Letter Fourteen - Upcoming Anniversary
Christine turned the camera off, slapped the display window shut, flung herself face first into a pillow on the couch, and screamed. She stood quickly, picked up the pillow, and hurled it back onto the couch.
Lana Carlotta. Lana CARLOTTA. Coming in here, coming into her dressing room. Christine's feet took hard, quick steps in one direction, then another. Her dressing room, hers! Calling her...saying that she's…
Christine grabbed her purse and jacket and was halfway down the hall before she heard the heavy door of the dressing room slam shut behind her. People scattered out of her way as she blazed out of the opera.
She got as far as the sidewalk.
The anger fizzled out of her as quickly as it came, and left behind only what she didn't want to feel.
She turned and looked back at the opera, the wall of windows towering against the twilight sky, the light within competing from below with the blinding, golden reflection of the sun's last rays slipping over the roof. Christine made her way to the fountain, sat heavily on the edge, and watched as the sunset slipped further and further into night.
She wasn't useless.
When Christine saw the first pair of guests making their way to the lobby, she hurried to the employee entrance and rushed to her dressing room. Everyone she passed was dressed, ready for the show, and everyone was headed toward the stage. Everyone but her.
"No no no no no no no no," she muttered under her breath as she jogged down the hallway and into her room. She grabbed her phone to check the time, flung off her jacket, and with only 10 minutes to spare she shimmied into her costume, shoved a wig cap and wig over her hair, rushed through her make-up, and sprinted to the stage.
She made it just in time to catch the tail end of Reyer's pre-show speech, and he shot a frown of disapproval in her direction. So much worse than his sympathetic smiles! Christine glanced away and caught sight of Carlotta's smirking face.
Christine didn't perform well that night. She tried to hum a few bars of a warm up as she made her way to her spot on stage, but her throat felt tight throughout the show, and she couldn't seem to connect to the music the way she had earlier in the day. The Angel would have notes on her performance tonight. The walk back to her dressing room was long, and she grew anxious as she neared the door.
She could feel the Angel's presence as she entered the room.
"I'm so sorry, Maestro, I don't know what was wrong tonight." But she did know. She sat on the couch and eyed the mirror warily.
"Shall I sing for you, Christine?" The Angel's voice was warm, soft. Kind.
"What?"
"I am aware of what transpired here today, Christine. If I sing, will it bring you comfort? Or would you rather head directly home?"
"You aren't angry with me?"
"No. I am not angry...with you." The Voice said, with a strange inflection. "Which would you prefer?"
'Um, the uh...singing. Yes. Yes, I'd like that very much." Christine needed to hear the Voice. She needed a moment, a breath, where nothing was expected of her but to be still and listen. She fell to her side and pulled her feet up onto the couch as the Angel of Music began to sing.
The Voice was always a wonder to hear. She'd never heard a voice so strong, so powerful and pure. Able to dance along the highest notes, winged and light, yet able to flood the space with sound. She was beyond questioning her sanity in moments like these. All she could do was listen. The song was soft, sweet, and the Voice spun in lazy circles around and around the room.
The room was cool and quiet when she woke. She squinted around her, confused, before pushing herself off the couch with a gasp. Her costume was wrinkled where she'd lain on it, and her wig was askew. She pulled the wig off her head and tried to smooth the errant strands now frizzing from the braids.
What time was it?
Oh gosh. Mamma Valerius would be worried sick. What time was it? She fumbled awkwardly for the zipper at her back as she made her way to the changing screen and the clothes she'd left in a haphazard pile. Her fingers caught the zipper and she yanked it down as she bent toward the pile. The dress gaped open, slipping past her shoulders, and she held the dress in place with one arm as she searched through the pile one-handed. Her fingers felt the cool surface of her phone, and she straightened. The screen came to life in her hands.
2:07 AM. 4 missed calls, all from Mamma.
Christine slipped out of the dress as quickly as she could, throwing it on a hanger before pulling on her dark, floral-print tunic, leggings and boots. She always told mamma when she was going to be out late. Mamma must be worried sick. Christine rubbed a hand over her face and scanned the room for anything she might be missing, grabbing her jacket, purse and phone before heading towards the exit. The halls were dark and empty.
