“Trying to keep her calmed, the doctor suggested we look for you with the buggy, so that’s what we did. Once we were in the buggy, she kept saying, ‘Hear that? That’s my Erik. Listen to his voice. Isn’t it like an angel’s?’ That continued until we were about a block away from the cemetery. Then she started calling your name and jumped out of the buggy while it was still rolling.
“She started running, and, once she got past the gate, she ran all over until she stopped at the back fence, still calling your name. We tried to comfort her, but there wasn’t much we could do. She insisted you were there and that she’d heard you singing. I felt so bad for her when she kept calling ‘Where are you, Erik? Come home.’”
Celeste looked over the top of her teacup at me. “Were you there, Erik?”
I leaned forward, rested my elbows on my knees, and watched my fingers moving against each other. Then, while remembering my mother’s plaintive voice that day, I nodded.
With a sigh that expressed her years of unanswered questions, she whispered, “So she did hear you.”
I again nodded. “Yes, I was there. I wanted to spend time with my father and play something special for him before I left for good.”
She sat with quiet lips for a moment, but her eyes told me she understood. Then she picked up her story where she’d left off.
“That was the start of it. Almost every day she insisted that she heard you singing, playing your violin, or playing the piano. Were you still in Perros during the weeks after that?”
“No,” I answered reflectively. “I left Perros shortly after all of you left the cemetery.”
Her eyes widened with that new understanding. “You knew she was there?”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Yes—I saw all of you, and I heard her call to me. It broke what was left of my heart. I came really close to running to her. I could have used her love and embrace right then—although, I always could have used her love and embrace.”
“Oh, Erik, that’s so sad. Why didn’t you go to her?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I suppose my fear of being locked behind bars was stronger at that time than my need for her love.” I took another deep breath, looked into the fire, and spoke in little over a whisper, “I’m sorry I put my mother through that.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through so much, Erik. You were only a small boy.”
Again, I shrugged my shoulders while thinking about all that had happened to that small boy after that day. I looked back at her, and I wasn’t sure what to do next. I wanted to leave and remove myself from all those torturous memories, but something was tying me there. I had a strange need to know what happened to my mother, almost as if I wanted the pain that was swelling in my chest to continue. After a few seconds of silence, she went on.
“We weren’t sure if you might still be close to home, and since she was so persistent, we helped her look for you whenever she wanted us to.”
“How long did she keep looking for me?”
“Much too long, Erik. It got to the point that she couldn’t be left alone. On several occasions, Gigi came to our home, either early in the morning or sometimes in the middle of the night, telling us that her mother was gone. We would quickly dress and go looking for her. It didn’t take us long to realize we only needed to look in one place, the cemetery, because that’s where she always went, and she always insisted that you were there somewhere, singing. She’d be at the back fence, looking up into the trees, calling your name over and over.”
I closed my eyes to the visual image of my poor mother, but it was impossible to close my heart to its emotional response.
Celeste took a sip of her tea, told me to have another cookie, and then continued, “Your mother’s health started failing. If she wasn’t out looking for you, she was sitting and staring out the back window toward the barn. Or sometimes she’d jump with a start and charge up the stairs saying, ‘He’s here! He’s singing!’ Or, if we were up in her room, she’d run to the top of the stairs saying, ‘He’s playing for me.’ Then she’d stand at the railing, looking down at the silent piano. And on many occasions I’d find her in your room, sitting in the middle of the floor with one of your contraptions in her hands.
“She couldn’t sleep or eat. Charles and I tried to get her to stay with us in our home, hoping the change in surroundings might help her, but she refused, saying she needed to be there when you got back home. So I started staying with her twenty-four hours a day. Charles even stayed there with us when he wasn’t at work.
“I tried everything I could to help her eat. I prepared all her favorite dishes, with a nicely set table and candles. The three of us would sit at the table with her, trying to smile and talk with her. She did try her best to smile and eat, bless her soul, but everything she ate came right back up. She got so thin.”
I raised my eyes from my fingers and looked at her watching me with a tender gaze. “It was before sunrise when Gigi came in and woke me for the last time. We again went to the cemetery, but we couldn’t find her there, so we widened our search. Remembering how she always insisted you were playing your violin from up among the trees, we looked there next.”
She became silent and moved her sight to the fire, and I tried to wait patiently for her to continue, although, at that point, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the rest of her story. I took a sip of my tea and set the cup down loud enough to be heard, hoping to attract her attention, but her gaze was fixed, perhaps reliving that harrowing time in her life.
She finally took a deep breath and looked back at me. “I never should have left her side that night. I should have sat up with her and not slept. Deep in me, I knew something bad was going to happen that day, although I didn’t know what. For days prior, she’d been gaining a hopeful attitude. She would smile at me and say, ‘Just three more days, Celeste. Just two more days. Just one more day.’
“She felt certain her search for you would end on that day and she would find you at last. During those days, she cleaned your room from top to bottom. She dusted and swept the floors. She dusted and straightened all your books and experiments. She washed your bed sheets and windows, even though it was snowing outside. She said everything had to be clean for you when you returned.”
