It was expressed much more timidly, choked with a bit of fear. "Do you--do you remember your father at all?"
Maleta had been sitting in her usual tv-watching chair, an old, sharp-backed armchair with patterns of brownish flowers on it, but she moved when her mother asked the question. Coming over to where her mother was on the couch, Maleta curled against her again. Kimi put an arm around her only daughter, smoothing back the wisps of hair that had escaped from her French braid.
"Do you?" Kimi asked again, curiously.
Maleta shut her eyes, thinking back as far as she possibly could. "I'm not sure."
"Think back to your earliest memories," Kimi said quietly, twisting the end of Maleta's plait between her fingers. "Will you tell them to me?"
Nodding, she answered, "Yes, Mum."
...
She was perhaps two at the time, her dark hair more black than it was violet. Even now, of course, it was mainly dark, but back then, it was like night. Wearing a pink jumper--the American kind, Maleta thought, not the British--and a white shirt, she dashed around a house. It was big-looking, and a lot of it seemed orangeish to her.
Behind her, a woman ran, smiling. She was old--older than Mum was now--but not so old that she couldn't play with her...granddaughter? That seemed right.
...
"My mother--your grandmother." Kimi said, interpreting the memory. "Grandma Kira."
Maleta vaguely remembered calling the woman that, but not much.
...
"I'll get you!" the man called. He also chased her--Maleta thought perhaps she was younger. She couldn't remember anything but his face. He had glasses--thin, wire-rimmed...like the ones Maleta had now, but instead of the round shape hers took, he had square shaped glasses.
His eyes were merry and xxxx when he caught her, swinging her up into his arms while she giggled madly. "I've caught you, Maleta! I've caught you, Lette!"
But what she remembered most was his unruly hair, falling in front of his face unevenly. She pulled at it, marvelling in a childish way at its brilliant, orangey colour.
...
"When was that?" Kimi asked, her breath short. Hearing her daughter's memories was beyond strange, when she thought back to what she remembered of the time.
"I don't know," Maleta admitted. "I must've been really little..."
"But--he must have come over when I was out. I can't think of any time you were with my brother with me around."
Maleta thought about this, and she sighed. From what she could remember of him, the man seemed like he was very nice, but the way her mother talked, you'd think he killed someone. She wished vaguely that she could really meet her uncle sometime, and that he and her mother would apologize to each other for whatever had happened so long ago to make them hate each other.
...
She was older now, but not too much older. Her hair was in braided pigtails and she was clothed in a nightgown. A pair of wiry but strong arms held her firmly, but not tightly, in a stranger's lap. For some reason, the memory seemed blurrier to Maleta than the others had.
...
"And--it was a story. I was listening to a story. It was about..." Maleta shut her eyes, trying to recall the details from so long ago. "About a bird..."
Kimi's eyes widened. "The Firebird and Princess Vassilissa," she murmured. "It's an old Russian fairy tale--it was your father's favourite."
"Then--" Maleta said, hesitantly, "Then I do have a memory of him?"
"Yes," Kimi told her, hugging her daughter. "I can't tell the story well at all. Your father told it wonderfully. It was a romantic old story, too. I wish I'd thought to make him record himself telling it, because he knew it by heart..."
Maleta wished she had, too. Hearing that would have been wonderful.
"We have the Firebird Suite somewhere," Kimi went on. "It's a piece by Igor Stravinsky. It was based off of the story. Your father adored it, of course."
Smiling softly, Maleta curled closer to her mother. "Could you tuck me in, Mum?" she asked quietly. "I'm tired..."
Kimi looked at the wall-clock. "I should think so! It's eleven!"
After that, the days went by rather uninterestingly. The weekend was over, and Maleta had school, while Kimi had work. Neither found their prospects very interesting. At night, Maleta did as many chores as she could, to free up time for listening to stories about her parents and their friends, particularly her father.
There were a lot of things Kimi couldn't share with Maleta; the girl was too young to hear the details of some of the stories. Kimi suddenly wanted to tell all about the things that had happened, though. Maybe she should go see someone--a shrink, maybe.
