by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Fourteen
I had begun attending Calvary Chapel sometime between reading books Matthew and Mark. My parents are Christians but they don’t go to church, as I’ve already stated. I went to church by myself every Sunday morning.
I hadn’t been sixteen for long when I met Abbey. She also went to church by herself. That shared commonality brought us together. She was three months older than me. I didn’t think she was very pretty when I first met her, but she was kind of cute in an offbeat kind of way. After getting to know her she became the prettiest girl I knew. Such is the pleasantness of her personality. We always sat together in the front row, off to the side. For some reason we never sought to extend our relationship outside of church. We enjoyed the other’s company, had lots in common, but somehow it just wouldn’t turn into something more. But that was okay, Abbey made me look forward to Sundays more than I would have otherwise. I hope I did the same for her. Boy she had a pretty singing voice, too. Church always began with a few hymns. I purposely didn’t sing (I moved my lips, though) just so I could better hear her. I take back what I said about our relationship not extending outside of church. We swapped phone numbers. We’d text each other at first (texting was a brand new thing back then), but before long we’d call one another. But we never met in person outside of church.
Sometimes I’d read a verse in the bible that resonated in me. I’d text it to Abbey. She did the same to me. Once she called me, crying, said her grandpa had finally died from esophagus cancer. I cried with her. I felt like I knew her grandpa, she talked about him so much. I don’t have the same cellphone now as I did back then, but if I had that old phone I’d be able to recite my favorite text from her, as I had saved it. I’ll paraphrase what it stated: I just wanted to tell you that I love you, Aaron. I love you as if you were my own flesh and blood. I thank God every day that we met. You don’t have to tell me you love me too, I feel your love. Thank you for making my every Sunday so wonderful.
Yeah, it was a keeper of a text. She’s so sweet. She’s also responsible for nearly giving me a heart attack. A lot of people will say that, upon being startled, something like “Oh my, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” But I think I was on the cusp of literally having one. And at seventeen years old! If I had the heart of a thirty or forty year old man, I probably would have died right there in church. It happened on the third day of November, 2002, the most profound day of my young life.
I always attended the early mass, which starts at eight A.M. That way I have most of my Sunday intact after church ends. Abbey attended the early mass for the same reason. I was having trouble sleeping the night before, tossing and turning. Not bad dreams, but good dreams, though I couldn’t remember them upon waking. Dreams that when you wake up you’re disappointed and try to fall back asleep to resume them, but never do. As a result of the dreams I was up at five o’clock. I cooked oatmeal and read my bible at the kitchen table. It was still dark out. Routinely I leave home at 7:40 and walk the ten minutes to church—even after I got my driver’s license I continued to walk to church. At six o’clock I texted Abbey: You should come to church a little early today. I’m up and bored. We can chat a little. What do you say? I’ll be there at 7:30.
She didn’t text me back right away as she typically does. I showered and dressed in my Sunday best, got a move on. My watch said it was seven. Oh well, I could read my bible a little there. There were less people out this morning than usual, for some reason. I guess it was because it was almost an hour earlier than normal.
There were no cars in the church parking lot. None whatsoever. I was early, yeah, but I figured at least pastor Gates would be there a little early, warming up or something. I arrived at the large wooden double-doors with tall ornate iron handles, expecting them to be locked. To my surprise and delight they weren’t. I guess nobody would steal from a church. It was pretty sacred, even to bad people. Plus it wasn’t like there was a cash register there. I went inside, through the vestibule, and into the main room. There was another room off to the right, where Sunday school happened.
“Anyone here?” I said. My voice echoed a little, as the floor is wooden, pews are wooden, and there isn’t much to absorb sound there.
I walked down the center aisle, past the many rows of dark-stained pews. The stage or platform or scaffold or whatever you want to call it was about two feet elevated, a couple steps at either far end of it. I went up the left-side stairs to the baby-grand piano in the corner. There was a microphone stand and mic angled inside the compartment of it, to receive the pretty piano music that Henry played for us at the beginning and end of every service.