She again transferred her sight to the fire, and, as tears filled her eyes, she finished her story. “That last day we searched for her was the first of January, Erik—your birthday. We found her in a cluster of trees on the hill behind the cemetery, sitting against one of them. She was in only her nightgown and partially covered with the fresh snow. She was gone and there was nothing the good doctor could do for her.”
She stopped speaking and, while her gaze remained on the fire, I tore apart inside. I killed her. I wasn’t even there, and I killed her. I was fighting that ache in my jaw that preceded my tears, so I took a drink of my tea, trying to maintain my composure. I was searching, unsuccessfully, through my thoughts to find some kind of a response to her words, but, thankfully, she rescued me and continued speaking.
“She loved you very much, Erik. And while it must be hard for you to hear what happened to her, it should show you how much she loved you.”
Unintentionally, my voice sounded somewhat sarcastic when I responded, “You don’t think, Celeste, that maybe she was just plagued with guilt for how she treated me?”
She looked at me thoughtfully, got up, and touched my shoulder as she went by me. “Wait here a minute, Erik. There’s something you need to see.”
She went into her parlor, and, from the other room, made several comments about knowing it was there somewhere. She came back around the corner and handed me a small, green, velvet bag.
“Open it,” she said as she laid her hand on my shoulder.
I did as she asked and found a locket, the locket I’d given to my mother.
“Take it out and look inside, Erik. When we found your mother, she had that locket closed in her fist. After your father’s funeral, and when we couldn�
�t find you at the cemetery, she started looking for that locket. She found it on your father’s dresser, but the chain was missing, so she just held it in her hands. She carried it everywhere with her, until, one day when she couldn’t find it again, she went hysterical. After that, I bought her another chain and then she wore it around her neck. I don’t think she ever took it off.”
The air in the room was still and solemn as I opened the locket. There I found a picture of Gigi, just as anticipated. “I thought there would be a picture of my father along with Gigi’s,” I remarked.
“Yes, she told me that’s what you’d suggested, but she never put his picture there.”
I tightened my jaw and started to close the locket when she put her hand on mine. “No, Erik, look closer.”
She got up and turned up the light beside me and repeated her instructions. “Look closely.”
She pointed to the empty side of the locket, and I turned it in the light, trying to see what she was referring to, and then, there it was. Obviously written with a crude instrument of some sort, and not by a jeweler’s precision tool, was one word—Erik.
I could hear my own heart beating as I stared at my name etched in the gold locket, not sure what to make of it. Then I looked up into Celeste’s tender eyes.
“She loved you, Erik. She loved you very much. She just had her own problems and didn’t know how to show you how much she loved you, but she did. She carried you as close to her heart as she could and in the only way she knew how.”
I nodded and looked back at my name, but I still wasn’t sure what to feel. I definitely felt pain, but whether it was for her or for me I wasn’t sure. I closed the locket, put it back in the bag, and handed it to my gracious hostess.
She held out her hand, but then closed my fingers over the bag. “It’s yours, Erik. When we went through your mother’s things and packed them in boxes, I tried to give the locket to Gigi, but she said, since you gave it to your mother, you should have it. She kept it for you in her room, believing you would be back soon and she could give it to you. She always knew you would be back someday, and she was right.”
I looked down at my closed fist holding the green bag and she went back to her chair. I wasn’t capable of making a decision at that time, so I set the bag down next to my tea.
“Thank you, Celeste, for explaining everything to me.”
She nodded, but she was still quite solemn. The cheerful face she’d had when I entered her home was nowhere to be found. I was almost afraid to ask her any more questions, but I needed to say something to direct us away from my mother.
“Now, tell me about Gigi. Is she still living close by?” I blurted out like an insensitive imbecile.
The smile almost returned, and she sighed. “Oh, Gigi. That sweet girl. She’s living in Madrid now, and I miss her so.”
“Madrid? What took her to Madrid?” I asked with honest surprise.
“Well, a young man actually, a very handsome and talented young man by the name of Alfonso, whom she met in Venice.”
I was shocked, and it showed in my unrestrained voice. “Venice? Gigi went to Venice? Why Venice?”
“Because some of the best art schools are in Italy,” she responded, as if I should have known the answer. “She found one that accepted her in Venice. She became quite good, you know.”
“Venice?” I repeated almost under my breath. “Venice?” echoed again from my lips. I felt a serious frown begin as my gaze traveled to the fire. “Venice? She was accepted at a school in Venice?”
“Yes, Erik. Is something wrong?” I couldn’t answer. “Erik, what’s wrong?”
I quickly looked back at her, with that one word conjuring up decades of agonizing emotional images.
“Nothing really, I suppose. I was only surprised—that’s all. You see, a conversation about our plans to move to Venice was the last conversation I had with my father. So . . .” I looked down at the braided rug beneath my feet and gathered my thoughts. “I was just surprised—nothing more.”
