A Dinner, A Gala, and A Note

I found the perfect place to hide this! The drawer in my closet has a little protrusion at the back that creates a niche between it and the cupboard wall. It's just wide enough to fit in a notebook half your size, Isabella. I hope you understand now why I tore you in half along the spine before I left for dinner two hours ago. I'd apologize, but this was necessary. I can only hope you forgive me.

Oh. No. I can't believe I just said that. I am going mad. I just used his line! Every time I bring up almost anything with him, he always says this. Verbatim. Or almost verbatim when he's feeling particularly verbose. Which is almost all the time, come to think of it, but that isn't the point. Ugh ugh ugh. I hate that line.

Please, please forget that, Isabella. I'm really sorry for saying that. I did not want to imply anything like that and I will never do it again. At least I hope I won't.

Oh no! What if I'm becoming like him? I guess it's possible, considering I don't interact with anyone except him, but I don't want to be like him!

You might have deduced that I have a very low opinion of the man called Erik. I can assure you that all your deductions are wrong. 'Low' does not even begin to describe what I think of him.

… But sometimes (and this is for your ears–pages, I suppose–only, so don't tell anyone), I wonder if I can hate him forever. No, not hate. That's such a … powerful word. Earlier, I think I did hate him, but I've been finding it harder lately. I suppose it's a resentment of a kind now, mingled with, I don't know what—pity? Sometimes, I don't think I'm strong enough. I was so full of bravado this afternoon, but now…. How do I fight him? Can I?

I wish I knew what made sense, Isabella. I don't know what does. Heck! I've named a notebook! What sense could you possibly expect from me? I … I'm sometimes afraid that I'll be so consumed by my bitterness that I will never be able to be happy again. I remember reading somewhere, long ago, about a woman who couldn't let herself be happy and … and, well, I don't want to be her. But I don't think I'll ever be what I was. And yet I cannot bring myself to … like him? love him…? No, that's too strong again…. I can't bring myself to … accept him. Yes, that's the word. Speaking of which, I should remember to tell you about dinner today. I'll do that in a bit.

So here I am, caught in this horrible cycle that doesn't seem to ever end. I wish … I wish I could speak to Nana again. Or Mama. Or Kate (my best friend). Or anyone other than him, for that matter. I need some perspective on this.

But I can't, so I named you and am talking to you instead. Too bad you can't be like that notebook in Harry Potter (which book was it in again?) that talks back.

On tonight's dinner: meals are always an awkward affair for me, at least. I get the impression he likes watching me eat and that makes me uncomfortable. It was a bit more awkward tonight.

First off, there was still some tension left over from this morning's argument. He didn't quite meet my eye for the most part. That might have been because I was still angry about his dirty trick where he made me tell him what I was thinking, though. Perhaps I misjudged him then. Oh, well. I ate alone–he never eats with me–with only a few words here and there. That led to the second reason for my discomfiture.

He broke the silence with a question. I was dabbing my mouth with the napkin when he asked it.

"Do you think you will ever be able to talk to me?" His voice was low, the question, hurried, forced.

It was an odd query and I didn't immediately understand where he was leading. Cocking my head to one side, I replied, "What? I talk to you every day, don't I?"

He shook his head slightly. "No, not that. Will you … will you ever be able to confide in me?"

I set my napkin down slowly, considering, actually considering the answer. I could feel his eyes on me. "I don't know …," I started slowly, trying to choose my words carefully. "I…." I met his gaze for a moment, and then hastily stared back at my napkin. "…I don't think so."

It's the truth, as white as it can get. I can't apologize for that. I expected him to shout, as he normally does, but he just sighed. "And acceptance, Christine? Will you ever be able to accept me?"

That question was the worse of the two, in my opinion. I did not look up as I mumbled an "I don't know", so I don't know how he reacted but it's been nagging at my brain ever since. I don't know if I can, you know. I'll just stew over it for a few more days–or weeks–and come to a conclusion, I suppose.

I continued eating in a silence that seemed louder than normal until I finished. As I stood up to go to my room, Erik stopped me.

"I only wish your happiness, Christine. No more…." He paused, as if struggling with himself. Then, much softer, so I'm not even sure he said it, "and no less, either." He continued in a louder voice, saying, "You can trust me, even though you don't wish to. I only…." And he trailed off.

There was a tense moment, but it passed. Without waiting for a reply (which I didn't have), he escorted me here and bid me goodnight.

I don't know what to make of him sometimes. I really don't.

Maybe I can convince myself better that I can fight him if I continue with what I'd started earlier.

Now I think I've forgotten where I've stopped. Hold on a moment while I check that.

I'm back. And I keep forgetting that time is irrelevant to you. Sorry for mentioning that.

Anyway. I'd stopped with my mum doing the psycho act on me. I was thinking about that during dinner, by the way. I don't really blame her anymore, you know…. This had happened back when she was still recovering from everything. She did things she would normally never have done. She did get better over the years, until…. No, forget that.

Back to the Gala, then. When I finally emerged from my room, Nana was waiting for me in the kitchen (oh! how I miss her!). Mama was nowhere to be seen. Mama must have told her all about it. After all the usual greetings, she sat down at the table by me and said, "Don't be angry with your mother, dear. She isn't herself these days. Now do you have any ideas about how you'll go for the Gala, or should I tell you mine?"

My mouth dropped open as I stared at her.

"Come, now." She smiled. "Don't be so shocked. If I know you at all, you were up there scheming all night."

I hope you didn't expect a more dignified reaction than me squealing and hugging her and thanking her a million times. You must remember that I was quite young at the time.