I didn’t mention that I had been taking piano lessons for a couple years, but I had been. We have an old piano at home, out of tune and in need of a refurbishment. My sister plays really well. Me, not so well. But I try. Since I first stepped foot in this church I had admired this baby-grand. Jet black and glossy, gold hardware. The feet of it were like lion’s paws. It was a Baldwin, very expensive. I suppose it was pretty safe here from thieves, being that it weighed as much as a small car. I scanned the empty church before taking a seat at the piano bench.
“Baldwin,” I said and whistled impressively.
I struck a C, listened to the note rip into the silence and linger for seconds before gracefully coming to an end. I hit a few more keys, then a few more. I had been playing a Beethoven song over the last few weeks, Moonlight Sonata. A common piece for intermediates to play. It isn’t very difficult but it’s remarkably pretty. It sounded good even on my parents old out-of-tune piece of junk, so you can imagine how beautiful it was on this Baldwin. And the room was large with lots of wood, which really did wonders for the reverberation. I imagined a pipe organ would sound heavenly in here.
I played Moonlight Sonata from memory. Because it was from memory I had to play a little slower than its intended tempo, but it sounded pretty good I thought, and I imagined Mrs. Cortez my piano teacher would have been impressed. I closed my eyes as I played, imagined myself on a stage before a crowded concert hall. Mrs. Cortez once told me that Franz Liszt, who played back in the mid 1800’s, was like a rock star of his era. Concert halls would sell out for him, and there would be hundreds or even a thousand screaming fans jockeying to get closer to him. She even said that crazed women would tear at his clothes because he was so good looking and talented that they simply had to have a piece of him. I was no Franz Liszt, in the looks department or talent, but just then I pretended I was him. With my eyes closed I saw an enormous venue with thousands upon thousands of fans attentively receiving my pianoforte sonata. When the last note of the piece finished reverberating off the walls, the theater exploded into applause.
That’s when someone clapped in Calvary Chapel.
I stood from the bench in alarm, spied a girl ambling down the aisle in my direction. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be,” said the girl.
She was nine or ten (I judged) with long brown unbrushed hair, bright green eyes, skin the color of cream, and a pretty white dress. She rounded the front pews, headed toward me. I stood there in wait. She was close enough that I could identify her as a perfect stranger to me.
“Sit back down,” she said with a charming grin and gesture. “You play beautifully.”
“Thanks. My sister is better, though. I don’t have a knack for it.”
“Sounds like you do.”
“Nah. I have to practice twice as long as she does to play the same things.”
I resumed my seat on the bench, scooted it closer to the keyboard.
“Are you taking requests?” she asked playfully.
“Sure,” I said gamely and cracked my knuckles. I wondered if at her young age she could name a single piano song.
“How about something from Franz Liszt,” she said.
“Franz Liszt?” I repeated, more than a little surprised by it. Just one minute ago I was Franz Liszt, if only in my mind.
“He was a good Christian,
you know.”
“Was he?”
“Oh yeah. You bet.”
“Cool. I don’t know any of his songs. His songs are too complex for my skill set. I’m surprised you’ve even heard of him.”
“I love classical music.” She stopped just shy of taking a seat beside me on the bench. “May I?”
I was in the process of removing myself from the bench when she touched my shoulder and urged me to stay, so I did. She sat beside me, extended her hand and introduced herself as Magdalena, though most people call her Maggie.
“Maggie, I’m Aaron.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” she said and put her hands in position on the keyboard. Already I could see she was vastly familiar with the instrument, simply by her posture and sudden immutable focus on the task she was taking up. I admired her before she struck the first note. I wondered how long her parents had been making her take lessons. Probably since before she could read.
Maggie began playing a piece I was ignorant of, a melancholy number quite lovely. It wasn’t complex or technical, at first. But before long it escalated into a piece of great advancement, yet she didn’t make a single mistake or seem to exert herself in the endeavor. My mouth hung open as I witnessed her play, awed over her incredible gift. This kid was some kind of anomaly, a virtuoso.
