Audrey Hepburn's Pearls: Part I

Chapter 103.1: 1968, Georgina

Chapter 103.1: 1968, Georgina

We were drifting around as if the cream carpet were clouds to the sultry voice of Lena Horne on the record player. Frankie's hands were on me, guiding me around our cloudy heaven of sighs and touch.

"Sing to me," he whispered to me, and I could tell he was smiling even though my eyes were closed, just wanting to take in his fingers on my shoulder and waist.

"I don't know this song," I whispered back, smiling with him. I felt the warmth of his cheek next to mine before it pressed. Dancing cheek to cheek. I was in heaven. I had to be.

"Of course you do."

"Mm, where did you learn to dance?"

"It doesn't matter. Please sing to me."

So I sang. And my voice became one that was not my own, but Lena Horne's.

My eyes opened and I was on the couch. Pain rolled up me, but not as much as I had expected. It was too soon to wake up. As my eyes cleared of blurriness, I realized with a slight shock that I wasn't where I'd expected to be. This was not my white couch at all.

I wasn't in the apartment where I'd danced with Frankie. There was no floor to ceiling window, no way for our silhouettes to glow in the New York lights without it.

As I scanned the room, I noticed an object I didn't want to see. My face pressed into my pillow away from it. The black wheelchair loomed over me like an odd creature trying to get my attention, but I couldn't give it any of my attention. It had to go away.

Quickly, I could hear that nobody in the apartment was awake. There was clear snoring coming from the bedroom, but it wasn't Paulie's. I waited for a minute, going through my friends' snores like a Rolodex.

It was a queer sound, this snore. Almost like a pause then a long whistle, like in those cartoons they used to show in theaters. The quintessential cartoon snore. It sounded like a small dog with allergies.

My hand popped the couch cushion as I figured out who it belonged to. My mouth opened to call his name, but should I let him sleep? My hands gripped the couch, trying to pull myself up. The sore pain told me no. I collapsed back on the couch, cancelling the small progress I had made.

But just like that, the snore stopped. Just interrupted, gone. Like some sort of cartoon dog waking up as a cat slinked around it. My hand slapped over my mouth as if I had been caught.

"Urgh, what? Oh, what time is it?" Sasha grumbled rattlingly from the bedroom. The door was wide open before I knew it, my head tilted up from the pillow on the couch armrest. Sasha emerged into the doorway wearing a long wrap-around nightgown, a pretty white thing with a light green flower pattern with off-white lace accents. I wanted to ask him about it immediately, it was too pretty.

"Oh, are you awake, too?" he asked, starting to yawn on the last word. His hand went up to his still slightly red lips, the color faded around them as if he'd been kissing someone. I was sure the pillow in there must be stained the same shade.

"Not for long."

"Ah. Okay. Well, you need to pee? I can make...wait, is that time right?" His head was turned to the clock on the wall. From here I could see he had some sort of light crumbs in his dark auburn hair. Had he been eating in there late at night?

"What time is it?" I was still observing him. Taking him in.

"Its 2pm. You know, your birthday party is at seven. How on earth are we going to get ready in five hours?" He waved his hand at me as if waving away an invisible bug with a slightly harassed expression.

Oh god. "Don't remind me. Let me sleep and still be twenty-four."

With this he beamed at me like a sneaky pirate and sashayed to me, his trademark walk. Before I knew it, he had my hands and was pulling me up. My entire body went stiff, waiting for pain. It came, and my face scrunched but I was in my chair so fast it was brief. Thankfully.

"S dnom rozhdeniya!" He greeted me instead, a new pain. This horrible thing he just said to me.

"Don't you dare, you assho-"

But he was already singing it. Wishing me a Happy Birthday in Russian, his standard birthday wishes, the Happy Birthday song, Russian version. He was positively dancing with my chair, spinning me around, and I was screaming in protest but he didn't care.

He knew I loved it, even though getting older was...a nightmare.

"Happy birthday, birthday girl!" He finished, a new ending to this birthday wish. That last word was a gift in itself. The first time I'd been called that. I started to blush deeply but I didn't want him to see. I covered my face and faked a yawn.

"Nooo," I fake protested, but I secretly I was so happy. If only he hadn't went on.

"How does it feel to be past your prime? Twenty-five. How do you do, old lady?" He mocked shoving a microphone under my face, waiting eagerly for my response behind my wheelchair.

My fists were waving, I was shrieking at him like we were siblings. He was laughing his trademark laugh, wheeling me into the bathroom like it was nothing at all.

When I was on the toilet and he was outside the bathroom he was still talking to me, yelling to me from the kitchen as I heard pots and pans slamming. "It all ends now. I know, I'm twenty-seven. I've seen the end of the world, and its not pretty. You're gonna start to get wrinkles on your little forehead. Your skin is going to melt. You're going to be not pretty like me soon. You watch."

More teasing. I tapped my fingers on the porcelain sink next to me, just listening to his Russian accent go on and on about the horrors of being in one's mid to late twenties. He had started acting like he was forgetting what a pot was and what an egg was by the time I was done.

"Oh my god, what's this?! Georgina, what's this white round thing in the fridge?! Is it food?!" he called to me, acting like a fool. "I must not know because I'm sooo old. Like youuu."

"Shut up," I laughed, "help me up. Brush my teeth. Its my birthday."

"Brush your own goddamn teeth."

I was giggling, I couldn't help it, doubled over laughing. My cheeks hurt. He'd said it so authoritatively, with the mix of his accent in it. I couldn't help myself.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, opening the bathroom door. He had one of Paulie's aprons on above his nightgown. It was a long white one, like you'd see on a cook at a diner.

"Nooo, call me 'miss'."

"I can't, ma'am. You don't look young enough to be a 'miss'." He sounded like a cop or the KGB. I starting giggling uncontrollably at this. He sounded so serious.

He grinned at me. I felt his arms around me, lifting me up, as I burst into new giggles. "Oh, now. Stop that laughing. How am I supposed to brush your teeth if you're practically chomping my hand up?" I heard him say so close to my ear.

"Really? You'll really do it?" I half-gasped, trying to regain air.

"Yeah, call it birthday wish #1. Granted. Happy birthday, birthday girl."

I couldn't have laughed if I wanted to right then. Just too happy, way too happy, to be a birthday girl. No matter what age.