CH11

Life took a strange turn over the next three weeks. I wondered if two people could be so in love that, without their partner, their will to live left with their mate; as if they were two souls meant to be together, never separated, neither here on Earth nor in Heaven.

Betty went downhill rapidly. She'd been a robust, stout, white-haired woman with a larger than life personality everyone loved; a Bea Arthur twin. But she aged, the life simply departing, skin sagging from lost elasticity.

I saw it in her eyes. She had no spark left in her. She lost weight. Even having Amelia in her life couldn't compensate for the void in her soul.

She knew it, too. On a Thursday evening, she visited me and made a strange request.

Seating her in the living room, pouring her some Darjeeling tea - she seemed so frail and chilled now - she turned to me on the couch.

"Michael, I don't know if you know this, but I'm the only family Amelia has left. Harold, bless his soul, had no one left on his side after his younger sister passed away. I'm mentioning this because I need to plan for Amelia."

"You're not going anywhere," I said with false conviction.

Betty sipped her tea. "I can't live without him," she whispered, a tear emerging. With a lace handkerchief she wiped her eyes, braced herself, and looked at me. "I cannot let Amelia hurt. I can't leave her to the foster system.

She's been hurt enough for two lifetimes. I know she adores you and you like her. You're the one I'm supposed to trust to take care of her."

Reaching down, she opened a small portfolio, pulled some papers out and placed them in her lap, her hands resting on top of them.

"I'd never ask this of you. I know it's a burden and you're so young. But I can't leave Amelia to fate, the vagaries of the social welfare system. You hear such horror stories about children in their care."

Glancing down, she patted the papers, sighed, and handed them to me. "Would you consider this?" she asked. "For Amelia?"

I read the top sheet and my world tilted. Petition for the Appointment of Guardianship for Amelia Destiny.

An old memory flashed back to me; Darren Faith. My hands shook. He'd been right! All this time when I'd thought I was in charge, I hadn't been! Like the Michelina's frozen dinner, so long ago, my life was being influenced and directed.

"Are you okay, Michael?"

How blind had I been? And yet, would I change anything in the past thirteen years? I saw Amelia in my mind's eye, so beautiful and talented.

Peace settled over me like a warm, familiar blanket. Had I been given the chance to influence things, to be able to direct my future, if I'd known then what I know now, I wouldn't change a thing. Not one thing.

"Michael?"

Glancing up from the legal papers, I smiled at Betty.

"I'm fine. Of course I'll look after Amelia if anything happens to you. But, I think you're going to be around for quite a while. Just give it time. You'll always miss Harold but every day it will get better."

She smiled ruefully. "Tell me that when you've lived with someone for half a century."

After she left, I read the legal documents carefully. In my hands, along with the legal guardianship papers, were copies of Betty's will leaving everything to Amelia in trust, and the details of an existing trust for Amelia's inheritance from her parents, all to be administered by me.

I discovered Betty was an astute woman. For almost two months, she had Amelia staying over at my house with increasing frequency, until Amelia was, for all intents and purposes, living with me.

I became the caregiver, ensuring Amelia got to school and her singing lessons. Every day more of her belongings would find their way into the bedroom she was using.

My work took a back seat - something my assistant Peter wasn't pleased with, but understood. And every time I saw Betty she looked evermore frail.

On a warm, balmy, and clear April 7th, with the sun beating down, I held Amelia's hand as Betty's casket was lowered into the ground next to Harold's grave. Betty had "taken to bed" six days ago and quietly passed away in her sleep.

Mourners drifted away from the grave as the final service ended. Amelia gripped my hand, hanging on to me. Silent, large tears dripped down her cheeks but she showed no emotion, just smoky eyes full of anguish and something else.

I bent and scooped up some soil, handing it to her. She tossed it into the grave and let me gently lead her away.

Amelia was subdued throughout the rest of the day. She obeyed any suggestion I made, ate dinner as if it was a rote chore, and I waited for sorrow to be released. It finally was.

At nine-thirty that night, Amelia came out of her bedroom and settled onto the couch next to me. She curled up at my side making herself small and then whispered.

"Please don't die, Mike."

I understood that other emotion I'd seen in her eyes - fear of abandonment.

Wrapping her in my arms, such a frail girl, I assured her I wouldn't. "You're stuck with me, honey." Eventually Amelia cried, some of the poisonous sorrow oozing out of her.

Still, recovery wasn't fast. I noticed it in her music. Amelia began to play mournful songs on the piano.

She sang less and the songs were of loss and sorrow, sung with such sadness and agony I had a lump in my throat.

Her remarkable voice expressed such haunting it made me go cold. And even the beauty, the perfect clarity of her voice, couldn't overcome my fear for her.

I was afraid she'd slipped into depression and I'd never hear her laugh again, and that thought both saddened and worried me endlessly.

As her fourteenth birthday approached, I wrestled with what to get her. It couldn't be music. It had to distract her and bring back her smile.

I thought long and hard, and steered every conversation with her into happier memories of being with her mother and father, and finally I found the answer.

On the Saturday morning of Amelia's fourteenth birthday, I got up extra early. Excitement at the gift I had for her felt good.

I smiled. If this didn't do it, nothing would. As coffee percolated, the front door tubular bells chimed; right on time.

When I opened the door, Peter frowned at me. He reminded me of Tintin, his short, brush-cut red hair moussed into a spike on top in the middle.

"Here!" he stated. "I quit!"

I took the leash from him and smiled at the rambunctious chocolate Lab puppy. "You can't quit. I need you," I informed him.

"I've picked up enough feces and mopped up enough urine for a lifetime. I hate animals," he claimed, shaking his leg as the puppy latched onto his pants with his mouth, growling playfully, tail wagging.

"What's it going to cost me?" I asked.

"Two extra weeks' vacation," Peter responded immediately.

"Done."

I didn't miss how he bent and ruffled the puppy's head before leaving. Peter was a real softy wrapped up in gruffness.

"Well," I said to the dog, "don't pee on my floor."

The puppy's whole body wiggled as his tail moved. He grinned at me, tongue lolling, eyes bright and intelligent. Damn he was cute.

"Hey! Sleepyhead!" I yelled. "Get up. I have a present for you! Amelia! Get up!"

The puppy attacked my toes as I waited. His teeth were quite sharp. "Heel!" I tried. He ignored me.

Amelia walked out of the hallway, somewhat bedraggled, hair now not only rough shorn, but spiky, and wearing wrinkled pastel blue pajamas. It was a magical moment. Life stole into her magnificent eyes, pure delight at the sight of a misbehaving puppy.