"Please don't have an alarm, please don't have an alarm," she whispered to herself as she pushed open the door to the employee exit. Blessed silence answered her request. She crossed the courtyard in front of the opera, angling towards the street. She heard the sound of a rowdy crowd as she neared the subway entrance. Saw a herd of drunk men and too few women funneling down the stairs. She backpedaled. Nope. Not tonight and not right now. She scanned the street for a few moments before spotting a cab. She hailed it, and to her relief it pulled over. The cab ride was short and quick, and Christine raced up the stairs to her door.
"Mamma! I'm home!" She locked the door behind her and raced to the living room where, as expected, the old woman was asleep in her recliner in front of the TV. The reading glasses she wore on a chain had slipped from her nose, and her hands were folded loosely over the newest edition of The American Journal of Psychiatry. A rerun of Ghost Hunters played softly behind Christine as she gently shook Mamma's shoulder.
"Christine?" Mamma said, squinting as she woke. "What time is it?"
"It's late," Christine said softly. "I'm sorry I didn't call."
"What happened?" Mamma's voice was muffled as she stretched her arms above her head. She slipped her glasses off and set them and the magazine on the side table.
"I had a rough day. I laid down on my couch after the show and fell asleep by accident. I didn't mean to worry you." Christine helped Mamma to her feet and took her arm. The two moved towards the bedrooms.
"That's alright, dear." Mamma patted Christine's arm. "You were with your Angel, weren't you."
"I...yes."
Christine had told Mamma about the lessons, but for some reason she didn't feel comfortable discussing the situation at length. Mamma was the person she was closest to, after her father. Maybe Christine was worried that Mamma would try to diagnose her with something, some disorder of the mind. Call her mad. Maybe she was worried Mamma would want to get involved, see evidence. Be like the ghost hunters she watched. Maybe she just didn't want to share the Angel with anyone else. Christine didn't want to dissect it. Not tonight.
"How exciting. Won't your father be pleased."
"Uh...what?"
The two arrived at Mamma's bedroom, and Mamma pulled a confused Christine into a hug. "Your father, dear. We'll have to tell him in the morning."
"Tell him?" Christine's felt a sinking in her stomach, and for what felt like the millionth time she felt the burn of tears threaten.
"Yes, at breakfast. We'll let him know how your lessons are going. It will make him very happy." Mamma pressed a kiss to Christine's cheek, then made a shooing motion. "Now get to bed. You look tired."
"Ok, Mamma. Goodnight."
Sometimes Christine forgot that Mamma Valerius was in her seventies. She was so smart and energetic, but there were moments, like these ones, that pulled that fact into focus. Moments that were happening more frequently.
Christine fell onto her bed, fully clothed, and stared at the ceiling.
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
The sun is hot and her throat is sore from singing and all she really wants more than anything in the world is ice cream from the little shop on the corner. Papa hands her a bottle of water. He mops his forehead with a napkin from their lunch. Christine kicks her feet, trying to see if she can hit the underside of the bench they are sitting on when a couple approaches them.
"My, what a pretty little girl," says the woman. She's old. Older than papa. Old like her grandparents in Sweden she met that one time. She has that short, sort of spiky hair grandmas sometimes have, and she wears a big, chunky necklace and sandals that are covered in sparkly diamonds. Christine likes her immediately.
"Professor Valerius?" She hears Papa say as he stands to shake the man's hand. "It's been too long. How are you?"
The lady is nice. She tells Christine funny stories while her dad and the old man talk. They all go to a really fancy restaurant, one with lots of forks and napkins. They let her get anything she wants. Even dessert! The grown-ups talk about things like taxes and the price of houses and getting on their feet, whatever that means. But it's ok because there's a giant fish tank at the front of the restaurant with lots of brightly colored fish and little crabs in glass shells. Christine watches the tank for most of the night.
"Did you know those guys?" She asks as she and papa walk down the sidewalk away from the couple.
"Yes, I did. That man was my teacher when I was going to school for music."
"That's cool." They turn down a side street, then down an alley, and papa lifts her over a short cement wall. They continue up a steep hill and into some trees where papa had pitched their tent earlier.
In the morning, she and papa meet the nice couple for breakfast. She gets a huge waffle that has a scoop of ice cream on top. She's never had ice cream at breakfast, and she likes it. A lot. They all go to the beach together, where she finds lots of shells to show the nice lady and papa, and she shows everyone how fast she can run. Also, she gets to pet some dogs.
As in, more than one dog.