Once I'd gotten over my excitement and Nana had shushed me in case Ma heard, I asked her the only question that seemed important at the time. "Why?"

"Why? Because I'm happy when you are, sweetheart. You deserve to be happy."

That's Important Memory One. I can't say how much that touched me. It gives me a lump in my throat every time I think of it. I don't quite know how to describe how happy I felt at that moment. After Papa died, we all withdrew into our own little worlds and I guess we stopped communicating. Nana saying that, it just…. I don't know how to say it, as I seem to persist on repeating. I'll try again.

It had been so long since anyone had said anything like that that it touched—I don't know how to put it in words. Well, it just made me feel … loved. And not the obsessive, possessive kind of love that Erik embodies. It was more real, more … sublime, if that makes sense. I think that was the first time I felt my heart swell.

I know, I know. It's silly to be so moved by a few words, but consider how emotionally starved I was at the time. And I don't know why I keep justifying myself. I'm silly. And there I go justifying myself again. Kindly ignore that.

I think I'll skim over what happened until the main bit. I don't remember every single word of it, anyway. Just snippets of conversations, and images.

At the end of it all, we decided we'd wait for a few days, to see if we could convince Ma to give her permission. If she didn't, Nana said she'd write me the letter.

I put off Ms. Violet's questions with ambiguous replies for the next four or five days. Every day, I'd come home and ask Nana urgently if she had managed to convince Mama.

Ma didn't agree so Nana had to sign the form in the end (why do I feel like crying when I think about that? I don't know). We started practice in school and were two weeks into rehearsals when everything came crashing down. I was sick one day and didn't go to school. Ms. Violet called at home to find out why I hadn't come for practice. One thing led to another and everything came crashing down with a resoundingly loud bang (literally; Ma dropped the brass curio she was holding when she heard the truth).

Mama was furious beyond belief, and refused to let me have anything to do with it. For three agonizing days, I went around moping and convinced that the world was out to get me (it seems so insignificant when I think of it in perspective now….).

It was all rather anticlimactic in the end, considering that the situation had built up quite enough drama for a movie. Nana spent two hours shut up in a room with her, saying God-(and Mama and Nana)-alone-knows-what and somehow managed to convince her to give me her permission. Ma categorically refused to attend the event, but it didn't bother me too much. I was far too happy to care. But I do now. So much! I miss you, Ma, Nan….

I threw myself into rehearsals without much further thought. By the time the Gala finally came around, Gary and I had practiced the song so much, we could probably have sung it in the middle of a crowded street with traffic whizzing around us without a single mistake (I can't stand the song anymore, by the way; it took me weeks to get it out of my head).

Only Nana came for it. Mama stayed at home and watched TV, if I remember right. I won't go over the details of the performance. Let it be known that I suffered from all the regular symptoms: panic attacks, stage fright, mucking-up-the-song-in-the-beginning-and-then-working-it-out-later, the works. By the end of it, I was a phenomenally exhilarated nervous wreck.

Did you think the Gala was the most important part of the story? I made it sound like that until I actually came to it, didn't I? Well, it wasn't.

Looking back on it all now, I'm fairly certain that he first heard me at that Gala. Because around a month later (January 25th – I remember the date), he sent me the first of many notes. I suppose you could call that Important Event Two. Or Three, if you count the Gala as Two. It doesn't signify either way.

I think I was fifteen. Not thirteen or fourteen as I remember saying earlier. Everything is so hazy now when I try to remember. I certainly don't remember being so young when the first note came. Does it matter much? I could recall it if I tried.

I remember it being a normal day. It was a Thursday, school was just ending, and we'd had an awful Geography class with a teacher who wasn't that nice (understatement of the century; she was a crazy old bat). Kate was with me. Yes, I remember that I walked to my locker with Kate. We weren't that close back then. We only knew each other by virtue of being neighbors and used to walk home together. Now, of course, we wouldn't ever dream of doing anything without telling each other. At least until Erik happened to my life, that is. But. Not the point.

We reached our respective lockers and opened them, etc. You know the drill. Something was different this time, though. On top of the large stack of books that continually threatened to fall over in an avalanche was a rolled up sheaf of papers, tied with red twine. A note was attached to it. I remember thinking that someone had pulled a prank on me.

I unfolded the note and read the typed letters, not bothering to fight back my mounting skepticism. It said:

Ms. Forster,

Having heard you sing, I have come to the conclusion that you could excel under the guidance of a competent tutor. Kindly learn the attached song by the auditions next Friday. You will sing it at the beginning of that travesty of a drama that your school is putting up next month. If I believe you deserve further instruction, you will be contacted.

Yours,

E.

Or it was something to that effect. All I am certain of is that he was as arrogant as he ever was or will be.

I stuffed the papers into my bag as Kate walked over to me. I don't know why, but I didn't want anyone to know about it. We walked home together. She, vociferously ranting about the Geography teacher, me, half-heartedly agreeing. The note weighed on my mind, but I didn't say anything of it. I wasn't close enough to her. I don't know why I didn't tell anyone then. I mean, how stupid can you get? Not as bad as me, definitely. I didn't, and that had a whole load of consequences. Anyway, when I came home, I looked over the music.

It was beautiful.

He told me a few weeks ago that that piece was one of a series which he had particularly detested and that he had thrown them away years ago. Back then, I knew no better than to be awed by it. I was all the more disturbed, though, because none of the suspected pranksters would know enough to find such music. Perhaps I did know better back then. I wasn't blinded by this damned music.

I'm sorry for crying, but I want to love music again. I can't, I just can't.

I'm sorry. I can't write more now. I'll just go to sleep.