Maleta was having an excellent day that next Friday. She did well in school, and her best friend, Ivy, had invited her over to stay the night on Saturday. Everything was looking rosy, at the moment.
"Mum! I'm home!" she called, coming into the house with her backpack and clarinet in tow.
There was no response. Perhaps Kimi had to stay late? Usually, if she wasn't finished--which happened a lot--Maleta's mother would bring her work home and listen to Maleta talk about her day while she finished. Mum felt strongly about leaving Maleta "unattended", as she called it. Maleta always had a key, in case an emergency kept Mum at work, but those didn't often come up.
Maybe she'd gone out for groceries. That was a possibility. Maleta went into the kitchen, shedding books, music, and outer layers of clothing as she did so. There wasn't a note on the fridge where her mother usually left them.
Shrugging, Maleta went back to the front hall to lock the door--Mum would be paranoid as anything if she came home to an unlocked door, even if Maleta was home, too--and took advantage of her mother's absence to go watch tv. This was expressly forbidden in the afternoon, if Maleta had homework to do, but who was there to yell at her?
Fifteen minutes later, she shut off the television, finding that the drivel that was on was its own punishment. No wonder Mum didn't want her to watch tv in the afternoons; it was godawful boring. Homework seemed much more interesting, and that was depressing, because Maleta had no vested interest in doing her homework.
Maybe she'd read, instead. Maleta was still in the living room, depressed at the fact that the BBC had betrayed her so. She glanced over the books in their bookshelves finding nothing she wanted to read.
Outside, there seemed to be some noise, like a scuffling. Maleta paid it no attention until there was a knock at the door. Sighing, she rolled her eyes, remembering that Mum was awaiting a parcel. She'd better go get the door--considering how the mail went around here, they might never get it, otherwise. Stupid Royal Mail Service; it wasn't worth beans, really.
Opening the door, she was waiting to see their postman, with his round, shiny face. Instead, Maleta was greeted with a very different sight.
A gaunt, greyish-looking stranger stood before her, holding a cane in one hand. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses, and his hair grew in uneven clumps. He looked very, very old to Maleta, and she wasn't sure who she was looking at.
"M--may I help you, sir?" she asked, remembering to be polite and add the 'sir', since old people usually believed in formalities like that.
The man's eyebrows curled into a frown. "Who are you?" he asked, leaning slightly on his cane.
Maleta wasn't sure what to say. Mum told her not to give her name to strangers, but this old man didn't look like he'd be able to hurt a flea, let alone a ten year old seeing girl. She debated for a few moments whether or not to give her name while he waited, a tapping foot the only sign of impatience.
"Well?" he asked. Maleta looked him over once more. His clothing was baggy, and it accentuated his thinness; none of it matched, either. Mum would've been shocked. Kimi believed in creativity, but this was absurd. Then, he was probably blind, judging by the cane and the heavy sunglasses.
Finally, she figured he wasn't going to harm her. "I'm Maleta," she answered, not mentioning her last name. If the man didn't know it, he obviously didn't belong here--after all, how many Maletas were there in their neighborhood?
Only one, of course, but this man didn't seem to know this. "Maleta Pickles?" he asked curiously, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead.
Maleta nodded, realized that if he was blind, he couldn't see her, and added a "yes" to her action.
"Maleta Virgil Pickles?"
Her plait bobbed with her head. "Yes, sir." Maleta was a bit exasperated with the old man, since really, would there be any other Maleta Pickleses on the Earth? She highly doubted it. Her parents picked her name to be unique.
The man seemed startled. "Your mother is Kimi Pickles?"
"Sir, did you want something, or were you going to stand here and ask me stuff all day?" Maleta couldn't help but feel frustrated now. Why did it matter who her mother was?
"Is she home? Could I talk to her?"
Maleta shook her head. "Nope. Mum's still at work. Come back around seven tonight, and she should be here."
