CH9

IT TOOK A MONTH and a half for me to regain my equilibrium. Amelia visited often, but never enough. I found myself working harder so I could pack a full day's work in and be home by three. Peter was back to his optimistic self, and someone finally changed the coffee back to what it used to be; high-test caffeine.

I still experienced momentary thought loss around Amelia. She'd turn her head, tilt it, and stare into my soul with her beautiful smoky gray eyes behind cute glasses, and I'd descend into a fog. Sometimes I had the impression she did it deliberately, a test, or just for fun. She almost always giggled at my condition.

Amelia became a part of my life over the next nine months. She'd come visit and charm me with unsurpassed intelligent conversation for someone so young.

She gave me her cell phone number so I could text her, which I did whenever I had something funny to say. I'd acquired a Smartphone just to receive her texts and had Peter give me lessons. He'd threatened to resign after an hour of frustration at my ineptitude.

Amelia started swimming in my pool. So did I.

That first time in the pool, Amelia wore a one-piece bathing suit that she was growing out of. It was the first time I'd ever noticed how female she was. Now thirteen years old, small mounds on her chest were announcing the onset of adolescence.

The suit fit her so tightly, a cute camel toe formed on the lush pad of her pussy. While gangly in physique, that first time brought awareness that Amelia was all female.

And thus, over nine months, my life began to focus into two areas; life with Amelia and work - my life without her. One brought immeasurable joy, the other mild angst; when would I see her again?

I grew to love Amelia's company. I wasn't infatuated as much as addicted, needing at least a weekly dose of her. But, like the fickleness of actors' popularity, fate took a turn on a Saturday, January fifteenth.

It happened inadvertently. By that, I mean Amelia living in my house. The night was cool. We'd finally been blessed with a breeze, so I'd left my bedroom double doors open.

I liked fresh air and Los Angeles' version of cold was Clinton, Ohio's version of late spring. Gauzy curtains rustled quietly with the breeze coming in from the patio.

Yet, despite it refreshing me, I hadn't been able to sleep; my mind preoccupied with a new film in development, the script for which I was still wrestling with. Thus, when flashing red strobe lights briefly lit my ceiling, I became curious.

Rising from bed, I glanced out the window. The lights were coming from next door. Worried something might have happened to Amelia, I pulled on a pair of jeans and headed out.

In the Masterton's drive, a police car and an ambulance had their lights flashing; red and amber lighting the front garden turning blue blossoms black. At the bottom of their drive, a fire truck sat, with firemen patiently waiting. What had happened?

Running up the drive, I was just in time to see medics wheel out a stretcher, Harold Masterton wearing an oxygen mask. Following close behind, Betty emerged from the front door looking flustered and worried in a rumpled dress.

"What happened?" I asked.

"It's Harold. He's gone and had a heart attack, the idiot," Betty answered, her eyes turned to watch her husband being lifted into the ambulance.

"Can I help? Can I do anything?" I asked.

Betty looked at me with a vacant expression.

"Do you want to go with Harold?" I asked. "I can keep an eye on Amelia."

"Oh, goodness! Amelia! I almost forgot about her." She started looking around, her hands wringing.

"Betty," I said softly, placing my hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you go to the hospital with Harold? I'll keep an eye on Amelia." I gave her a gentle push towards the ambulance and, almost zombie-like, she headed over.

I found Amelia sitting in their living room, a grand old room decorated in lemon yellow, large, formal furniture, and elegantly decorated with Degas and Monet paintings. Amelia, dressed for bed in her pale lime cotton pajamas, looked lost.

I sat next to her and draped my arm over her shoulders. "How are you doing?"

She stared at the drawn curtains, amber and red lights playing an eighties disco-like show through them.

"Will Uncle Harold be okay?" she asked. "What happened to him?"

"He's had a heart attack," I told her.

She looked at me, her eyes wide and frightened behind her glasses. "Is he going to die?" she asked.

"I don't think so."

"I don't want more people dying around me, Mike," she said very seriously.

"I'm sure he'll be fine."

But he wasn't. The call came early the next morning. I'd put Amelia to bed in one of my guest rooms. Sun was just peeking over the horizon casting a pure white light that turned the violet blue sky into royal blue.

Harold had passed away. Betty was distraught, understandably so, and she asked if I could look after Amelia for a few days while she came to terms with Harold's death, made funeral arrangements, informed their friends.

I, of course, didn't hesitate and told her I would.

I'd never been exposed to silent tears. I didn't cry, myself. However, as silent tears welled up in Amelia's enchanting eyes and rolled down her cheeks in large drops after I told her about Uncle Harold, I saw pain, a pain I wasn't used to.

Amelia hurt, not physically but emotionally and it wasn't a hurt I knew how to ease.

I could never understand the pain of losing an uncle after losing both parents. I could never understand how it felt to a young girl; that feeling of desertion, alone in a world full of people. I had no concept.

I did the only thing I could think of; comfort her. Taking her hand as we sat at the breakfast table, I pulled her into my lap, hugging her. Amelia melted against me, her head finding my shoulder and she cried, silent tears changing into small choking breaths, and as full tears arrived, her slender body trembled in my arms.

I murmured to her, little nothing's that just let her hear the sound of my voice, and held her tight. She cried with such deep-felt angst it made my eyes prickle and I vowed, if it was in my power, I would never let her hurt like this again.