After the dogs, papa and the man go sit on a bench and talk. They both look very serious. She runs real fast some more, finds one more HUGE shell, before getting really tired, really fast.
She goes over to the bench and puts her head in papa's lap. Both men are silent for a long time, and she almost falls asleep.
"Gus, I'm serious."
"It's too much, Alan. I can't ask you to do that."
"You aren't asking. I'm offering."
Papa places his hand on her head, smoothing her hair away from her face. She keeps her eyes closed, but she listens.
"You're a good man, Gustave," the man says after a pause. "Linda and I loved having you as a guest that semester. Think about what's best for Christine."
"It's just–" papa's voice cracks, and he goes quiet. The hand on her head grows shaky. Papa sniffs loudly and clears his throat, and his voice sounds pinched. "I don't want–"
"Accepting help when you need it doesn't make you any less of a man."
Papa clears his throat again.
"Sometimes God uses other people to bless us," the man continues. The bench creaks as the man stands up. "Just think about it, ok? Linda and I are headed back to the city tomorrow, and you have my number."
Papa continues to run his hand over her hair until she falls asleep for real.
The next morning, they go with the fancy lady and her husband to New York City.
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
o...oOo...o
Hey! Sorry for not responding sooner. I didn't mean to ghost you! What actually happened was that there was this girl at work that
Delete delete delete.
Hey! Oh my gosh I just saw this! I totally would have answered otherwise because I'm definitely not avoiding you!
Delete delete delete.
Hello! I think you are very handsome and funny and smart and I miss you but everything is weird and I'm sad all the time and the Angel of Music is
Delete delete delete.
Good morning! Doing something after the show would have been fun! Bummer! You'll never guess what happened.
Christine hit send and buried her face in her pillow. No part of her wanted to be awake that morning, yet here she was. She'd fallen asleep where she'd flung herself the night before, fully clothed, jacket on, feet still planted on the ground. Sometime around five am she'd kicked off her shoes and struggled out of her jacket before climbing under the covers.
The phone buzzed in her hand, sooner than she'd expected.
What happened?
A tiny smile lifted her lips, and she typed back.
You have to guess.
She sat up then, stretched, and swung her legs onto the floor. She felt sore and bleary. Her clothes, too hot to sleep in, were damp with sweat. She peeled them off and tossed them into the laundry basket before stepping into the shower. The hot water revived her somewhat. She was wrapped in a towel and brushing her teeth when the phone buzzed again on her counter.
A big broadway producer wined and dined you after the show and now you'll be starring in a Hello Dolly revival?
Christine smiled. The bristles crunched between her teeth as she clamped down on the toothbrush, keeping it in place as she held the phone in both hands to type her response.
Nope. Way less exciting, try again.
His response came quickly.
You missed your stop on the subway?
Close, almost that stupid.
She put the phone down, finished brushing her teeth, and continued her morning routine, pulling her still damp hair into a French braid and blowing her bangs dry. She checked her phone as she headed to her closet.
Ok, I give up, what happened?
She checked the time before slipping into dark tights, a striped day dress, socks, and lace up boots. She had a few minutes to kill before she had to leave, so she sat on her bed and responded.
Ok, so. For context, you should know that work has been crazy busy. Which is to be expected! BUT! the last few days have been particularly insane. So, yesterday, after the show, I go into my dressing room, lay down for like five seconds, and then I woke up at TWO AM, STILL IN MY COSTUME, VERY MUCH STILL AT THE OPERA. In conclusion, I should get more sleep.
Christine grabbed her purse, jacket, and scarf. Mamma Valerius was at the kitchen table when Christine entered.
"I packed your lunch! Third shelf," Mamma said as she sipped her coffee and flipped the page of her newspaper.
"You're too good to me," Christine said, giving her a kiss on the cheek as she sailed toward the front door. "Have a good day!"
"Oh, Christine! Wait a second." Mamma dug through her purse, and pulled out a few bills. "Can you pick up pierogies from that one place on your way home?"
"Mamma, it's gonna be, like, 11:30 at night!"
"Oh I know, I figured we could just have a little late night snack and save the rest. Sound good?" Mamma smiled at her, and Christine nodded, taking the bills.
Mamma seemed ok that morning, which was good. Like herself again. Christine felt herself almost physically push the worry to the back of her mind. That was something too big to handle at the moment. She pulled her phone out as the subway thundered away from the station.