The man nodded. "Seven? I'll see you then, I guess. If you'll still be here. Will you?" He sounded strangely hopeful, considering.
"Yeah, I will." Maleta couldn't help but add, "It's a good thing you picked today to come around. I'd be gone if it was tomorrow."
"A good thing," the man echoed, nodding again. "Well, Maleta Virgil Pickles, I'll see you and your mother at seven. Thank you for your time." He turned and walked off, tapping his cane gently as he did.
Well. That was definitely weird. Maleta shut the door, locked it, and went to find a book. Mum could deal with that man at seven, because Maleta didn't want to talk to him again.
Well, as we can see from the new episode of All Grown Up, in which Kimi waxes obsessive over her Japanese-ness, that my fic is now officially AU (alternate universe). In this world, she's half French, and she doesn't delve into the annals of her family tree until later in her teens.
If you're enjoying the story, hating the story, have predictions of what's going to happen, or have absolutely nothing to say, please review! I'll finish the story no matter what, but the reviews REALLY keep me going, and I appreciate them when I get them--so rare a moment that is. :)
This chapter was inspired by "Bookends Theme" by Simon and Garfunkel, which most people know as "Old Friends/Bookends". It's a pretty song, and a sad song. I think, from now on, I'll be titling the chapters after songs, or using lyrics from songs. I'd been doing that subconsciously for a while, anyway. The first four chapters don't have song titles, but chapter five is from "Changes" by David Bowie, and chapter six is, of course, from Dido's "White Flag".
The title of the story? From "Beautiful Boy", by John Lennon, of course.
Much love, and if you haven't heard "Bookends", view the lyrics. I encourage everyone to listen to it!
Time it was and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences.
Long ago, it must be; I have a photograph.
Preserve your memories,
They're all that's left you.
"Mally, dear?" Kimi didn't call her daughter Mally as much as Tommy did--he'd come up with the nickname--but it was getting easier to call her the name.
"Yeah, Mum?" Maleta was getting a bit tired and was going to ask her mother to tuck her in soon, but first she was curious as to what her mother wanted to know.
Kimi's question was not asked in the forceful, I'm-talking-and-you'll-listen tone she used with other people--and with Maleta, when she wasn't doing as she was told. It was expressed much more timidly, choked with a bit of fear. "Do you--do you remember your father at all?"
Maleta had been sitting in her usual tv-watching chair, an old, sharp-backed armchair with patterns of brownish flowers on it, but she moved when her mother asked the question. Coming over to where her mother was on the couch, Maleta curled against her again. Kimi put an arm around her only daughter, smoothing back the wisps of hair that had escaped from her French braid.
"Do you?" Kimi asked again, curiously.
Maleta shut her eyes, thinking back as far as she possibly could. "I'm not sure."
"Think back to your earliest memories," Kimi said quietly, twisting the end of Maleta's plait between her fingers. "Will you tell them to me?"
Nodding, she answered, "Yes, Mum."
...
She was perhaps two at the time, her dark hair more black than it was violet. Even now, of course, it was mainly dark, but back then, it was like night. Wearing a pink jumper--the American kind, Maleta thought, not the British--and a white shirt, she dashed around a house. It was big-looking, and a lot of it seemed orangeish to her.
Behind her, a woman ran, smiling. She was old--older than Mum was now--but not so old that she couldn't play with her...granddaughter? That seemed right.
...
"My mother--your grandmother." Kimi said, interpreting the memory. "Grandma Kira."
Maleta vaguely remembered calling the woman that, but not much.
...
"I'll get you!" the man called. He also chased her--Maleta thought perhaps she was younger. She couldn't remember anything but his face. He had glasses--thin, wire-rimmed...like the ones Maleta had now, but instead of the round shape hers took, he had square shaped glasses.
His eyes were merry and xxxx when he caught her, swinging her up into his arms while she giggled madly. "I've caught you, Maleta! I've caught you, Lette!"
But what she remembered most was his unruly hair, falling in front of his face unevenly. She pulled at it, marvelling in a childish way at its brilliant, orangey colour.
