It seems that all this activity would be a great way to block out troublesome thoughts of my father and the silent treatment he’s been giving me. Unfortunately, it’s not. But instead of obsessing over it, I recently decided to just pray for him whenever I start feeling bad about the whole thing. Only now that I know he’ll be home in a few days, it’s hard not to start freaking out. And I’m still considering Lola’s suggestion about San Diego.
“I just want to stay with you until your graduation,” Aunt Kellie tells me as we’re cleaning up after dinner on Thursday. Feeling guilty that I’ve monopolized so much of her time these past several weeks, I’ve been urging her to return to her own life and husband. “It’s the least I can do for Karen,” she tells me as she closes the dishwasher. “And the truth is, it’s been good medicine for me, too.”
“How’s that?” I hang the dishtowel on the refrigerator handle, then study my aunt. I’ve decided that she’s actually rather attractive for an older lady. Pleasantly plump, with sparkling brown eyes that remind me of Mom, she’s really quite nice-looking. Although she does need fashion direction, which I’ve been attempting to help her with recently.
“Talking about things with you has been very therapeutic for me.”
“Well, I don’t think I could’ve survived all this without you,” I confess. “I’m sure I’ll never think of a way to appropriately thank you.”
“You thank me every day, just by doing what you need to be doing. You’ve really grown up a lot, Cleo. Your mother would be very proud of you.”
A lump grows in my throat now. “Saturday night... it’s the recital,” I say with a raspy voice. “I just can’t believe she won’t be there. It meant everything to her.”
Aunt Kellie puts a hand on my shoulder. “She’ll be there.”
I nod, pressing my lips together. I want to point out that my father won’t be there either, but if I say those words out loud, I don’t think I can hold back the tears.
. . . . . . . . . .
With the upcoming recital as motivation, I go to the basement and practice for nearly two hours. Working hard (and without the chemical influence of pills), I dance until my thighs and calves are screaming for a break, and then I flop down on the old pink couch. I can’t believe how much I love this couch. In fact, I’ve decided that if I ever do move out on my own, I’m taking this couch with me. I can’t explain why exactly, but more than anything else in the house, this particular piece of furniture reminds me of Mom.
As I sit here, running my hands back and forth over the nap of the fabric, I feel tears coming. And I know I need to just let them come. “Tears bring healing,” the group therapist is always telling us. “Let them flow, and they will cleanse you.” And so I do.
Then just as I’m blotting my tears with a tissue, I suddenly hear her speaking to me. Not audibly, of course, but I get the strongest sense that it’s Mom I am hearing. Almost afraid to breathe, I lean back into the soft velvet cushions, close my eyes, and just listen.
You are my treasure. That’s what she just said—I know it! You are my treasure, Cleo. It’s something she used to say to me when I was very young. She’d wrap me in her arms and say, “You are my little treasure, Cleo. You’re worth more than gold or diamonds or pearls. I will guard you with my life.”
“Am I still your treasure?” I ask quietly, afraid to speak, not wanting her to go away. And the sense I get is that she is affirming this. I am still her treasure. I will always be her treasure.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her through a new set of tears. And this is not the first time I’ve said this to her, although this is the first time it has seemed that she could hear me. “I’m so very, very sorry for that awful night, Mom. I would give anything to take it back. I would rather have lost my life than to have lost you. I love you, Mom. I will always love you.”
And then I get the sense that she’s saying the same thing to me—that she loves me still and always will... that I will always be her treasure. I have no doubt that my mother has forgiven me... that she is safe... and happy.
Wrapped up in the warmth of that sweet comfort, I fall asleep on the pink velvet couch, sleeping more soundly and peacefully than I’ve slept since her death.
. . . [CHAPTER 21] . . . . . . . . . . . .
Daniel goes with me to the dress rehearsal on Friday night. I try to talk him out of it, saying he should wait until tomorrow, but he insists that he wants to watch me dance both tonight and tomorrow, and so I give in.