You are aware...that you have a bed...at home? haha
She swayed with the motion of the train and held on to a handstrap above her, punching out her response with the thumb of one hand.
You don't say? My word, what a novel concept!
The train curved round a bend and for a moment she could see tracks branching in other directions. She followed them with her eyes for the few brief moments they were in sight. The phone buzzed in her hand.
So...are you telling me your lack of sleep is what kept us from getting perhaps the finest falafel this city has to offer?
She answered without really answering.
That's where you wanted to go? WHY, CRUEL WORLD?
She got off the train and moved through the morning crowd. The opera was quiet when she arrived, no dancers gathered at the employee door. She unwound her scarf as she entered her dressing room.
"Good morning, Maestro," she called as she tossed her purse onto the vanity. It slid across the table top and fell over, her phone tumbling to the carpeted floor.
"Good morning, Miss Daae," the Voice answered. Her phone lit up as she bent to retrieve it.
Or we could go somewhere fancier. Name a place, Christine! I'd love to see you at eye level, instead of from a box seat lol
The phone felt heavy in her hand. Her eyes skimmed the message quickly as she set the phone back on the table. She smoothed out her dress and stood before the mirror. "Ready?"
The Angel was quiet for a long moment. "Let us begin."
The Voice ran her through her typical warm ups, and she sang a couple numbers from the new show, focusing on a few of the tricky measures. Long before the time when they usually ended the lesson, the Voice asked her to be seated.
"You are visiting your father's grave soon," said the Angel.
"Uh...yes. I am. I'm here through the Saturday show, I head out to Port Jarvis by train Monday morning, and I come back Wednesday."
"Is your guardian joining you?"
"Mamma? Oh, no. She would if I asked, but I can tell..." Christine shook her head and looked at her hands. "...I can see how much it hurts her to go back there, after losing...after both of them."
"I see," the Angel said simply. The phone pinged. An email, she could tell from the sound, but her mind went to the unanswered text from Raoul. "Have you invited him yet?"
"Who?" Christine said, stupidly. She knew to whom the Angel was referring.
"The boy, Christine. Your friend. You told me you would invite him, since he knew your father."
"Oh, him." Christine pushed her bangs back from her forehead and held them there, standing with the motion and walking behind the sofa. She bent to rest her forearms on the top of the couch, briefly touched her forehead to the cushion, then looked up at the mirror. "I don't know. I thought about it, and I don't think it's such a good idea."
"Oh?" The Voice held a tinge of warning.
"Yeah. I don't know. It just seems like something I should do alone." She circled back around and sat, picking at a thread on the hem of her dress.
"Oh, I'm not sure about that, Miss Daae. Visiting the grave of a loved one seems to be the time when one would need a friend the most. Especially such a good, old friend," the Voice said. There was a strange emphasis on the words good, old friend. The same the Voice had used before.
Christine looked away from the mirror, throwing one leg over the other and crossing her arms before bringing her hand to her mouth. She pushed at her bottom lip with her thumb for a moment, absentmindedly, feeling the ridges of her teeth beneath the skin.
"Do it now, Christine," the Voice said, breaking into the silence.
"I just don't know if I really–"
"Ask him to join you. I want you to feel supported in such trying times," the Angel interrupted. The intensity and speed of the Voice ticked up a notch. "Unless there's some reason you don't want to spend time alone with him? Some complication to your good, old friendship? Something you wouldn't want the Angel to see?"
Christine said nothing for a long time before quietly responding. "There isn't."
"Then ask him to join you." The tone of the Voice was commanding. Christine sat for a moment longer, her fingers tangled into fists in the skirt of her dress. "Now."
She nodded, stood. Crossed the room. The cursor blinked at her as she reread the message from Raoul.
Or we could go somewhere fancier. Name a place, Christine! I'd love to see you at eye level, instead of from a box seat lol
Her thumbs hovered over the keypad. She glanced at the mirror once before typing up a response.
I don't know if I'm up for anything fancy right now. :/ but if you're interested, I'm actually heading up to Port Jarvis next week to visit my father's grave. It'll be a year on tuesday. It would be nice to have a friend around.
She pressed send, then quickly typed a follow-up message.
I know that's pretty heavy and a lot to ask, so if you're busy or not interested I totally understand.
