In The Dead of Night

Michael and Sheila were engaged a year later and married when they were both 20 years old. Kai was best man at the wedding ceremony and managed a rousing, flawlessly-delivered speech that at times came perilously close to sharing many of their secrets with the assembled guests.

Darren, who had recently rekindled his relationship with Nicole (Lizzy still called her a 'tart' whenever her back was turned) wished the newlyweds happiness and simply, but earnestly, expressed his regret that Michael's mother had not been able to witness the happy occasion.

Between Michael's meager earnings and Sheila's income as an apprentice hairdresser, the couple were able to afford a small one-bedroom apartment. They moved in after their honeymoon, a 10-day vacation at a modest resort gifted by Sheila's parents. Throughout their courtship and first year of marriage Bobette continued to visit with Michael, although their secret liaison remained unknown to all but themselves.

Yet as much as Bobette remained so very central to his daily reality, Michael was not completely able to hide her influence on him, especially when he and Sheila were being intimate. A woman's intuition could not be denied.

Sometimes she would ask him why he seemed so distant and removed. Michael dismissed her concerns, saying simply that he had a lot on his mind, or was otherwise distracted, or just tired. On those occasions he would try especially hard to cater to Sheila's emotional needs and in this way he was generally quite successful at allaying her anxieties.

One Tuesday, on her regular day-off, Sheila set herself the task of unpacking a few cardboard boxes that were still intact after their move into the apartment. In one, she found Michael's poetry and self-composed music scores. She left these on the kitchen table to remind him to find a safer place in which to store them.

One item, a newspaper clipping, she did not leave for Michael's attention. What she read shook her so badly that she needed to sit down, regain her senses and reread the item several times before slipping it into her apron pocket. She had no idea whether her emotional state would allow it but she knew she would have to confront Michael face-to-face with what she had learned.

Later that evening when Michael came home, she gave him time to change into something comfortable and met him in the living room, handing him a cold drink as he lowered himself into his favorite straight-back chair. She pulled a nearby stool across the floor to sit directly in front of him. Reaching inside her apron she pulled out the clipping, folded it into the palm of her hand and looked deep into Michael's eyes.

She began tentatively. "Michael, my love. I found something today, along with your music papers. I need to ask you about it."

"Yes?" asked Michael. "What is it?"

"Michael, I want to talk to you about your mother."

"What about her?"

"She left home when you were young, right? That's what you told me."

"That's right. Why?"

"Did you ever see her again?"

Michael hesitated only briefly. "No."

"And you never tried to find her?"

Michael hesitated again. "No," he replied. He drew a deep breath but said nothing more.

"Why, Michael? Why didn't you try to find her?"

"I didn't know where to begin. I always assumed that my dad would bring her home. When that didn't happen I just accepted that she wasn't going to be around."

"Did you? Accept that, I mean?" asked Sheila.

"What are you getting at?" asked Michael, now feeling somewhat irritated and on the defensive.

"Michael, this isn't easy for me. But I have to know," pressed Sheila. "I need for you to tell me what happened."

"Nothing happened," said Michael, his voice tightening with emotion.

"Something happened, Michael. Tell me. Tell me what happened to your mother."

Michael sat silently, looking vacantly into the distance over his wife's shoulder.

"Michael. Damn you, Michael. Look at me. Tell me." Sheila was almost shouting. What happened next tore her heart out. Tears welled up in Michael's eyes and rolled down his cheeks. His mouth quivered with the effort of trying not to betray his sadness. Still, he did not look at her.

Softly, barely whispering, Sheila continued. "My love. I found this newspaper clipping amongst your papers. She died, didn't she, Michael? Bobette, your Mom. She passed away."

"No," whispered Michael in return.

"Yes, Michael. Yes." With this, Sheila read from the clipping. "It's an obituary. You kept it all these years, didn't you? It says:

'Chapman, Bobette Shannon nee Ryder. b. January 14, 1960. d. August 2, 1999. Loving wife of husband Darren and mother of six. High school music teacher; well known in the community for her numerous charity fund-raising activities. Mother and newborn passed at St. Joseph's hospital late yesterday during childbirth; Will be sadly missed.'

"You were not quite 10 years old then," concluded Sheila. "She died, Michael. I need to hear you say it. I think you need to hear yourself say it. So, say it Michael. For yourself and for me. Say it. Say that she died."

Michael shook his head. His tears had wet his shirt collar. He clasped and unclasped his hands, wringing them as he anxiously sought an escape from what was being asked of him. He began to slowly rock back and forth in the chair, head bowed and eyes averted.

"Michael," pleaded Sheila, "please!"

As the seconds ticked by she felt more was needed from her to break through to Michael. She got off her stool, stood before him and cradled his head and shoulders, pulling him to her bosom as a mother might console a distraught child. She stayed in this position, embracing him tightly as he finally began to sob. He brought his arms up and placed them around her waist. In this fashion, together, they waited out the clock for time had stood still in the room.

After several minutes Michael pulled back from Sheila and motioned for her to sit down again. Once she had resumed her place before him, he began:

"She went away," he explained. "But she never left me. Never left me. She was always there. When I was lonely. When I needed someone to listen to me. When others were being mean. Even in the good times when I was happy just with what I had. She was always there for me. And she's still with me now."

"She's dead, Michael. You have to say it."

"Yes, she died," he returned in a choke-filled voice. "There, you satisfied? I said it. Okay? yes, she died," Michael barked. "But she never died in me. She lived on, in me."

"Thank you, Michael. Yes, she continues to live in you," said Sheila. She will always be a part of you. I'm good with that. You need to know I'm good with that."

Michael nodded, almost imperceptibly. After another long moment he looked up at Sheila. "It's all good," he said simply.

Bobette's visits became less frequent in the following months until one day, quite suddenly, they stopped altogether. Sheila sensed the change and let her husband know she would always be there for him. A year later she fell pregnant and gave birth to a baby boy. They named him Bobby and, at an early age, he became Michael's very first piano student.

On a nearby wall was posted a pencil-line caricature of Beethoven which served as an inspiration for Bobby; beside the drawing a laminated world map provided the boy with incentive to keep practicing.

Only the chimes from the grandfather clock in the hallway served to interject an occasional note of discord as the youngster rehearsed the scales. At these times Michael would look at his son, and smile. One day, perhaps, Bobby's memories of the chimes will come to him as he performed before a New York audience.

-- 30 --