When at last she finished I clapped feverishly.
“Like that one?” she asked.
“Very much. Who wrote it?”
“Fredryk Chopin. Nocturne number twenty.”
“You are gifted, Maggie. I can’t believe a kid your age can play like that. You are truly gifted. If I could think of a word better than gifted, I’d use it.”
“Kind of you to say.”
“Where are your parents? Outside?”
She shrugged indifferently.
“What time do the pastors show up?” I asked. “It’s just the two of us.”
“Not sure. I’m kind of glad, though. I wanted to talk to you.”
“Me?”
“Uh huh.” She played a few notes softly.
“Have we met?”
“Not until today.”
“But you wanted to talk to me?”
“Yes sir.”
I must have looked all kinds of confused. She giggled, put an arm around me and patted my shoulder with her other hand. “Ever wonder if God has a purpose for each and every one of us?”
“Yeah.”
“Well I think He does. I believe He has a great one in you.”
“Thanks,” I said, and felt a little dumb saying it.
“What do you want to be when you grow up?” She began playing a peppy little tune, but did so soft enough that we could converse over.
“I have no idea.”
“You know what I’d like to be if I could?”
My phone chimed in my pocket, an incoming text. I said excuse me and checked it. Abbey said good morning, just woke up. I texted back that she was going to be late for church.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “What would you like to be?”
Abbey responded almost immediately: Church doesn’t start for an hour and forty minutes. We turned the clocks back last night.
“Oh crap!” I said. “I forgot about that. I’m almost two hours early, not just one.”
“Yeah,” Maggie said. “Spring forward, fall back.”
“Yep.” I texted Abbey: I forgot! Dang. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I got side-tracked. What did you want to be?”
“A chef.”
“A chef? Really? Why can’t you be one when you grow up?”
She stopped playing, put an elbow on the keyboard (a cacophony of notes came and went) and faced me. “I have a horrible sense of taste. But food is so beautiful, so artistic. Some of the dishes master chefs make, they’re like works of art to look at.”
“I guess so. Hey, can you play Bach’s Toccata en Fugue? I know it’s pipe organ, but I bet it would sound cool in here, even on piano.”
“Sure. You’ll need to scoot down a little more, though; I’ll have to reach some keys down there.”
I scooted down, prepared myself to be awed. No way could she know such a complicated song. She began playing it. It sounded weird at first, it being piano instead of organ, but it didn’t take long for that sensation to pass and it was totally awesome. With my cell still in lap I dialed Abbey’s number. Instead of speaking to her, I set the phone upright on the piano and let her hear for herself. Maggie’s fingers were moving so fast that they were a blur at times. And her expression, it didn’t look like she was executing something challenging at all. Just another day at the office, her face said. I had heard that Beethoven, Liszt, and Mozart were playing songs such as these before ten years of age, but it’s one thing to hear about it and a whole nother thing to witness it. It’s a surreal experience.
“Wow,” I said as she transitioned into my favorite part of the piece. “Incredible.”
She played the entire piece, eleven minutes of bliss. When the song came to an end I stood and clapped. She stood as well, faced the empty pews and bowed dramatically. I laughed. A little actor she was, flamboyant as all get out.
“That was unbelievable, Maggie. You shouldn’t want to be a chef, you should want to be a pianist. Heck, you already are. You could make millions.”
“Thanks, Aaron.”
“I haven’t seen you here before. Do you normally do the early mass?”
“No. I was just passing by when I heard piano playing, thought I’d pop in.”
“I’m glad you did. You made my day. Aren’t your parents with you?”
“I’d better be going,” Maggie said suddenly.
“Really? Why? Stay for church, would you? You can sit with Abbey and I.” Abbey. I just remembered I was on the phone with her. She had probably hung up by now anyway.
“I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I have things to do.”
“I thought you wanted to talk to me?”
“I did.”