...
"When was that?" Kimi asked, her breath short. Hearing her daughter's memories was beyond strange, when she thought back to what she remembered of the time.
"I don't know," Maleta admitted. "I must've been really little..."
"But--he must have come over when I was out. I can't think of any time you were with my brother with me around."
Maleta thought about this, and she sighed. From what she could remember of him, the man seemed like he was very nice, but the way her mother talked, you'd think he killed someone. She wished vaguely that she could really meet her uncle sometime, and that he and her mother would apologize to each other for whatever had happened so long ago to make them hate each other.
...
She was older now, but not too much older. Her hair was in braided pigtails and she was clothed in a nightgown. A pair of wiry but strong arms held her firmly, but not tightly, in a stranger's lap. For some reason, the memory seemed blurrier to Maleta than the others had.
...
"And--it was a story. I was listening to a story. It was about..." Maleta shut her eyes, trying to recall the details from so long ago. "About a bird..."
Kimi's eyes widened. "The Firebird and Princess Vassilissa," she murmured. "It's an old Russian fairy tale--it was your father's favourite."
"Then--" Maleta said, hesitantly, "Then I do have a memory of him?"
"Yes," Kimi told her, hugging her daughter. "I can't tell the story well at all. Your father told it wonderfully. It was a romantic old story, too. I wish I'd thought to make him record himself telling it, because he knew it by heart..."
Maleta wished she had, too. Hearing that would have been wonderful.
"We have the Firebird Suite somewhere," Kimi went on. "It's a piece by Igor Stravinsky. It was based off of the story. Your father adored it, of course."
Smiling softly, Maleta curled closer to her mother. "Could you tuck me in, Mum?" she asked quietly. "I'm tired..."
Kimi looked at the wall-clock. "I should think so! It's eleven!"
After that, the days went by rather uninterestingly. The weekend was over, and Maleta had school, while Kimi had work. Neither found their prospects very interesting. At night, Maleta did as many chores as she could, to free up time for listening to stories about her parents and their friends, particularly her father.
There were a lot of things Kimi couldn't share with Maleta; the girl was too young to hear the details of some of the stories. Kimi suddenly wanted to tell all about the things that had happened, though. Maybe she should go see someone--a shrink, maybe.
Maleta was having an excellent day that next Friday. She did well in school, and her best friend, Ivy, had invited her over to stay the night on Saturday. Everything was looking rosy, at the moment.
"Mum! I'm home!" she called, coming into the house with her backpack and clarinet in tow.
There was no response. Perhaps Kimi had to stay late? Usually, if she wasn't finished--which happened a lot--Maleta's mother would bring her work home and listen to Maleta talk about her day while she finished. Mum felt strongly about leaving Maleta "unattended", as she called it. Maleta always had a key, in case an emergency kept Mum at work, but those didn't often come up.
Maybe she'd gone out for groceries. That was a possibility. Maleta went into the kitchen, shedding books, music, and outer layers of clothing as she did so. There wasn't a note on the fridge where her mother usually left them.
Shrugging, Maleta went back to the front hall to lock the door--Mum would be paranoid as anything if she came home to an unlocked door, even if Maleta was home, too--and took advantage of her mother's absence to go watch tv. This was expressly forbidden in the afternoon, if Maleta had homework to do, but who was there to yell at her?
Fifteen minutes later, she shut off the television, finding that the drivel that was on was its own punishment. No wonder Mum didn't want her to watch tv in the afternoons; it was godawful boring. Homework seemed much more interesting, and that was depressing, because Maleta had no vested interest in doing her homework.
Maybe she'd read, instead. Maleta was still in the living room, depressed at the fact that the BBC had betrayed her so. She glanced over the books in their bookshelves finding nothing she wanted to read.
Outside, there seemed to be some noise, like a scuffling. Maleta paid it no attention until there was a knock at the door. Sighing, she rolled her eyes, remembering that Mum was awaiting a parcel. She'd better go get the door--considering how the mail went around here, they might never get it, otherwise. Stupid Royal Mail Service; it wasn't worth beans, really.
