2019

I melt into my bed as my head descends onto my pillow. Nicolas has not called me since that night and a part of me wishes that he would, even though we made a promise to take things slower. It's killing me, this waiting, and it's killing me that I can't be with him.

But damn it. Every time I close my eyes, I still see stupid Jeff. Everywhere. Why can't I do it? Why can't I just let go? I think Nicolas knows it. He caught the picture that I still have of Jeff on my phone. Is that why he hasn't called me or texted me?

I'm playing Marie Guidry's music on my iPhone that's resting on the Bluetooth speaker. If there is one thing about Marie Guidry's so-called music, is that it is to me, bland and uninspired. It has structure, like most of the Baroque era music, but it lacks in something. I struggle to find the right words to say to most people who at least enjoy the comical opera, La Soubrette. But the opera has no base, it has no heart. No soul — that is the word I am looking for.

The only thing that it has going for it is its libretto, which is perhaps, according to Dr. Peterson, some of the best writing to come out of any opera that originally is connected to a New Orleanian.

Instead, I change the music to La Fleuve, the opera by Ignace Leblanc. The opera is about a girl who has fallen into hard times, but she always finds herself at the river at the end of every act. In one part of the opera, the soprano goes into the river and sings woefully about her troubled past, drowning in the water as she imagines being embraced by the love of her life. 

I remember what Dr. Peterson said about the French lyrics that I wrote when I took the quiz about Marie Guidry and her role in the opera. I still am puzzled by that, but because of the events that transpired over the last few days — especially with Nicolas Moreno, I forgot about it.

Until I hear the lyrics, they are practically screaming out at me. The words swim all around me, almost as if I can touch them with my hands. My room swirls around me, the music taking a definitive shape in my mind's eyes. As I close my eyes, it is almost as if I am in the river like in the opera, washing away my pain.

The room has grown dark, save for the night light that barely illuminates one corner of the room. I cannot move my body, no matter how much I want to scream my mouth refuses to open. The lights from multiple cars passing by. My body grows heavier as tears fall down my cheek and I begin to sob, trying to remove the thought of Jeff and Bessie from my mind. I never even knew Bessie or what she looked like before Jeff got with her, so why is she dressed so strangely, like from the historical times? And why is her name Bernadette? I must be going crazy. Why me? All I wanted was a call from Nicolas. Not a dream about my ex and his stupid girlfriend.

The music that was playing earlier, is now looping again to the same opera.

La Soubrette.

That inspid, bland opera.

Little by little I am able to move my fingers and my legs. I slowly sit up and breathe deeply, as if breathing for the first time. The room is ice cold and I shiver. It reminds me of a cold winter's day.

There lies the truth. Listen to the music.

In the dim light of my bedroom, a figure stands in the corner. She stares at me, wide eyed and pale. No, no, no. Not again. Not her again.

"Do you remember me?" she asks, stepping further, closer to my bed.

The sight of her is enough to make me want to scream. She is pale, like a ghost. She wears nothing but a white nightgown. Her pale, sunken eyes are pleading with me, her lips formed into a quivering frown.

"Please go away," I say, shivering as I attempt to duck under the covers. "I do not want to see you again."

"So you do remember," she says. "I was there with you while you were sick."

"Go away. You're not real. You're only a figment of my imagination."

She grows closer to me. "But I have always been with you."

"No," I say. "Go away. Please go away. I spent years trying to forget you and I almost did."

"Is this why you do not pay attention to your own dreams?" the woman asks. "The dreams I am trying to show you? You understood them when you were a child. Why do you not see it, Corinne?"

"Go away," I say, covering my ears and closing my eyes. "I am in my room. I am in my room. I am in my room. I will open my eyes and she will be gone."

She reaches her pale diamond white hand out to me. "If only you stopped fighting so hard every time you saw Francois, you would see what I have been trying to tell you, Corinne. You must undo the mistake I made in trusting him. When you awake, you will finally see what it is I have been trying to tell you. Please help me. I have spent years trying to show you. The clue is in the music. It is in the music."

"Go away," I say again. "You are not real."

"But I am you," she says, smiling. "Can't you see? Close your eyes and see it. I have been trying to show you for years, but you do not see it. Please open your eyes to the truth!"

"No," I moan. "I will not let you in. Go away, spirit. Go away, spirit. You're not welcome here."

"I am here," she says. "And I am not leaving. Close your eyes. And take my precious daughter's hand. She will show you the truth you seek."

"Go away. You are not real. God, I need to get to the doctor."

                                                                                   ***

I'm standing in front of Guidry House, the overbearing gate looking over me, almost as if jeering at me, laughing at me for being there. It pains me to be here, knowing that Jeff is probably inside, but I can't help myself. Strange that as soon as I touch the door, it fades away almost al niente, like a musical dying off. I step closer to the mansion as pieces of it start floating away from me, until I stand in an old home that is nothing like the Guidry House that I know.

I walk up to the door and it practically opens for me. I see there, a young girl, perhaps about four or five. She looks at me and takes my hand, her dark blonde curls bouncing as she takes me outside, leading me.

"Who are you?" I ask.