She made sure her phone was on silent and shoved it deep into her purse. "It's done."
"Your father will be glad to know you aren't going alone."
Her heart did that strange kick, and as the lesson continued she tried to sing again, focus on the little notes again, but a different music, from far away, called her back and back and back and crescendo.
Decrescendo.
Glissando.
Glide.
"Isn't it nice we aren't alone, älskling?" Papa asks, and he's right. It is nice. She realizes something she hadn't before, a love of walls and windows, a penchant for floors untrod by the feet of strangers. It is nice here, in the old lady's house. There are big couches and flowers and the sun slips through the windows sideways when the light is gold. In the living room is a picture of the nice lady and her husband with a tall, gangly structure behind them.
"That's the Eiffel Tower," the lady tells her. "It's in France. If we were there now, you could call me grand-mère."
"Gromair?" The word is a question as Christine tries to repeat it.
"It is a little difficult to say. What about...maman? That's french."
"Man-Mon?" She shakes her head with the certainty of a child. "No. I don't like that."
"Alright, I hear you," the lady laughs. "What would you like to call me then?"
"How 'bout Mamma? It's kinda like Man-Mon only it makes more sense."
"Ok, Christine. That sounds nice. You can call me Mamma."
So she is a kindness to this new home, and she is happy. Papa seems happy, mostly. She starts to go to school, which is different. She remembered kindergarten, learning the alphabet and stuff, but then she didn't go back. She had to take a lot of tests to see how smart she is, and she gets to take most of her classes with the other kids her age, but she has to go to special classes in a different room for a while so she can "catch up to the rest of her class."
It's weird at first, the new routine. School and bedtime and dinner at an actual table, food that doesn't come from a bag. Sometimes it makes her angry that she can't stay up as late as she used to, or how Mamma tells her to stop twirling when it's time to leave for school.
Or to sit still at the table.
Or to not run in the hallways.
No one told her to not run in the hotel hallways.
When she tells papa this, he would hug her, kiss her head and say again "Isn't it nice. Älskling?"
Isn't it nice we aren't alone?
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando–
"Miss Daae?" The Angel's Voice reached her as though from far away. 'Miss Daae?"
"Hmm?" Christine looked up at the mirror.
"You drifted away for a moment."
"I guess I did."
"Was it your father?" The Voice was kind, infinitely kind.
"Yeah, it was," Christine said simply.
"I would offer to listen again, but it is nearly time for rehearsal. Tonight, perhaps, after the show?"
"I'd like that," she said, and it was true. The thought of coming back to her dressing room, to the warmth and sweet music of the Angel's presence, to the comfort and relief of a safe space to speak was all that carried her through the day. Anything the cast or Carlotta did to ignore or annoy her was batted away, combated away, by the promise of the Angel's listening ear and the new-found catharsis that came from finally releasing even a little of what she had pushed so deep inside. She deliberately left her phone in her dressing room, in her purse, where she wouldn't have to see it.
She didn't want Raoul to say yes. She didn't want him to say no.
When the show ended, she came straight back to her dressing room, changed into her street clothes, and stood in front of the mirror, ready to get the lesson portion and show notes out of the way.
"That won't be necessary, Miss Daae. Fetch the blanket and make yourself comfortable," the Angel said.
"Are you sure? We can sing first, I don't mind. I don't want to waste your time."
"Making sure my...my student feels cared for and secure is not a waste of time."
She fetched the blanket and pulled her feet up. The Angel began to sing a cool, sweet lullaby of wordless melodies, and the memories poured out of her like sand, emptying the bucket so she could start again.
She told the Angel about life with Mamma Valerius and how things had changed for her and her father. How a temporary arrangement became permanent.
How they became a family.
She told him about the good years. Of her father getting a steady job playing for one of the theaters off broadway. Of Professor Valerius arranging for her father to tutor students at the violin. Of their vacations and yearly trips back to Port Jarvis.
Professor and Mamma Valerius had helped get Christine enrolled in school, helped her father save the money he needed to get on his feet. When the time came for everyone to part ways, they realized they were happier together. Her dad started paying rent, and that was that. That was home.
It was a good thing, for all of them. Mamma had told Christine once, shortly after the funeral, that she and the professor had always wanted kids but had never been able to have them. That they'd tried and tried, looked into adopting, but time just moved on too fast. Mamma told her that she and her father were the family they'd always hoped for.