“You were wonderful,” he tells me afterward. “Beautiful.” “Thanks.” I don’t bother to tell him the places where I messed up or that I hope to do better tomorrow. Instead I just bask in his praise.
“You could probably dance professionally.”
I laugh. “Oh, I doubt that.”
“Wouldn’t you want to?”
“I’m not sure. It takes a lot of work and devotion.”
“Will you continue dancing in college?”
“I’ll keep taking dance, just to stay in shape. And who knows, I might even major in it. But not to dance professionally. Although I think it’d be fun to teach dance someday.”
“Have you heard from your dad?” He pulls into the parking lot of a new sushi restaurant. Daniel asked me earlier this week to pick out a place I wanted to eat at tonight, because tomorrow night, Aunt Kellie and Uncle Don plan to take me to their favorite steak house to celebrate after the recital.
“I think my dad’s still giving me the silent treatment,” I admit as we walk up to the restaurant.
Daniel shakes his head. “I just don’t get that.”
“I hurt him,” I confess, “badly.”
“Even so.”
After we sit down at our table, I change the subject by bringing up graduation. As class president, he has to deliver the final speech. “How’s it coming?”
He groans. “I don’t know. I’m on about my fiftieth draft.”
“Just speak from your heart.”
“I want to say something memorable.”
So while we eat sushi, I try to help him remember events in high school that seem memorable to me. But the more we talk, the more I realize that memory is subjective. And I’m certain that my most memorable thing during all of my high school years will always be the death of my mother.
. . . . . . . . . .
Because Madame Reginald wants the dancers there an hour early, I decide to drive my mom’s car and meet up with my aunt and uncle later. This car is slowly feeling more and more like my car... and yet I can feel my mom’s presence in it, too. As I pull out of the driveway, I know I’m about to have another “conversation” with her.
“I so wish you were here with me tonight,” I say as I drive toward town. “I would give anything to have you at the recital, Mom. Aunt Kellie keeps telling me that you will be there. So I’m going to believe that. I’m going to look out into the audience and believe that you’re out there. And just between you and me, Mom, I’ll be dancing for you tonight. I hope I make you proud.”
It’s hard not to bring up the hurt I feel knowing my dad won’t be there. But if she really is listening, and I hope she is, I don’t want to burden her with this.
“Tonight is for you, Mom. All for you”
And as I dance later, I can feel my mom’s presence, not somewhere out in the audience but right there on the stage with me. I feel her warmth, I feel her love, I feel her pride. So much so, that by the time I take my final bow, my eyes are blurred with tears.
And when I see someone coming toward me on the stage, with a huge bouquet of red roses, I think it’s Daniel and I can’t believe he’d do this. But as the man gets closer, I’m shocked to see that it’s my dad.
Like me, his eyes are filled with tears. With the audience still clapping, he hands me the bouquet, then hugs me tightly to him. “I’m so sorry,” he says into my ear. “I’ve been a stubborn fool. Please forgive me.”
Before I can respond, he steps back, moving away from me and wavi
ng his hand toward me like I’m supposed to be the star. Feeling awkward, I take another bow, and the audience continues to clap. Naturally, they have no idea what’s going on up here between my father and me. Their applause is simply to show appreciation for all the dancers, who are coming back out to take their bows.
Finally, the curtain falls, and Madame does her usual speech, praising us for all our hard work this year. Then we present her with our appreciation gift, which is usually picked out by my mother, but this year Faith’s mom took care of it.
As soon as I can, I slip away from the stage to seek out my dad. I can’t believe he came tonight—or that he brought me roses and actually apologized to me. As soon as I find him, I hug him again. “I’m the one who’s sorry,” I say as I lead him to a quiet corner. “Please, please, forgive me.”
He nods. “I already have.” He retrieves a handkerchief and wipes his eyes. “Your mother paid me a visit the other day.”
“What?”
He makes a crooked smile. “I woke up from a nap, and it was almost like I could hear her talking to me, telling me to shape up. She reminded me how precious you are, her little treasure.”
