Billie Girl

Chapter Four

Things were never the same after Daddy died. By the way, I just had a very hard time writing those two words side by side: "Daddy" and "died." He used to always say to me, "You will remember me." How right he was! And I was thinking about it again. But then the front door opened, letting in snow white brightness and a refreshing chilly gust of December afternoon air. And there he was. My Blake.

"I'm here," he said. He knew that I loved it when he said that. Because I had him convinced that phone calls or texts or Facebook posts or whatever were really meaningless. What matters the most is when the two of us are within physical proximity of each other. For me, anything less is just empty words and empty chatter.

My mother was sitting at her piano playing the same Minuet she always played in the afternoons. She loved Blake and looked up to him. I think she saw him as a character from a movie. She thought he was my Johnny Depp, a modern-day pirate dressed in layered clothing and black jeans and what looked like permanent eyeliner. But I knew for a fact that Blake did not wear any makeup whatsoever. His dark brown eyes were just that way naturally. They looked theatrical. And there was really nothing he could do about it. Blake told me that he even got in some fights in school over it. Bullies would accuse him of wearing mascara and rather than deny it, he would tell them, "Yes, I wear mascara. I put it on first thing in the morning. I think it makes me look real pretty. Don't you agree?" he was just being defiant and unafraid. And his reward was a black eye which would in turn really make it look like he was wearing purplish eyeliner. He told me that after getting punched, he looked like the star of Clockwork Orange, which was really a cool movie from my mother's era.

But today, he was injury-free and he took off his boots (my mother insisted that everyone take off their shoes so as not to wet her wood floor).

My mother took her fingers off the keys of that small upright piano and got up to greet Blake.

"Go on, keep playing," my Blake said. "Don't stop on my account."

Mom refused to play on.

"Relax, I just play for myself."

"We can be your audience," Blake said.

"No, there is only one person Mom wants to play for."

"Who is that?" Blake asked.

"She liked playing for my dad," I said.

"Billie's father was the only person who ever appreciated my attempts at the piano. Why I still play, I don't know. Guess it reminds me of him. He always told me I had long fingers, perfect for the piano. But still I am not very good."

My mother and I were always honest with each other and so I said, "Yeah, you kinda suck at it, it's true. But still, who knows? Maybe someday magically you'll get better. Anyhow, it's good for your mind to play. It's like being with Dad. Think about it that way. Maybe he is listening still."

"No, he's not listening. We don't believe in all that, do we?"

"I believe," I said.

"Believe in what?" Mother asked.

"Who knows? Maybe there is someone who watches over us."

"Well then they can clean this house. Because I hate cleaning up after you."

"Maybe a spirit cleans through you," Blake said to put my mother in a better mood.

"Ha, that's funny," Mom said, playing a single chord.

Mom was the most assured atheist you could ever meet. But at least Blake got her to smile just for a moment and resume playing.

I kept listening to see if some spirit might now be playing through her, like Blake said, making her a more nuanced player. And, for maybe one moment, at the very end, I heard a single phrase played smoothly, effortlessly, and yes with some grace, and I knew that Daddy had something to do with it.

Blake and I applauded her.

The whole thing got me thinking about Dad and I told Blake that I wanted to go somewhere, just to get away for a little while.

When my mother saw me putting on my coat she asked, "Are you really going out there?"

"I can't just stay in. Anyhow, I have a doctor's appointment, remember."

"I can take you."
"Blake wants to take me."

Blake said, "I will take good care of her."

"Thanks Blake, I am happy to just stay at home," my mother said, cupping the warmth of her tea. "I love my house and I am perfectly fine going nowhere at all. This whole thing just confirms for me that we should all just stay home and mind our own business."

"Mom, I can't just stay in this house. You know I get cabin fever and besides, I'm with Blake."

"Blake does not strike me as a martial arts expert," she said, "and I know that he is not carrying firearms. So the fact that you are with Blake doesn't give me any comfort at all."

"Amanda," Blake said. He never addressed her as Mrs. Moore. He treated her like she was a chum from school. "I will look out for her. If she is with me, she is not a target. The psycho only strikes girls when they are alone. Anyhow, we will be locked safely in my car."

"Don't leave her alone for a minute," my mother said, and then she got up and gave me a hug. The sort of hug and kiss that made me feel like I was breaching some unspoken verbal contract between us by leaving her treasured house. It really bothered me, but I still had to break the very strong bond between us and get away. But it didn't matter because I felt an invisible string that kept me attached to her. It was a frail string, but it was always there.

It kept us connected as if we were two papercup telephones.