It wasn't just a good thing, it was necessary. They needed each other. Christine had thrived in a stable, loving environment, her father had the support he needed, the Valerius' had people to care for. They were happy. Mostly happy.
Papa did better after the move, certainly, but whatever he'd lost when her mom died never truly came back. He was a kind man, honest, a good storyteller. He made Christine laugh. But he was a quiet man, too. He would go to work, come home, and that was it. Sure, he took Christine to the park and museums and to the occasional show, especially free ones at the theater where he worked, but he didn't like the city. She could tell. She'd asked him about it once, and he said it reminded him of being in San Francisco. She hadn't needed to ask anything else after that.
"It wasn't until I was older, in my teens, when I started to really, truly realize what my mom's death had done to my father," Christine told the Angel as he continued to sing. "That spark, the thing that made him want to play...it just didn't shine as brightly anymore. He only truly seemed himself, seemed most connected to music, during the Daae Summer Tour."
The four of them would go to Port Jarvis every summer for a few months, during the Professor's break. They had a house on the opposite end of town from where Christine and her father had lived when she was little. Papa had seemed better in Port Jarvis, somewhere familiar but still somewhat removed from painful reminders.
For a week or two of the trip, Christine and her father would spend a week or two on their own. They would go up and down the coast, stopping at piers and small coastal towns, performing together during the day, sleeping under the stars at night. Just like they had when she was little. The first few times, when she was young, they would walk or ride the bus or train. As she got older, and as things got more secure, her dad would rent a car. Mamma called it the Daae Summer Tour, and the name stuck.
Before, long before, when her father and mother had only just met, her father had been on his way to great success. He'd released an album. He'd gone to Paris on an extremely competitive scholarship and won roles at some of the most prestigious venues. Christine had found articles, after he'd died. Reviews about his performances, reviews portending greatness.
She even remembered, several instances actually, when she and her father would be stopped in the park so someone could tell him how much they loved his work. She remembered times when Professor Valerius would invite friends to dinner, men and women with ties to Broadway and the music industry, and all of them would perk up when her father was introduced.
Her father was always polite in these sorts of situations, but he kept working at the little, off-broadway theater, and kept tutoring students. Kept just being her dad. In fact–
"Oh my gosh, the pierogies!" Christine cut herself off mid-sentence. The Angel's sweet, wordless song cut off as well. She threw off the blanket and stood. "I promised I'd pick them up after work!"
"Pierogies?" The Voice asked.
"Yeah, Mamma wanted to have a late night snack tonight, there's this place down the street from here that we both love." Christine folded the blanket as she spoke, and put it in the drawer. "I think she probably just wants to check in with me, see how I'm doing."
"I see," the Voice said, flat and hard from the direction of the mirror. "So now you must rush off?"
"I'm so sorry," Christine crossed to the mirror and placed her palm on the glass, then her forehead. "This has been...I don't even know how to thank you. It was exactly what I needed."
"It was my pleasure, Christine."
"I just hope I won't get home too late! I said I'd be back around 11:30," Christine said as she put on her jacket and scarf. She rifled through her purse for her phone for a moment before seeing it was on the table. She picked it up to check the time, and her eyes caught the unread response from Raoul sent hours earlier.
I'm there.
She stared at the two simple words and all that they implied and didn't imply, felt the swirling uncertainty she'd felt about the situation narrow and funnel and she had almost figured out what emotion it was she was feeling when–
"What is it, Miss Daae?"
"Oh!" She smiled big and shoved the phone into her pocket. "Well, there's still time, so that's good, and, uh, Raoul texted back. He said he'd come."
"Of course he did."
"Anyway, I'll only be a little late if I leave now," she said as she slung her purse over her shoulder. She inhaled deeply. Exhaled. A small, sad smile played at her lips as she looked toward the mirror once more. "Thank you again, Maestro. This all means more than I can say."
"Until tomorrow, my dear." The room went cool and quiet in an instant, and the Angel was gone.
Christine hurried to the pierogi place, a little all-night Polish restaurant with an order window at the sidewalk. She ordered, paid, and took the delicious-smelling bag down into the subway. The platform was relatively empty this late on a Wednesday night. She was alone for most of the ride home, her only company a tall man in a hooded black jacket in the next car, until a group of people clearly all just released from the same show boarded.