She moved forward somewhat in her chair and looked at me with questions in her eyes, as well as in the tone of her voice.
“I’m sorry, Erik, sorry you had to go there alone. You did make it to Venice, didn’t you? You did make it to the conservatory?”
Taking a sip of my tea to buy time to think, I nodded. Then, with visions of that forsaken child walking aimlessly through the streets of Venice, I answered, “Yes, indeed I did. I found my way to Italy and to Venice and to the conservatory.”
She smiled eagerly and leaned back. “I knew you would. I would love to have seen their faces when they heard you. I bet they were surprised to have you walk in with such a talent.”
“Yes—you could say that. But, I think, shocked, would be a more appropriate word,” I responded, trying to smile and change the subject. “But, tell me, how did Gigi do at the school?”
“Oh, she did wonderfully. She was, and still is, very talented,” she responded with such pride. Pointing to the painting over the fireplace, she added, “See that painting? She did that when she was only ten, and it was that painting that won her acceptance to the school. Does any of it look familiar to you?”
I studied the painting that was made mostly of varying shades of gray and white, with highlights of lavender-blue, violet, and light coral. It depicted clouds in the sky and, in the center, almost hidden in the shape of the clouds, was a horse head, and, off to the side and top were a pair of eyes, intense human eyes. It was beautiful, and it did just what any good painting should do; it captivated me, and I stared at it for some time before Celeste repeated her question.
“Does any of it look familiar to you?”
As I looked at it with that question in mind, I realized what she was getting at. “Yes. It’s Molly’s head, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, and what about the eyes? Do you recognize them?” she asked with a twinkle in hers.
Squinting a bit, I nodded, “Yes, they’re my mother’s eyes and most intriguing.”
She looked at me with a big smile. “No. They’re meant to be your eyes. But then you have your mother’s eyes, so I’m not surprised you recognized them as hers. You’re supposed to be watching over Molly. She got the inspiration for the painting from the times you’d take her out in the pasture with Molly and a blanket. She told me you’d lie on it with her while looking up at the clouds. She said you’d tell her that, if she used her imagination, she could make anything she wanted out of the clouds. She painted that for you, and she was going to give it to you when you returned. She never gave up hope that you’d return, because, as she put it, you promised her you would.”
As my guilt mounted, she took a bite of a cookie and went on. “For a long time she waited everyday at the window. I thought the day would never come when she’d stop asking when you were coming home. It broke my heart. She never forgot you or gave up on your coming back. I guess she was right, because here you are.”
I remember frowning when she said that, and I felt so guilty. “I know I should have contacted her sooner, but my life was so . . .”
“Busy?” she interjected.
“Well, no . . . well, yes . . .”
I groaned inside, leaned forward again, and pressed my fingertips against my forehead, trying to find words that wouldn’t disclose the horrors I was living through during that period when my innocent sister was waiting for me. I looked at Celeste’s kind eyes, and a large part of me wanted to let go of what I’d been carrying alone for so long. I wanted to cry and tell her everything that her small genius suffered. I wanted to unburden my heart to her, but I didn’t. It might have made me feel better, but she’d already gone through so much because of my family, and I couldn’t do that to her. So I told her the only thing I could think of.
“It was a hard time for me, Celeste. I suffered over my father’s death for an extremely long time. In fact, I’m still suffering because of his loss. I had to work through a lot of things, and, by then, it had been so l
ong and I figured it didn’t matter anymore—I guess.”
“I’m sorry you had to suffer so much, Erik. But you’re here now, and that’s what matters. She’s going to be so thrilled when I write her. You should write her. I could give you her address, and you should give me your address so I can give it to her.”
I instantly felt like a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar. What address could I possibly give her? The Opera Ghost, care of the Paris Opera House, Fifth Cellar, Paris, France? No, that wouldn’t do at all. I felt so deceptive. What was I doing there? I should have known she’d ask me all types of questions that I wouldn’t be able to answer.
I tried to smile and nodded. Then I looked at the painting again, trying to change the subject.
“If she painted that when she was ten, she was pulling that vision from a memory at least six years old. She was so young then. How could she remember that much of it to be so accurate?”
“She kept her memories of you alive, Erik. She never forgot you. In fact, there’s something else she kept for you.”
She set her cup down and headed back to the parlor, while telling me to have another cookie. She came back with a large collection of drawings in a box bound with a yellow silk ribbon. As I looked at them, I recognized most of what she’d drawn. They were Molly, and our house, the cliffs over the ocean, and then there were eyes, several pages of nothing but eyes. I stopped on one of those pages and looked with wonder at her young talent.
“That’s you, Erik. She drew that . . . oh . . . it must have been three or four years after you left. She really caught the right expression, don’t you think?”
“Yes, indeed,” I answered with pride.
She sat on the arm of the sofa beside me and ran her tiny finger over the edge of the page as she added, “I recall asking her how she could remember your eyes so clearly. She said she could never forget them or your smile and laugh. She loved your laugh and said it was the thing she missed the most. That, and your music.
Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine Page 21
