How could a voice affect me so powerfully? How could a voice tug at my soul? It was strange, to say the least. I left the useless script on the table, stood and went to get a refreshing beer.
Who was she? I wondered. She'd sounded young. But that voice ... a soprano voice with a resonance that reminded me of Cornélie Falcon, the same slightly deeper range, an almost dark timbre that gave the voice character.
There are events in life that take you on a ride, wild emotional roller coaster rides that leave you stunned at the end wondering what the Hell just happened, dazed, and reeling. Then there are events that seem small at the time, yet linger inside, a ghost of a memory hovering over you, ever-present. Those events haunt.
Those events are the ones that seem to prey on your mind, a constant companion through the day and into the night, ethereal, not understood. You can't forget or dismiss them, they're just there on the edge of your consciousness.
That song, that stunning voice, haunted me throughout the next week. It resonated inside me, distracted me, and followed me from meeting to meeting, an unseen presence. It made life pale and wan, an uninteresting passing of time. It drained everyday satisfactions leaving me feeling unsettled, as if I'd achieved nothing and never would.
The week passed.
I sat at the patio table observing the well-tended garden, roses and azaleas in bloom, lawn perfectly manicured, edges trimmed, and flower beds still dark from being turned and watered. Sounds drifted in; water burbling in the crystal clear sky-blue swimming pool, tree leaves rustling in the slight hot breeze, birds chirping. It was Saturday.
I had nothing but a newspaper - the Los Angeles Times - and a mug of coffee on the table; no plans, no work. The sun was low in the eastern sky. It was still early morning. The air had a crystalline quality, recently scrubbed clean by a Pacific wind and not yet polluted by the daily buildup of Los Angeles smog.
I wasn't interested in the Saturday L.A. Times. In fact, I wasn't interested in anything. I hadn't been for a week. I was sitting in my khaki shorts and a T-shirt, barefoot, waiting and hoping. I felt like an addict, wanting to hear that voice sing just once more.
Just once and then I'd be satisfied, and the world would regain its balance. I knew, like the addict, that once more would turn into twice, then three times, and on into an endless, voracious, self-consuming cycle. However, that morning I convinced myself I would be happy with once to start with.
In the stillness of the morning, with the sound of rustling leaves, water, birds chirping, and the occasional car passing in the street, I drifted to sleep, lethargy brought on by a tasking week and sleepless nights.
An angel's voice woke me. It floated across to me, a singularly spectacular voice singing Ave Maria, each note piercing me. Hair stood up on my arms and neck. I felt chills down my spine, once again enraptured by the perfection of her voice.
I didn't move a muscle, afraid the slightest movement would shatter my pleasure and chase that voice away. Then fear hit, panic setting in, my heart thumping suddenly. Like an addict I worried, what if I didn't hear it again? I rose from the chair, driven by a need to see the angel. Who was she? How could she possibly have a voice so pure, so crystal clear, a voice that seemed completely effortless?
There's a strange quirk in human nature. It's the feeling of being irresistibly driven to do something you're fearful of. Like worrying a loose tooth, you know it'll be painful, yet you can't resist playing with it, masochistically moving it while you wince.
Or picking at a scab, knowing it will hurt and bleed if it comes off, and still you pick. I felt that quirk as I walked towards the fence. I knew I shouldn't see her. Nothing in this world could match the beauty of that voice.
I was in for a disappointment of supreme proportions. Yet I had to see. I had to put a face to that angelic voice that haunted me. I had to see who was capable of singing with such ethereal beauty.
As I approached the fence, courage fled. I stopped, head bent, eyes closing, enchanted by the voice, lost in the song, goose bumps rising along my arms, shivering at such perfection.
It was almost a painful experience making me ache inside. Light seemed to fade as the final notes hung in the air, echoing through my soul and drifting away, leaving me empty and doomed. Silence descended. I felt like I had lost a love or a vital part of me.
"You have a beautiful voice," I said softly, standing next to the fence. "I could listen to it for the rest of my life."
A light laugh sounded. "Thanks."