When she made it home, it was only 11:45pm. She and Mamma had the pierogies at the kitchen table and, as Christine expected, they discussed how Christine was doing. Where she was emotionally. After a while, they simply reminisced.
"Are you sure you don't want me to come on Monday, sweetie? I can take the time off." She reached across the table and patted Christine on the arm. "I don't have many patients these days, I can reschedule their appointments."
"No, Mamma, it's ok. I'll be fine. Actually," Christine said, trying not to sound too much of anything but aware that her cheeks were heating up. "Raoul said he'd come with me."
"Raoul? Wait, Raoul de Chagney? That nice boy you met in Port Jarvis?"
"Yeah, him. Remember? I told you we hung out the other day? His family supports the opera so he's there all the time, we reconnected a few weeks ago."
"Oh, really? I must have forgotten you telling me that. How silly."
"Yeah, silly." Christine pushed past the comment, and continued. "I mentioned that I'm heading to Port Jarvis and told him he was welcome to join me, since he knew dad, and he said he'd like to come."
"That's nice, sweetie, I'm really glad you don't have to go alone."
The two finished up their snack and put the much lighter container of remaining pierogies in the fridge, and went to bed.
Her next few days at the opera crawled by, the hours endless, and yet, at the end of the day, she couldn't say what had happened. Lessons, rehearsal, show. Lessons, rehearsal, show.
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
Her focus a million miles away and years in the past. Her memories swirling around one moment, the last moment, as the day grew nearer. It was all she could do to sing, to stay standing. It was almost like it had been, just after. The only thing giving her strength was the Angel's support. Always willing to listen, not pushing her too hard in their lessons.
"I promise I'll do better next week, after…" she trailed off at the end of one of their lessons.
"Of course you will, Miss Daae."
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
One moment she was in her dressing room, one moment she was onstage, one moment Reyer was thanking them for a great show, and in the next great crescendo Mamma V is crying, or crying but trying not to, a crumpled tissue in one hand, Christine's hand in the other.
Homecoming only three weeks earlier. She hadn't even downloaded the pictures from the dance onto her computer yet. All she could think of was that one picture, of all four of them. Herself, papa, Mamma, and the Professor. Christine had been embarrased when Mamma had asked Christine's date to take the photo, but now Professor Valerius is just gone.
He isn't here anymore.
Papa tells Mamma Valerius that he knows what to do next, that he has experience, and she is holding Mamma's hand in the showroom of a funeral home, and Mamma is trying not to cry as papa quietly discusses the merits of the coffins with the funeral home attendant.
Neither of them are here anymore.
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
She gave her travel details to Raoul, who tried to cheer her with texts of kitten gifs and links to funny articles. She watched the gifs, she laughed at the articles, but then Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide. High school is over. Papa and Mamma are in the crowd, cheering as she waves her diploma. Hugging her as she leaves for her first day of Juliard. Telling her how proud the Professor would be, how proud her mother would be, as she goes to school and studies voice and Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
The Angel listened and cared and sang and gave quiet comfort and finally, after so long, Christine did not feel alone but the days seemed to grow darker, the hours smaller, everything tight and uncomfortable and sad and sad and sad and Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide. Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide. Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide. Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
Papa is coughing now. They are at the doctor's now. She is trying to be happy at school but there are appointments and medicines and homework and a breathing machine and solo shows he can make it to and that performance of Carmen he cannot make it to, and the rattling, rattling, rattling of the cough, cough, cough.
And she is pulling away, pulling away, her grades drop to dangerous levels, and she only pulls them up when her father looks disappointed. And she knows it is not disappointment with her, but with everything, and the fact that he knows what she's doing. She is pulling away, pulling away, Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide. She sang the music blindly and the Angel let her do so. Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
She does not speak to Raoul, her good, old friend, her unfinished kiss. She does not speak to Mamma, not really, not about anything serious. She pulls toward the one thing she cannot hold onto, the one thing she knows she will lose, and holds on as tightly as she can.
"Climb up here with me, älskling." Her father pats the bed. She eases next to him, careful of the wires and tubes. He's been in the hospital for a week now, but the doctor says he can probably go home tomorrow. "How was the audition?"
"It went well!" She keeps her voice light.
"When do you hear back?"
"Well, that was the last of the auditions. They said they will let us know within the next month or so. Then they have to run background checks on the people who do get chosen, and rehearsals wouldn't actually start until a month or two before the next season."
