Unknown (5 page)

"Says you, O queen of ridicule", I retort, "You're the one who dragged her to that godforsaken piano this morning." And though it made no sense, the piano was somehow the cause of her distressed sleep.

"Are you trying to tell me, that she's suffering from the after effects of the piano she didn't even play?" she voices, incredulous and skeptical.

"No, I'm saying that she's napping, and she isn't the first person to do so"- says the stupid insensitive me.

"Elizabeth doesn't nap, and not so long anyway"- says the voice of experience, Kate.

"Well then, maybe it is just an aftermath of undernourishment. She hardly eats enough to keep herself awake"- argues the super frustrated me.

"We are all worried about her Nicholas", mom softly breaks in, her eyes filled with gentle understanding. I look away, and she continues "she's been tossing about in her sleep, murmuring incoherent words I couldn't fathom. Something is disturbing her. And this isn't a normal nap. I shook her up and she barely responded. It's like she's on some pill", she finishes, and my anxiety rises to new levels. The concept of a pill is more alarming than all my previously cooked up explanations.

"You may be right Clare", father readily agrees. "Her behavior
has
been rather odd these past few days. I attributed it to plain embarrassment, or a simple case of nerves for having to come live with us after all these years. But it
is
different, something more, something wrong. Why is she hiding it though? I've never known her to hide anything from us."

"Maybe if Nicholas were to....."my super meddlesome sister begins, only to trail off, when she catches the first true glimpse of my menacing glower.

"You go", I scowl at no one in particular, "Go right ahead, and talk to her. Don't drag me into this".

As far as I'm concerned, this conversation is pointless, entirely moot. So she wasn't forthcoming with her problems. She wasn't interested in sharing them with us. She wasn't comfortable enough for that.

What else is new?

"You were always able to get it out of her Nick, how much ever she may try otherwise. I may have been her best friend, but you could get to her Nick. You got through to her in a way no one could", my sister cajoles, and I hate her for it. I hate this reminder of my belligerent past.

Couldn't they give it a rest? Cannot they see how painful this is for me? That this reminiscence of old times was like salt to my old wounds.

"Now she's taking naps in the middle of the day extending well into the night, murmuring in her sleep, flinching from her own piano, staring at inanimate objects and jumping at the slightest of movement.

Something's wrong Nick."

"You think I haven't noticed", I yell, finally giving up all pretenses, finally giving my temper a free reign. "You think I don't know that something's wrong? That I haven't tried prying out of her? She shut me out, damn you. Just like she shut me out five years ago. I was delusional enough to give it a try and I failed. Miserably. I don't get through to her anymore. People change. She changed. I don't get her and I don't get through to her."

And taking a deep breath, I relay this morning's conversation, after the

piano incident.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?"

It's a sunny day, which is a blessing after 3 endless days of uninterrupted snowing. She's siting by the window with a writing pad in hands, busy sketching what looked like a bunch of birds from a distance, looking heartbreakingly beautiful, almost painfully so. I know from experience that she could sketch things to perfection. She'd sketched me once and it was breathtaking. If pictures could speak, hers would sing to me.

"Can I come in", I repeat politely. She looks a little dazed by the interruption.

"Sure".

"You didn't come down for lunch".

"Yes, umm, I wasn't feeling well".


"That's no surprise, considering you skipped lunch and dinner yesterday, and barely ate this morning."

And apparently, the key to prompt recovery is to forego another meal.

"Aunt Clare had sent up a tray, after", she mumbles to herself, drawing her shoulders in a gesture of obsecration.

"Oh yeah, I saw that tray in the kitchen, the only thing missing from the tray were tea bags, and a piece of toast. Really Elizabeth, I never had you figured for the size zero types."

"Well, who doesn't like to be a supermodel," she attempts with a smile, and fails utterly.

"You, Elizabeth, you've never wanted to be one. Are you starving yourself to death? You don't eat, you don't sleep, and when you do, it's fitful. Is something wrong?" I ask, keeping all my prejudices aside for this, one moment. She was troubled, and it took precedence over my bruised ego. Over everything.

But she rebuffs my attempts with just a head shake and continues to regard me in that doleful expression she'd apparently perfected over the years.

"Come on Elizabeth, you'll make yourself ill. You have to eat, and a pitiful slice of apple does not count. Have lunch at least, mom made pie", I offer gently, bribing her with pie. A part of me is standing at the doorway and laughing at the utter self-deprecating state I'd been reduced to, luring her with pie.

"I'm not really hungry. And everything's fine. I'm not accustomed to sleeping in this room, maybe that's why I can't sleep peacefully", she answers, throwing the past back on my face, and I finally realize the futility of my actions.

I turn around, not speaking or making a sound, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of seeing how her words had just sliced an already bruised heart.

"Nicholas", her voice stops me, and I turn around to look at her blankly, while hopeless hope spurs my heartbeat.

"My dad will be coming next week to pick me up and I'll be gone from your life, this time for forever".

Of course. Of course. I do not deserve anything less. My stupid heart deserves every bit of pain she doles out. After all, she loves torturing me, doesn't she?

"I was wondering if we could spend the remainder of our time together in peace. Truce?" she offers nervously, extending her hands towards me.

I take a deep breath in, and somehow manage to ignore the rising bile in my throat.

"You know Beth, there was a time when we were friends. A time when I understood you, could read you like an open book. A time when I knew you. That time is past me. You are nothing but a stranger. With the same face, the same voice even, but a stranger nevertheless, and a guest in my house. And we've been taught to stay cordial with our houseguests. You want peace, you get peace."