Could I look? Dare I? She suddenly sounded very young; a child. With a pounding heart, I rose onto my toes, grasped the top of the fence and peeked over.
There is nothing in the world that can describe what happened. I'll try but will never be able to do it justice.
I looked over the fence and my heart stopped. It stopped beating. I stopped breathing. I cannot explain why it happened. I can only tell you that it felt like I'd been electrocuted, my heart pausing then suddenly racing, arms numb, fingertips tingling.
For a second I thought I might faint, blood draining from my brain leaving me lightheaded and dizzy. The air became too heavy, like trying to draw treacle into my lungs. I was going to suffocate.
If I thought her voice was beautiful, it had nothing on her beauty. I may have been enchanted by her voice, but when I saw her, I saw the woman she would become and it shook my world, as if the ground was being pulled out from under my feet.
There was no rational explanation for my reaction. There was no rhyme nor reason nor logic to it. I could never explain. But she affected me like no one I'd ever set eyes on.
She was petite and slender, wearing lemon yellow Capri pants that ended just below her knees, the slim pants making her legs appear long and very, very slender. She was barefoot, her toenails painted a matching yellow. As I moved my eyes up, I saw a lime green spaghetti strap tank top. She was, I was to eventually learn, just shy of thirteen years old.
But nothing could prepare me for her face. Behind small frameless glasses, I saw the stunning beauty of large, exotically-shaped, smoky gray eyes framed by long dark eyelashes; eyes that sparkled with intelligence and spirit and inquisitiveness.
Her nose was slim, straight, small, and flaring attractively around her nostrils; a perfect nose made delicate. Rich dark brown hair shot through with almost black strands, cut short in rough layers and soft spikes - as if it had been chopped with kitchen shears - framed her face.
She appeared almost bedraggled and that only made her prettier. And then her mouth curled in a wide, blinding, smile that pretty much knocked the common sense out of me and into the middle of next week.
I wanted to smile with her. I had to; her smile demanded company. It was radiant and compelling. I smiled and felt stupid.
Her head tilted slightly to the side as she looked up at me, her hands clasped behind her back. She was wiggling her toes in the grass, her body subtly moving as if she was listening to a private song in her head.
I wanted to run my hands through her hair and push those tendrils back behind her ears, cup her face, and stare forever into those amazing almond-shaped eyes.
It almost felt like I was in love. I couldn't be, I rationalized, yet that's what it felt like, an aching and yearning feeling mushrooming inside me; a feeling that I already missed her.
I opened my mouth to introduce myself and croaked like a bullfrog.
Her smile broadened into a dimpled grin; lips curving and parting, perfectly white teeth appearing. The sun intensified, brighter and all-of-a-sudden hotter. Then, when another croak escaped, she giggled at me. A sledgehammer slammed into my chest.
I couldn't breathe. I could feel my face flush with embarrassment; me, a thirty-five year old blushing! But dear God! I was tongue tied by this young girl!
Clearing my throat, I tried again, enunciating slowly. "Hi ... I'm ... Mike."
"Hello ... Mike," she said, imitating my slow cadence, a glint of amusement in her eyes.
For a moment I stared, still quite stunned by my reaction to her. I'd never reacted to anyone so immediately or so strongly. It was visceral and confusing.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Um ... You have a beautiful voice," I mumbled.
"You said so already. Thanks," she responded brightly.
I felt like an adolescent; at a loss for words and finding it difficult to form coherent thoughts while those stunning eyes looked at me. The air was now thin and I was breathing heavier, almost panting, my heart pounding.
A trickle of sweat ran down from one armpit as I struggled for a rational thought, something to say, a question. Come on! Come on! My mind was a blank slate. I searched and found no thoughts, nothing, a void. All I could do was stare in awe at her intense beauty.
"Bye, Mike," she said, waving a small hand at me before she turned and strolled to the house.
Panic set in.Who was she? Would I see her again? Did she live there or was she just visiting? Would she sing for me?
"Wait!" I yelled far too loudly. "What's your name?" I asked. She stopped and turned just inside the back door. Why was I holding my breath?
She smiled. "Amelia." Then, with a small wave of a hand, she disappeared through the door.