"Oh, silly maman," she says in response. "You know who I am. I am Eloise."

"Eloise," I say, the voice escaping me like a song.

"Will you write your music by the river today, maman?" she skips, and looks at me with a bright smile. "I do not know why you must keep it secret from Papa."

I look ahead of me and see the river in the distance, boats docked along its banks. Looking around me, it vaguely reminds me of the French Quarter with less people and less buildings, but the heart and soul is still there. I can feel it all around me now. I smile and make my way to a tiny spot at the river, and it is there that I notice I carry something in my hand. Staff paper. The old-fashioned kind.

Eloise sits down next to me and rests her head on my shoulder.

"Maman, can you tell me the story about Officer Moreau again?"

My heart sinks. "Officer Moreau? Why?"

"Because I think I saw Officer Moreau in a dream, mon maman. But he looked different than Madame Therese's sketch of him. He was wearing strange clothes and he was kissing you. You were wearing strange clothes too."

"I must, uh, write my music," I say to the little girl. "Some other time, I will tell you the story of what happened to Officer Moreau."

But the moment barely lasts. I feel my body being pulled back and as the world shifts around me, I am once again standing in front of Guidry House and out steps a man wearing a loose fitting white shirt, and stained beige pants. He does not seem to notice my presence, even though I stand in front of him. He resembles Jeff greatly.

I hear the rustling of footsteps behind me, a woman approaching. There is something familiar about the way she carries herself, but I cannot place where I know her face from. She walks right past me as if I am a ghost.

"Bernadette," the man says, almost growling. "Get in here now before the others see you."

"Oh, Francois," the woman named Bernadette says. "Why must you always be so impatient?"

"Because you drive me absolutely insane," he says, coming up close to her.

Not a second goes by before they are kissing passionately. It is then that I realize that the man has Bessie in his arms. He's kissing her neck. Kissing her face. Her chest.

"Jeff!" I call out, but he does not hear me. "Jeff, please stop kissing her in front of me!"

The child I have seen earlier stands in front of me, her angelic face adorned in a smile. She reaches her hand out and I take it, unable to resist the invitation. It is as if I am floating as she runs with me.

                                                                                          ***

2019

The music of La Fleuve still resounds through my bedroom as my eyes flutter open. I cannot breathe through the heaviness of my heart as I turn over, grasping for my pillow. I know what I must do now. It sits inside me, like an alarm clock, ringing constantly as a reminder. I do not want to get out of bed, but the noise inside my head is far too loud.

The soprano reaches the climax in her aria, wailing as she sings a melisma that swirls around in my head, the pattern like glowing rainbow strings, ascending and descending around me. She sings the final verses of the entire opera.

My stomach roils and as I sit up, I let out a painful sob that comes from deep inside of me. When I close my eyes, I do not see Jeff. Not anymore.

I see Nicolas. And only him.

The music shifts to a final note, a solo harpsichord that plays a haunting melody that sends shivers up and down my spine. It has done this every time I have listened to the music. It fades, al niente, to nothing. I take in a deep breath. I stand up from my bed onto the floor and take small steps to my desk, where I grab my phone from the Bluetooth cradle. I unlock it and notice multiple texts from Nicolas.

Nicolas: Corrie, call me now.

I press the call button and put the phone to my ear and listen to the ringing.

"Hola," the voice on the other end says.

"Nicolas," I say, gulping, my heart squeezing painfully in my chest. "Is everything all right?"

"What was that?" he asks. "What you sent me."

"I'm, uh, not sure what you're talking about."

"Look at your texts."

I scroll up and look at the long text, my eyes widen. It's all in French. I do not understand a single thing. French again.

"Nicolas, I don't know French."

"I ran it through the translate," he says. "Do you want me to text it to you?"

"Uh, sure I guess."

My phone vibrates and I look down at the phone screen.

A broken heart beats with all its pieces

And it still wants the same person.

You.

I long to touch you again,

Feel your warmth, like the sun's embracing.

I am the azalea that withers and fades away

Like spring dying into summer.

I am your music,

While you are my poet.

The river flows in me and I in it.

It calls me deeper and deeper until I am in the abyss.

Angelic peace resounds in my soul when I find your light.

I am whole again.

"Nicolas," I say. "These are lyrics from La Fleuve. My favorite part of the opera. The music was playing on my phone earlier. Maybe it accidentally heard the music? I have no idea. I didn't send this."

"Corrie," he says, sighing. "I can't sleep ever since I got the message from you. Even if you didn't send this, is this how you feel about me? I can't stop thinking about you. Not since that night. God, I can't stop and it's driving me insane. I need to see you now. I need you."

I suck in a deep breath through my teeth. "Nicolas, please don't do this to me."

"Come to me," he says softly over the phone. 

The way he says it makes my knees buckle and my heart race.

"But I can't," I say, closing my eyes tight as I fall back into my bed.

"Can I come to you?"

"He hurt me, Nicolas," I say, holding back a sob. "He hurt me in more ways than one."

"Then let me come to you, Corrie. Tell me what happened."

My stomach drops. "All right," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Azalea Apartments, unit 503. It's off Camp Street."