Her Effect

I WATCHED AMELIA INSPECT my house, suddenly nervous she wouldn't approve.

"Yup. All mine. What would you like to drink? Would you like to sit outside or move in with me?" What the heck? Where the Hell did that come from? "I mean sit inside," I clarified.

Amelia smiled at me and wandered through the den sitting area checking out the leather couches, and the coffee table covered in movie industry magazines. "Do you have Orangina?" she finally asked.

"What's Orangina?"

"A drink," Amelia replied, studying the huge television.

"Um, no. I'm pretty sure I don't have whatever that is. Do you buy it in grocery stores?"

AMELIA TURNED AND LOOKED at Mike, liking his unruly mop of dark hair, like he forgot to brush it when he woke up. She liked his face. It was really friendly, kind, and very easy to look at. Soft brown eyes twinkled brightly at her. "Yup. How about Fresca?" she asked.

"Hmm. Let me see."

He disappeared below the counter. She heard a fridge door open. Walking to the glass wall, she stared out through the glass wall, admiring all the blooms; roses, some strange big blue ball-shaped flowers, an orange tree with white flowers. His pool was crystal clear and looked so inviting in the sunlight. Aunt Betty didn't have a pool.

RISING WITH A CAN of Fresca in my hand, I said, "Here we are." I paused to watch Amelia as she peered through the glass. Her hair was so lustrous in the kitchen lights, appearing almost midnight dark and glossy.

Wisps and soft spikes fell over the nape of her slender neck and partially over her ear. Once again I felt the urge to push it behind her delicate ear with my finger, feel how soft it appeared to be.

"Do you want ice?" I asked.

"Yes please," she answered without turning.

With a mug of coffee for myself, I led her out to the patio, placing her drink on the glass-topped table.

"You've got a pretty back yard," she said as she sat in the chair next to me.

"You've got a beautiful voice," I replied. "Care to trade?"

Her bright laughter and amused smile made my chest constrict just a bit. Very few people in the world were graced with smiles like hers; smiles that dominated everything, seemed to brighten the day, and are capable of befuddling you. It could easily become addictive.

"You're funny. Do you swim a lot?" she asked.

"No."

"Then how come you've got a pool?"

"It came with the pretty garden."

Amelia laughed lightly and reached for her soft drink, sipping, putting it down absentmindedly, her eyes locked on the pool. "Can I swim in it sometime?" she asked. "We don't have a pool. I miss swimming."

"Sure. Whenever..." I began, then stopped when Amelia turned her head, beautiful gray eyes looking at me. She tilted her head slightly to the side. It felt like a puff of air passed through my mind, softly blowing every thought out of my head. I wondered what it was I was going to say.

"Whenever what?" she asked, beautiful eyes twinkling.

Blinking, I looked away from her and down at my mug of coffee. Thoughts rushed back to fill the void. "Oh. Um. Whenever you like, I was going to say. As long as I'm here and it's okay with your Aunt."

"Great! Today? This afternoon? Oh. I can't, sorry. I've got singing practice. Tomorrow maybe?" she asked hopefully.

"I'm always here on the weekend, so whenever you want," I answered, picturing her swimming in my pool. "How long are you staying with your Aunt?"

"Forever, I guess," she answered with a shrug of her shoulders, her attention back on the pool. She took a sip of Fresca. "What's that blue flower?" she asked, pointing.

"I think it's a hydrangea. Where's your mom and dad?"

"They're both gone. They're in heaven." She sipped her Fresca. "What's that smell?"

For two hours, I talked to a remarkably articulate girl, a girl that seemed to have an endless curiosity, unafraid to ask questions. I discovered a strange phenomenon that afflicted me in her presence.

Whenever she looked at me with her enchanting eyes and tilted her head just so, I felt that puff of air in my mind gently blowing away thoughts and leaving me scrabbling to remember what I was talking about.

It was far too easy to lose myself in her gaze. I took to staring at the garden, a plant, a bloom, and only looking at her when she was talking to me. It was disconcerting. Yet as we chatted, she charmed and warmed me, making me feel alive.

Amelia announced her departure suddenly, just before lunchtime. "I've gotta go. Thanks for the drink." She slipped off the seat.

After escorting her out, I returned to the patio and sat in a semi-stupor. The rest of Saturday passed with little happening, my mind mulling over everything Amelia had said.

She'd calmly told me she was an only child, Mom and Dad passed away. She talked about how singing now made it easier for her and, when the vicar had heard her, he'd asked her to join the church choir. "But I don't like the vicar," she'd confessed in a whisper to me. "I just like singing in the church. It has beautiful echoes when I sing."

Amelia talked about school, singing classes, and living with her aunt and uncle. For two hours she gently wrapped me in her world, gave me a glimpse of her personality, and left my house far, far too soon.

I knew I was addicted. It showed in how I was unable to read a book or follow a TV show that night. I was restless, feeling as if something was missing, something left unfinished.

I tossed and turned that night, desperately seeking sleep and, like a kid on Christmas Eve, wished morning would come faster. I knew I was addicted to her when I woke and my first thought was whether I'd hear Amelia sing, whether I'd see her.

I didn't.

It was a bad week. Poor Peter was beginning to question his career choice, reeling from my disjointed directions. Someone changed the brand of coffee again. It was even worse, if that was possible. By Thursday, Peter had had enough and handed me his resignation.

I pleaded, begged, complimented, and finally he agreed to stay ... for a slight raise ... fifteen percent ... and a promise I'd seek professional help from a psychiatrist, Thankfully, Friday arrived, which meant Saturday was next. I was temporarily happy. So was Peter.

Four-thirty-five in the morning I was sitting at the patio table, a mug of coffee steaming into the chilly morning air and muttering to myself, huddled to ward off the last of the night chill, and frowning at the growing light revealing what promised to be an unacceptably pretty day.

I did nothing; just huddled and drank coffee. I waited.

Five endlessly long hours later I was rewarded, the sound of a spectacular voice floating on the air.

"Amazing grace, how sweet the sound

that saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now am found;

Was blind, but now I see."

The hair on my arms stood up as I listened to her, wishing I'd had the presence of mind to bring a digital recorder. The last notes faded away. I felt their loss.

"Mike?"