Audrey Hepburn's Pearls: Part I

Chapter 16.1: 1994, Georgina

Chapter 16.1: 1994, Georgina

 

I am Georgina. Georgina Caselotti. I am not Emma George. I am not George. I am definitely not Georgina Monroe or any incarnation of it.

I'll imagine you're here with me, your hands over mine as I play your favorite song on my piano. Its got a liquid stain ring on it now from my glass, but that's okay. You'd say the imperfection makes it more beautiful. You said my imperfections made me more beautiful, no matter what they were. 

I'll cry as I think about you, I have every right. If you were here, you'd pick me up and sit me on your lap. You'd play Chopsticks to try to make me smile, like that scene from The Seven Year Itch. I wonder if you remember. Eventually I would smile again as you went faster and faster, and I'd play with you, some octaves higher, like a girl's voice.

I always thought it was strange how we both learned to play the piano as kids. It was a common thing, but I thought it was special. It was a connection in two lives that made no sense, so different from each other.

I'm trying to be better. For some reason or other, this young person is trying to be my friend. I don't know her. But her light reminds me of your's, your strange happy sensibility in any high rolling sea of hardship. She's young like you, too, and maybe that accounts for it. Maybe the young don't know how to not be happy. I don't know. But she reminds me of you, and it comforts me. 

For a long time, I denied who I was, you know. I thought I was George again after you died. The pretty clothes you liked were gone, stored away. I thought about burning them, but you liked them so much. You bought me so many of them, remember? They were "feel better" presents, things to remind me of my true self, of Georgina. Your Georgina. I think you'd be proud of me for wearing the clothes you bought again. You'd say, "that's my Georgina. Where did she go?" The thought makes me smile even though its sad. 

I think you'd like my hair now. You've never seen it like this. It was always short like how a boy is supposed to have it. But now its long, past my chest. There's little curls at the bottom, natural ones which I never knew were there. Sometimes I imagine you in bed, gently playing with them with your fingers. It comforts me but makes me cry.

Late nights like this, I play Chopin sometimes into the morning. Chopin was so special to us. If I close my eyes and try to lose myself, I can imagine its you playing like in the early morning. 

My favorite times were waking up to hearing you at the piano. It didn't really matter what you were playing. You could be playing the funeral march and it would still make me smile. Just the thought of your fingers on the keys, your precious fingers playing.

I still can't believe I'll never hear you play again. Am I a stupid old woman for keeping the hope that I'll wake up some day and you'll be sitting at the piano? Sometimes very late at night I hear the sound of a piano key. If that's you, please keep doing it. If that's not you, I'll think it is you. 

Lately, I've really wanted to cook for you. You liked it when I cooked Italian dishes. You know I'm Italian, too, right? Did I ever tell you that? My Dad was Italian. An Italian from upstate, imagine? My mom was Irish, but that's okay. I don't remember my Dad much. He left us when I was about seven. I think my mom blamed me for it. The only thing I have from my Dad was his language. I know Italian. He spoke to me in it when I was very young. My mom didn't like for me to use it, but you loved it when I spoke Italian. You'd say, "where did you learn Italian?" and I wouldn't tell you. I wish I had told you.

Sometimes I liked to imagine that your father was what my grandpa must have been like. I imagine my grandpa was a big Italian man who liked to laugh. Is that weird?

I want to cook manicotti for you and your father. If I think about it, you'd tell me to make the young one some manicotti. I wonder if she's ever had some? She's Puerto Rican, so maybe not. Yeah. I think I'll make that young one some manicotti, teach her about the Italian people. You'd like that.