Blood To Blood (11 page)

He began to play and I
started to tremble. I opened my mouth to sing, but no sound came out. I
recalled Heist crumpled on the studio floor, had a flashback of the giant
grizzly in the cave, and relived the agony of seeing Mr. C. himself crumple
over the keys. I began to cry. “Can't,” I whined.

“You can, and you will,” he
retorted. He looked at me kindly, but stayed firmly planted at the keyboard. No
grandfatherly hug. He now stayed away from me the same way I stayed away from
him. He knew I was dangerous. The tragic reality of this insight made me cry
even more. I stopped when I saw the look of utter shock on Mr. C's face. It was
as white as a sheet. He was looking at my tears. My bloody tears. I bawled even
louder.

“I'll never be the same,” I
wailed. “Nothing will ever be the same. How can I sing?”

He calmly unfolded his
handkerchief and handed it to me, at extreme arm's length, from where he sat. I
gingerly took the proffered white cloth and wiped my eyes. He blinked several
times in disbelief as he looked at the bright red smears on the fabric. I
watched him gather himself and his thoughts for a while until he said, “I will
teach you, my dear. We will start at the beginning and work our way through. I
will make sure you perform at the Garden without hurting the smallest fly on
the wall.”

“So you know?” I asked.

“I've known for years, Angel.
From almost the beginning, I knew your voice has power to heal. You see, I'd
been suffering from cancer...”

And he told me about how his
terminal cancer cleared up shortly after he started working with me. I felt my
mouth fall open. The idea that my voice could help people was fascinating, but
it seemed too good to be true. “How do you know I had anything to do with
that?”

“Sometimes I know things for
certain,” Mr. C. said. “There may not be a reason in the rational world that I
should believe a thing, but in my heart I know it to be true. For the longest
time, I asked myself if I was crazy to think that such a thing can be possible.
That the voice of a child could destroy cancer. Even after I witnessed your voice
crack and then re-seal my drinking glass, I thought that I'd lost myself in a
flight of fancy, that I couldn't possibly be in my right mind. But I couldn't
deny the wonderful joy, the upliftment I felt after every one of our sessions.
As if my soul was taking wing.”

To think I could actually do
something good with my voice brought hope to what had seemed to be a doomed
situation.

“Then I came to a
conclusion,” he continued. “It didn't really matter whether it was true or not.
Just seeing your face during our sessions, and the delight you experience while
singing made it all seem possible. You were born to sing, Angel. We who eat and
drink music have to look out for one another, you know.”

“But I nearly killed you.” I
gasped again at the horrible memory.

“You didn't kill me. And
that's why I know you will find that balance. It is love. Love compels you to
sing, and love will compel you to find that balance. Focus on the love in your
heart while you sing.”

Finding a balance. What he
said made sense, but how could I possibly use him as a guinea pig? “What if I
hurt you again?” I asked.

Dad put a spell of
protection around Mr. C., and we've assured him that he is safe. He's really
quite brave. Now listen to him.

“I never felt like I
belonged,” Mr. C. was saying, “unless I was playing or listening to the music.
These feelings, of not belonging, of being somehow different, caused great
anger to fester in me. And I would do things that weren't very...nice. My life
could have very well gone down a completely different path altogether.
Fortunately for me, I had a teacher who knew the potential I had. And I will
tell you now what she told me all those decades ago. She said, 'Focus on the
love.' So Angel, I want you to feel your love of the music bubble up in your heart.
In your soul. Love for your audience. Love for the very sound of your precious
voice.”

He gently pressed the first
chord in C. I drew in a deep, shaky breath, tried to remain calm, and shaped my
mouth to let out the corresponding note. It came out weak. But it was enough to
crack granddaddy's iron sculpture. The arm of the beautiful goddess figure
broke off with a loud snap.

“Stop,” he said. And then
silence.

He looked at the sculpture
for a long moment. Was he reconsidering all of the stuff he told me just
minutes ago?  In light of the bloody tears and the cracked sculpture, I
wouldn't have blamed him if he'd picked up that briefcase and hightailed it
somewhere where it was safe. Part of me wanted to warn him, tell him to run and
get away from me as fast as his aged mortal legs would take him. Which wasn't
really fast at all, and surely no match for me. I shrank into the corner,
feeling like a menace to society, a monster to be shunned. I felt so
broken-hearted, I couldn't even cry again.

“What is that sculpture,
Angel? It seems very old.”

“A family heirloom.” My voice
sounded lifeless to my own ears. “It's been in our family for longer than I
even know.”

This was the truth. Although
immortals had kept meticulous records of family trees and lineages even before
mortals learned how to do it for themselves, I was still unsure exactly how old
the piece was.

“Fix it,” Mr. C. said. “Use
your voice to repair the damage you just did. Don't worry about the way you
sound. You've got years of technique to fall back on and if you allow it, it
will kick in as soon as you take a breath. Right now, you must visualize the
sculpture whole again, and focus on that to the exclusion of all else but
love.” 

He played the chord again.
Softly, expectantly.

Love. Visualize the love.
What would the love I felt for the music look like? I closed my eyes and
concentrated. I knew how the sounds themselves looked, but love? I thought
about the love I had for the music, how I felt when performing on stage. I
contemplated how I wanted to make every person who listened to my music happy.

Love.

How would it look? What color
would it be? I supposed it could look like the goddess sculpture. The soft
rounded curves, the generous smile, the graceful, elegant pose that spoke of
beauty and peace of mind. I stared at the sculpture and imagined it to be the
image of love.

The chord sounded softly
again. And again, patiently awaiting my vocal response.