“But you didn’t really say much.” I was confused but my excitement overrode it.
“I know, sorry. I thought we’d have more time. Until we meet again.” She took the two steps off the stage and headed up the aisle before stopping abruptly, hastily changed directions toward the side-exit.
“What do you mean more time? Church doesn’t start for a long time.”
She seemed to be in a hurry, was nearly running.
To my delight Abbey entered through the vestibule into the church. She wasn’t wearing her usual Sunday clothes, but jeans and a sweat shirt.
“Abbey! I’m glad you came!”
“Are you all right?” she asked, her tone registering worried.
“Yeah, why? Hey Maggie, wait! I want you to meet Abbey!”
She opened the side door, waved at me and left. Abbey was almost to me. The closer she got, the more I didn’t like the way she looked. Something was troubling her. She didn’t speak again till she was up on the stage and standing before me.
“Should I be worried?” she asked me. “I am worried.”
“Why?”
“Who’s Maggie?”
“My new friend,” I said, looking to the side-exit where she had left.
She looked to that same door. “Do you see someone over there?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Maggie!”
“Who’s Maggie?”
“My friend. We just went over this!” I chuckled. It was so frustrating that it was kind of funny. “Sorry about the call, Abbey, I forgot you were on the line. I wanted you to hear Maggie play Toccata En Fugue. She plays better than anyone I’ve ever heard, and that includes Mrs. Cortez.”
Abbey looked ill. “I heard you clapping, that’s all. Aaron, I think you’re sick. Maybe you should sit down.”
“Sick? You mean to tell me you didn’t hear her play Bach?”
She didn’t answer, just peered at me with those troubled eyes.
&nbs
p; “But… but she played it. You didn’t hear it?” I looked to the side-exit. “You saw her, though.” I was really starting to hate her look. “Didn’t you?” I said in no more than a squeak.
She shook her head no.
I put my hand over my heart, my aching heart. I was dizzy. I moved to the bench seat and sat down facing away from the piano.
“I should take you to the hospital,” she said. “I drove here.”
“No. I don’t think that’s necessary.” I couldn’t be sure, though. My heart was hurting it beat so furiously. I reflected back to everything that was said between Maggie and I, starting with her asking me if I knew any Franz Liszt, and how I was pretending to be him only seconds prior, and how that was an awfully big coincidence. I wondered if Maggie was a ghost. I hoped so. I hoped she was a ghost and not a delusion from my ill mind.
Abbey sat beside me on the bench, touched my hand.
“Maybe it was a ghost,” I said.
“No,” she asserted.
“How do you know?”
“First of all, I would have seen it. But more than that, there are no such things as ghosts. Except for the Holy Ghost.”
“How do you know there aren’t ghosts?”
“It doesn’t say there are ghosts in the bible.”
“It doesn’t say a lot of things in the bible that are so. Doesn’t mention snow but I’m pretty sure snow exists.”
“Are you feeling better? Does your heart bother you?”
“I’m better, yes. Thanks. Thanks for coming over, by the way. You’re a good friend.”
“I was confused. You called but didn’t say anything. Then I heard you say Wow and That’s amazing, and clapped and whistled. I knew you were at church, so there were dots I couldn’t connect.”
“This is nuts. I’m telling you, Abbey, I saw her. She’s real. We had a conversation.”
“What did she say?”
“I don’t know, a lot of stuff.” I reflected again. “Interesting though, she was heading toward the main entrance, turned and went out the side when you got here. I don’t think she wanted to confront you. Or,” I speculated, “didn’t want me to observe you not seeing her.”
“She isn’t real.”
“And she said she wished we had more time. I think you coming here is why she ran out of time with me.”
“Don’t talk about her as if she’s real.”
“She said ‘until we meet again’.”
Abbey asked if I was on any medication or if I ate anything different or have any allergies. I decided to stop talking about Maggie to her. I knew she was real, that’s all that mattered. And I liked her, she was a cool kid. I hoped she meant it when she said till we meet again.