Opening the door, she was waiting to see their postman, with his round, shiny face. Instead, Maleta was greeted with a very different sight.
A gaunt, greyish-looking stranger stood before her, holding a cane in one hand. His eyes were hidden by sunglasses, and his hair grew in uneven clumps. He looked very, very old to Maleta, and she wasn't sure who she was looking at.
"M--may I help you, sir?" she asked, remembering to be polite and add the 'sir', since old people usually believed in formalities like that.
The man's eyebrows curled into a frown. "Who are you?" he asked, leaning slightly on his cane.
Maleta wasn't sure what to say. Mum told her not to give her name to strangers, but this old man didn't look like he'd be able to hurt a flea, let alone a ten year old seeing girl. She debated for a few moments whether or not to give her name while he waited, a tapping foot the only sign of impatience.
"Well?" he asked. Maleta looked him over once more. His clothing was baggy, and it accentuated his thinness; none of it matched, either. Mum would've been shocked. Kimi believed in creativity, but this was absurd. Then, he was probably blind, judging by the cane and the heavy sunglasses.
Finally, she figured he wasn't going to harm her. "I'm Maleta," she answered, not mentioning her last name. If the man didn't know it, he obviously didn't belong here--after all, how many Maletas were there in their neighborhood?
Only one, of course, but this man didn't seem to know this. "Maleta Pickles?" he asked curiously, brushing a strand of hair away from his forehead.
Maleta nodded, realized that if he was blind, he couldn't see her, and added a "yes" to her action.
"Maleta Virgil Pickles?"
Her plait bobbed with her head. "Yes, sir." Maleta was a bit exasperated with the old man, since really, would there be any other Maleta Pickleses on the Earth? She highly doubted it. Her parents picked her name to be unique.
The man seemed startled. "Your mother is Kimi Pickles?"
"Sir, did you want something, or were you going to stand here and ask me stuff all day?" Maleta couldn't help but feel frustrated now. Why did it matter who her mother was?
"Is she home? Could I talk to her?"
Maleta shook her head. "Nope. Mum's still at work. Come back around seven tonight, and she should be here."
The man nodded. "Seven? I'll see you then, I guess. If you'll still be here. Will you?" He sounded strangely hopeful, considering.
"Yeah, I will." Maleta couldn't help but add, "It's a good thing you picked today to come around. I'd be gone if it was tomorrow."
"A good thing," the man echoed, nodding again. "Well, Maleta Virgil Pickles, I'll see you and your mother at seven. Thank you for your time." He turned and walked off, tapping his cane gently as he did.
Well. That was definitely weird. Maleta shut the door, locked it, and went to find a book. Mum could deal with that man at seven, because Maleta didn't want to talk to him again.
Well, as we can see from the new episode of All Grown Up, in which Kimi waxes obsessive over her Japanese-ness, that my fic is now officially AU (alternate universe). In this world, she's half French, and she doesn't delve into the annals of her family tree until later in her teens.
If you're enjoying the story, hating the story, have predictions of what's going to happen, or have absolutely nothing to say, please review! I'll finish the story no matter what, but the reviews REALLY keep me going, and I appreciate them when I get them--so rare a moment that is. :)
This chapter was inspired by "Bookends Theme" by Simon and Garfunkel, which most people know as "Old Friends/Bookends". It's a pretty song, and a sad song. I think, from now on, I'll be titling the chapters after songs, or using lyrics from songs. I'd been doing that subconsciously for a while, anyway. The first four chapters don't have song titles, but chapter five is from "Changes" by David Bowie, and chapter six is, of course, from Dido's "White Flag".
The title of the story? From "Beautiful Boy", by John Lennon, of course.
Much love, and if you haven't heard "Bookends", view the lyrics. I encourage everyone to listen to it!
Time it was and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences.
Long ago, it must be; I have a photograph.
Preserve your memories,
They're all that's left you.