It seemed as if the
goddesses' smile was slightly bigger than I'd seen it before. And then for a
brief moment, it almost seemed as if the sculpture's eyes came to life. They
were loving, and they were looking at me. Before I knew what I was doing, I'd
opened my mouth and the sound came out; a shimmery pink note that wafted
gracefully around the room. I was singing the word “love.”

Mr. C. beamed like a proud
daddy. “Yes! That's it. Keep singing love.”

He climbed the scale as I
continued to follow, tentatively sounding the word, but eventually feeling more
confident as we went along. Mr. C. was right. I really could sing without
killing. I decided that I would never go back to that dark place where people
dropped like flies at the sound of my voice. I determined that, from this point
on, my voice could be a tool for healing.

I focused on the goddess
sculpture again, this time imagining it complete, with the little arm where it
belonged. I purposely directed the sound waves toward the sculpture. As I did,
the luminous pink waves flowed into and around the goddess; and soon the arm
was back on as if it had never broken off.

“Stop, Angel!” Mr. C. said.
“That's it! Remember what you just did. That is the sound of love. Now. Let's
try it in the key of D.”

Later on, in my room, I was
exhilarated, exhausted, and relieved to be away from anything having to do with
the mortal world. A victory had been won today. I was confident in my abilities
to sing without killing, but the session with Mr. C. had worn me out. And there
were still so many questions.

Cici dropped a stack of thick
binders in front of me. “Million questions? Ask away. Just pick through colors
while we chat.”

“Colors?”

“For your Mahá, silly. Don't
you want it to be hot? Everybody will be there. We have to choose paint, the
theme, the music, there's so much to do.” She looked me up and down, and
sighed. “We really need to do something about your wardrobe. What you wear for
Mahá is extremely important.”

“What's wrong with what I'm
wearing?”

“Everything. The club-kid
look is childish. Jeans, hoodies, and the like. Definitely not the type of
image you want to portray for Mahá.”

I felt the room go hot and
saw a haze of red in front of my eyes.

Mom stuck her head in the
doorway. “Is someone boiling mad in here?” She carried in more binders and
placed them on the bed before plunking down on the floor with one. “You are
really going to have to control your temper, sweetheart.”

“But Mom, Cici was totally
dissing my clothes. She said I dressed like a child.” I heard myself whine and
stopped. The red haze cleared up.

“Well dear, Cici has your
best interests in mind. And there is a lot to be said about the image you
project at your Mahá.” She opened a binder full of fabric swatches. “You might
consider getting fitted for some custom pieces. We have a fantastic tailor, Ms.
Thelma, who has been outfitting young ladies for their Mahá since the turn of
last century. She is really excellent at what she does.” She held up a swatch
next to my face. “Midnight blue is one of your colors.” She marked it for
future reference.

“Why’s it so important how I
look for Mahá? And why am I picking out colors for paint? Are we really going
as far as to repaint the walls?” Mom and Cici smiled at each other. They were
excited about something and although I didn't know what it was, I started to
feel it too. “Tell me!” I demanded.

“Start at the beginning,
Mom,” Cici said as she hit “play” on the iPod dock. London chill-out music
started to play in the background. “This may take a while,” she continued, “so
get comfortable and just keep picking out colors you like. We'll start with the
walls and then choose for rugs, window treatments, furniture, dishware...”

I stared at Cici like she had
just morphed into a Chihuahua. Surely we weren't redecorating the entire house…
for a party?

My stomach growled. Cici flew
out of the room and came back in seconds balancing a number of pitchers and
glasses. “Drink before you get hungry,” she said. “Stay on an even keel.”

I took in the aroma of each
pitcher and fell into a state of serious indecision. They all smelled so good.
Especially Sebastian. I poured a sample, and tasted it. Mmmm...I could clearly
visualize his long, dark hair and long eyelashes. I decided to go find him and
started edging toward the door.

“Will you really hunt him
down, Angel?” Mom asked. “Remember what we talked about. Make the right choice
for the life you want to live.”

I took a deep breath and,
with great difficulty, planted myself firmly on the floor. Picking up the
Sebastian pitcher and pouring a goblet-full, I stuck my nose in the glass and
inhaled deeply, the way I'd seen the wine connoisseurs do for pinot noir. My
throat burned with hunger and my body felt like it was on fire.

Determined to not find myself
downstairs again at the front door, I slurped Sebastian down and forced myself
to sit still. After ten minutes, they both nodded with approval.

“That's my sis!” Cici
bragged.

“I'm very proud of you,” Mom
said as she gave me a tight squeeze, and arranged a lock of hair that had
fallen across my sweaty face.

Just yesterday it seemed
impossible that I could ever be around mortals and display any control
whatsoever, but today was a new day. Mr. C. had left our house alive. And here
I sat drinking Sebastian, feeling totally connected to him, seeing him clearly
in my mind down to his height and shoe size. The intimate knowledge of him grew
the more I drank. But still I sat. I hadn't raced to the door, and I wasn't
beyond reason. Yes, I still wanted to hunt him down, and the desire to absorb
his essence into my own was almost maddening. But the feeling was overshadowed
by the need to keep him alive so that I could have him again. I saw that for
moral (and, okay, I admit it, selfish) reasons, keeping donors alive was
better.
I took a small sip, savored it, and sat still.

Mom mopped my face with a
small towel. “As you know,” she said, “The Mahá is an ancient tradition that
dates back to Biblical times.” She held up another swatch next to my face. This
one was a dusty pink silk with thin threads of gold shot throughout.

“Pretty,” I said in a
half-hearted effort to contribute. Mom nodded in agreement before marking it,
too.

“In order to fully understand
the Mahá,” she continued, “you must first know your own history. Angel, you are
the great, great-granddaughter of Star. She was, is, what is popularly referred
to as a ‘fallen angel.’ She and a number of other fallen angels are our
ancestors, the primogenitors of our kind.”