Nor (Wattpad Featured Story, WriteAffair finalist)

Chapter 27: Bits and Pieces

It's a lot harder, come October, to focus on an event that was so important to me the previous year – my mother's death-day. I was bored then, numb, and I needed so much to feel something, anything to know that I was real, that life was real.

I sure got what I wanted. Pia came along and blew apart that safe dynamic between my cousin and me. Maggie appeared. I saw the truth about Wes. I met Glenn. I met the Watchers.

I feel like an idiot now for ever asking for more. I can't decide if it's all better now, or before. I can't decide if I'd rather go back, but it doesn't matter. Either way, it's impossible. At least 10/10/2007, Marissa Robinson's anniversary, will be something familiar for me. A link. A ritual.

But as it turns out, the spread of change won't leave that alone. First, a storm keeps me from visiting her grave. I learned from being caught in the rain before to lug an umbrella around with me, but on a day like this, there's really no point. Rain slants. Rain gets you. You end up sitting in your Mercedes, salt-showered, drenching the seats, irritatedly tossing your umbrella out the window.

I try waiting out the rain, but that doesn't seem to get me anywhere. It lets up some, but won't stop. Unless I'm interested in walking through a drizzling sea, I have to let go Major Point One of my death-day list. At around six-thirty, I drive down to Winger's, sitting inside where it's nice and warm, absorbing meat-smells and pop music. I feel a million times better after my meal, but it only lasts until I reach Key Theatre.

'Management Announcement: We regret to inform patrons that Kendall City's Key Theatre will be closing at the end of this year, estimated in December, after the Christmas performances. We appreciate your support and loyalty and wish warm luck to all the artists and performers of our bright community.'

What?

I stare at the cheaply-printed thing for a long time, squinting and cocking my head this way and that, trying to decide if this chunk of junk is really staring me in the face. Closing? Are they insane? OK, so all that 'support and loyalty' has been dropping over the years, meaning decimated audiences and definite losses, but still! Key Theatre has been around in Kendall City forever, way before I was born, a pathway and a home for generations of singers, actors and musicians. I know that if it were my father in charge, he'd never let this happen (he'd probably construct gold statues of my mother outside every door and probably even in the bathrooms?). But unfortunately, Key Theatre is one of those few establishments that doesn't belong to him. I'm not even sure who owns it.

As I sit in Hall 8B a few minutes later in front of a bizarre Hell-themed ballet piece, I start nursing a desperate desire to immortalize this place for myself somehow. What if they tear it to pieces and plop a mini-mall in its place? A Dairy Queen? A gas station? A Hooter's branch?!

By intermission, I'm wired. When the lights go off again, I know what I have to do. I dig my tiny scissors out of my makeup bag and start shearing a piece of red cloth from underneath my seat. It's rough and felty, and I stuff it in my pocket, feeling a new sense of relief. And peace.

Back at home, the red chair-fabric is slipped under the glass of my desk, along with environmental brochures, movie ticket stubs and bookmarks. 9.57 p.m.

My new Contavalli has been hiding for a long time since my father's outburst, and I feel weird as I take it out. I hesitate to play, missing the time. Shit.

I've already missed a few band practice sessions, on account of my deciding that I'm quitting (Transcript, burn in hell!). Now, my hands feel completely off on this thing. I try a note or two, but my father's words after I played this exact song not too long ago comes back, surprisingly fresh. I stop suddenly, letting go of the instrument.

No more. I don't have to force myself. I know she loved Ave Maria, but I just have to skip this part.

A knock at the door surprises me. "Hey, Nora?"

"Yes, Maggie. Come on in."

She slips half of her body inside, peering curiously at me. Her eyes rove to the violin lying awkwardly in its case on the floor. "You OK in here?"

"Yeah."

"I heard you playing. You haven't done that in a while."

"I know. But I'm not really doing it."

She pauses, her eyes stopped on my face. She shifts and comes inside, walking perfectly on her stilettos over to me. She's so tall. Her hair is factory-pressed straight. As I stare at her, a sudden realization jolts me. Except for the eyes, I look just like her. It's true. I didn't look like my mother, who was mouse-haired, warm-skinned and a bit wide-shouldered. But Maggie is pale and slim and has very black hair like me. "You know, if you want to play, you shouldn't let your dad stop you."

"But that's the thing. I never wanted to play. I only played because of him."

"Really? Why?"

"Because …. " Because it reminds him of her. "I don't know. Don't parents do that all the time? Make their kids do stuff they don't want to do? Piano lessons and language classes and learning the waltz?"

She laughs. "I don't know. My parents weren't really like that."

I sit on the side of my bed, using my feet to put the Contavalli back in a proper position so that I can close the case. "What do you mean? What were they like?"

"They were … " She hesitates, long enough for me to glance at her. "Well, it doesn't really matter now. I haven't seen them in ages."

"Why?"

"I left home a long time ago. Haven't gone back since."

"Really? Don't you miss them?"

"No. But I think about them sometimes."

"I bet they think about you too."

She smiles emptily at this, becoming focused on my carpeting. "No." She's pensive for a moment, then faces me again with a fresh smile. "So are you really going to give it up?"

"What, the violin?"

"Yeah."

"Uh, yeah, I guess so."

"Really? That's too bad. I loved hearing you play." She gets up, heading over to the door. While she walks, she rustles inside her dress like a petal against skin. She turns to look at me just before stepping out. "Why did you try playing again just now? What made you almost change your mind?"

"It was for my mom."

"Your mom?"

"She died two years ago this day."

"Oh? I didn't know about that. I'm sorry."

"I guess he never told you."

She shakes her head, her shoulders slumping a little. "I guess he didn't want to talk about it."

"Yup. He's like that."

She bites her lip. "Again, sorry, Nora."

"I know."

"Have a good night, OK?"

I nod at her, watching as the last of her disappears, listening as the door shuts behind her back. From memory, I know that I have one last thing to do before my death-day list is officially over. Sure, the plan was pretty much shattered into tiny pieces today and will never be the same again from now on, but I can still keep up some things.

I shut off all the lights and turn in for bed, whispering the Proverbs.