“She said that?”
He shrugs. “Something like that. Anyway, she got my attention. And I realized, not for the first time, that I am partially to blame for what happened. I was a negligent husband to your mother, Cleo. If I’d been around more, she might not have obsessed so much over you and your safety. And if I’d been more available to you, well, things might’ve gone differently. You might not have done what you did. Your mother might not have done what she did. I have to take a good portion of the responsibility in all this.”
“But you can’t blame yourself for other people’s choices,” I tell him. “That’s something I’ve been learning. We can only control ourselves.”
He nods. “That’s true.”
Then I tell Dad about how I felt that Mom was here tonight, how she was with me on the stage.
“Well, you were always her little treasure, Cleo.” He touches my hair. “I suspect your mother is always going to be nearby... protecting you.”
“Kind of like an angel?”
He smiles. “Maybe so, Cleo. Knowing your mother, she’d be doing everything possible to be near you. I wouldn’t be surprised if she made an attempt to talk God into letting her become your own personal angel.” He chuckles. “Not that it’s possible, but if anyone could pull that off, it would be your mother.”
And it could be my imagination, but sometimes it does feel like she’s with me. Like when a warmth comes over me for no particular reason, I imagine it’s my mother nearby. Aunt Kellie says it’s because my mom loved me so much that she planted a bit of herself inside of me. Whatever it is, I appreciate it.
There have been moments, those special times when a girl needs her mother by her side, that I felt Mom right there with me. When I graduated, she was there. When I turned eighteen, she was with me. I felt her looking on as I blew out the candles on the lopsided chocolate cake Aunt Kellie made.
I’ll always miss Mom’s physical presence, her hugs, her smiles... even her hovering. And I’ll always regret making a bad choice that day. But my consolation is that someday I will be with her again. Someday she will welcome me into heaven.
Until then, and with God’s help, I will try to make her proud.
. . . [Discussion Questions ] . . .
What was your first impression of Cleo? What could you relate to about her? Or if you didn’t relate to her, explain why.
Lola was a good friend to Cleo. What are the traits you appreciate most in a friend?
What was your first impression of Cleo’s mother? How does she compare to your own parents or guardians? Describe what you think an ideal parent might be like.
Describe how you felt when you read about Cleo’s mother’s death. How do you think you’d feel if you lost someone close to you? What emotions do you think you might experience? Anger? Guilt? Sadness? Fear? Explain.
Were you surprised by Cleo’s reaction to her mother’s death? Did it seem realistic to you?
Cleo started off very resentful of Aunt Kellie, yet it was this same aunt who proved to be Cleo’s closest friend during her ordeal. Have you ever had a person like that in your life—someone you disliked initially but grew to love eventually? Describe a situation like that.
Were you surprised when Cleo became addicted to illegal prescription drugs? Why or why not?
Cleo believed that she could never tell anyone her horrible secret, yet her secret was slowly killing her. Have there been times in your life when you kept a painful secret? Did you eventually tell someone? If so, did it help you to get things out into the open?
Why do you think it took Cleo’s dad so long to “come around,” as Aunt Kellie liked to say? Describe how you felt when he showed up at her recital.
A lot of factors (including God, Aunt Kellie, counseling, jour-naling, friends, ballet, a grief group) helped Cleo to work through her guilt and grief. List the ones you think were most valuable in order of their importance.
If you’ve ever been in a dark and hopeless place, what sources did you rely on for your strength?
. . . . . . ABOUT THE AUTHOR . . . . . .
MELODY CARLSON has written more than a hundred books for all age groups, but she particularly enjoys writing for teens. Perhaps this is because her own teen years remain so vivid in her memory. After claiming to be an atheist at the ripe old age of twelve, she later surrendered her heart to Jesus and has been following him ever since. Her hope and prayer for all her readers is that each one would be touched by God in a special way through her stories. For more information, please visit Melody’s website at www.melodycarlson.com.
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