I ignore her outstretched hand, retrace my steps, and shut the door on her anguished face.

"Are you happy now? People change, and our pretending otherwise does not change a thing."

I rise from the settee and walk out in stiff rapid strides, leaving a trail of three heartbroken faces behind.

"Scoot over", the rough whisper woke me up.

I opened my groggy eyes, rubbing them roughly as I took note of my surroundings. I was in the Tanner house, in Kate's room, on her feathery bed with the fluffy pillows, and the stuffed Pooh.

"Scoot over", the voice repeated, and I gushed in a mouthful of air, to release in a scream.

"Sshhh, it's me", he murmured in my ear, covering my mouth with his hands.

I looked up and focused on the stranger with beautiful green eyes, just like his sister's.

"Nicholas", I whispered back.

"Scoot over, will you!", he repeated for the third time, and I finally did as he asked.

He adjusted the pillows and got under the covers beside me.

"What happened", he asked kindly. I rubbed my eyes once more, not wanting to cry before him. He'd yelled "crying is for wimps" at his sister just this afternoon. I did not want to be a wimp. Whatever that meant.

"I dreamed of mama", I spoke softly, my lips pulled in a baby panda pout, a big fat tear rolling down my face. My mama had gone to heaven, they'd said. But I needed her with me. Kate had hers. And Penelope too, though she was three years older than me. Dad had explained that mommy was with God, but I didn't want that. I wanted here with me.

He wiped the tear away with a soft finger, then patted my head like uncle Jonathan.

He looked silly too, with his polka dots pajamas, but I didn't mention them. He was being nice, and I didn't want to be rude.

"What was she doing in the dream?"

"We were playing in the backyard, by the pool. We were playing hide and seek." I finished with a fresh pool of tears.

"Don't cry Elizabeth, we'll play hide and seek tomorrow. She'd like that, wont she?"

"But how will she know what we're doing?"

"She knows Elizabeth. Who do you think is the brightest star in the sky? Moms know everything. She looks after you from heaven. I don't think she likes it when you cry." He wiped them off my face once again. Then handed me a tissue, which I snuffed my nosy with.

"Do you know what these are", He asked, waving a pile of cards. No, it was a deck of cards.

"They are playing cards", I answered, seriously. Beside me, Kate smiled in her sleep. Maybe she was having a happy dream. Maybe she was dreaming about stars.

"Yes smarty, and I'm willing to teach you a trick that Kate's been pestering me for. It's a magic trick", he winked, and I giggled.

"But you have to take a magician's oath and promise not to tell a soul."

I nodded and repeated the oath.

"Now, you pick a card of your choice, have a peek, then return the card face down, but do not show me the card. I'll shuffle the deck, and tell you which card you chose."

He smiled at me again. I smiled back.

"So, shall we begin?"

I picked a card and took a peek. It was a black card with a leaf facing upside down and '4' printed on the top right Then I gave it back to Nicholas and didn't tell him what it was. How could he know which card I picked? I thought, then watched his clever fingers juggle them, in fasation, facination, fasination...?

"And your card is.... 4 of spades", he announced and I stared and stared at him.

He had picked the right card. I clapped my hands when he took a bow.

I spent the next few minutes learning the magic trick. I did it wrong several times, but Nicholas righted me. I did it right after the eleventieth time.

And I didn't miss mama anymore.

Elizabeth chronicles
- August 1999

This diary is the property of Elizabeth Whitfield

8. The Sunday dance

The Sunday dance, as anticipated, is a royal affair.

We are seated at the great hall, listening to the mayor’s endless speech about the city’s recent developments and accomplishments, and though he is trying his best to pep up the milieu by throwing in abstract innuendoes and ill-timed jokes, he doesn't quite manage it. If the glossy haze of our eyes were any indication, we had gone past comatose and were fast approaching suspended animation.

I've been keeping tabs on the stupefied expressions around me, behind me, and in front of me, and I have to say, I feel a strange sense of comradeship with them. Especially with the couple seated 2 rows ahead, snoring loud enough to wake the dead. The mayor, however, decides to ignore the
subtle
hints and keeps on with the banter.

Those of us who aren’t dozing, are thinking of the sumptuous feast, (I had managed to catch a glimpse), the only attraction of tonight’s itinerary.

My parents have not yet arrived. Dad had come up with a last minute errand, only now, it looks like a last minute reprieve. I wonder whether dad had invented the chore on purpose to escape the ennui.

“Nicholas, wake up Nicholas”, Drew nudges me awake a full 20 minutes later.

So, I had managed to nap after all. Judicious use of time to my thinking.

“Just when did he shut up?”

“He’s about to, look he is about to invite the congressmen to inaugurate the ceremony and begin the dance.”

"Why can't they be taken to the buffet first", cries a young girl of about ten, seated behind me. I grin in complete accord and wink at her. She giggles shyly.

“Come on Nick, you’re my only hope for the evening. You have my first dance”, Drew whines, shaking my arms with fresh fervor.

“And all of Emma’s apparently.”

At least that's what Emma keeps repeating. The girl has all the subtlety of a belching whale.

"Why don't you ladies sort it out, then let me know", I smirk teasingly, wiggling my eyebrows like a lecher, Hollywood-style.

The lady in question just glares at me, pulling and dragging me to the dance floor while she's at it.

I give in eventually, and pull her in for a dance, but I can't seem to be able to focus. Something keeps distracting me, like a faint buzz in the back of my mind.