"Hmm, I see. So a bit of a wait then."
"It looks like it," she says, scooting down to rest her head on his chest. He puts both arms around her. Both of them sit in quiet contemplation before Christine whispers "I think I have a chance."
"Of course you do, my lotte. Of course you do."
"Can you tell me about the Angel?" she is still whispering.
"Instead of Little Lotte having blonde hair and blue eyes, shall I make her like you?" Papa asks, just as she used to, and Christine nods.
"A long time ago, in Sweden, where your papa and mama were born, there was a girl called Little Lotte. She had the biggest brown eyes in all the land, and straight, dark hair she liked to wear long. The head under that hair was always full, but was it full of nothing? She flitted, and danced, and twirled in the summer air. Her nature was as bright as her eyes were dark. She loved her Mamma Valerius and her papa, was attentive at school, and took care of her room, her homework, and her singing. But most of all, she loved going to sleep listening to the voice of the Angel of Music."
Christine listens, ignoring the hot tears slipping over the bridge of her nose and dampening her father's shirt. He coughs several times before squeezing tighter.
"One day, Little Lotte lost her papa, as she had lost others. She was very sad, but she knew it was the way the world worked sometimes." Papa's arms were tight around her, his voice tighter still, and she curls closer to him. "What she did not know, because it is impossible to know what happens in heaven, is that when her papa got there, he found the Angel of Music. He told the Angel all about his daughter. How much he loved her. How talented she was. How...proud he was to be her papa–"
Her father's voice cuts off, and it takes a moment for her to realize he is crying, because she is crying too. They hold each other, shoulders shaking and silent for a long time, until at last her father continues.
"The Angel of Music visits all great musicians, at least once. If he leans over their cradles, they become prodigies. He sometimes visits good boys and girls who learn their lessons, practice their scales, and have pure hearts...he might come when you downcast or discouraged, and sing away your sorrows with a divine voice. He is never seen, but those who hear him are said to be geniuses, making music almost too heavenly to be human."
Her papa takes a shuddering breath, and so does she, but hers does not end in cough. When he speaks next, it comes out hard and fast.
"When I get to heaven, Christine, I will try to find the Angel of Music. I will try to send him if I can. I know it's always been a bedtime story, but who knows? God works in mysterious ways. There may be some truth to it. I don't know. I don't know. I'll try, though. I promise I'll try. And I need you to promise me something, ok?"
Christine nods.
"You and I, we are too much alike. I need you to promise me you won't give up, ok? If you get into the Met, I want you to promise me you'll do it. And if you don't get in, I need you to promise that you won't stop living just because I'm not here. I'll always be here." He taps a finger to her chest, then her head. "And here. It will hurt to leave, and to be left. It will hurt for a long time. Just...don't let the hurt consume you. Do you promise?
She nods.
"Out loud, älskling."
"I promise, papa."
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
Christine gathered her things to leave once she'd finished speaking to the angel after the Saturday evening performance.
"Thank you for letting me take this time, Maestro. I'll be back soon."
Her hand is on the knob when the strains of a violin sound. She turns.
"I will be there as well, Christine. I have not forgotten."
"You'll really play his violin for me? Truly?" She had buried her father's violin with him when he passed, thinking it was where it belonged. Thinking it would hurt too much to see it go unplayed and gathering dust. It was something she'd since regretted. Nothing else she owned of her father's had been so tangibly his. She'd give so much just to touch it again, let alone hear it played.
"Truly, Christine," the Voice was warm and kind, enveloping her. "Go to your father's grave just before midnight on Tuesday. I will be there. I will play for you."
Christine could only nod, her hand pressed to her chest.
"Until Tuesday, then, Miss Daae."
Sunday passed as though they hadn't happened, her only thoughts were vague and disconnected. The individual threads in the pillow case. The way the sun played against the paint on the wall. The swirls in the texture of the ceiling. The individual threads in the pillow case again. Monday morning, she packed her bag, kissed Mamma goodbye, and made her way to Grand Central Station.
She found her seat and rested her head against the glass, watching the station slide out of view, watching the city change to country as the train rumbled toward Port Jarvis.
Her father had promised to send her the Angel of Music.
Her father had sent her the Angel of Music.
Crescendo. Decrescendo. Glissando. Glide.
