From Alan’s story…

“I feel helpless…like I can’t do anything to satisfy them…like I’m…” She paused and looked at Phyllis.

“I think that’s a very good idea, Allie.”

Freedom Counseling Center, Pittsfield, New York…December 23rd…several years later...

The mood of the composer seemed to be reflected…. Coloratura, chromatic scale….the odd visual descriptors for music fit with Tchaikovsky. Brilliant yet troubled, dark and light often mixed well and almost indivisible in many of his works. Serenade for Strings played; filling the cozy office with colors and shapes and tones that lifted the woman’s spirits as she prepared for her visitor.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” The boy stood nervously at the door, his face cast down in embarrassment.

“That’s okay, Billy. Come in.” She smiled, putting the boy only a little bit at ease.

“Did you want to change?” A funny line from an old joke that they both usually enjoyed. The boy only shook his head no.

“Hard to get your balance when things keep shifting?” Something they had talked about only a week ago. He breathed out a sigh before walking slowly to the small group of chairs and couch. Sitting down, he pulled off his glasses, setting them on the table beside him. Pulling the hood of his sweatshirt back, he sighed again slowly as tears came to his eyes.

“Seriously, Billy? You didn’t change for our time together…It looks as if your dad finally got his way?”

“I….he just kept telling me how…” The boy looked away and breathed out an almost silent gasp.

“He’s proud of you, right, Billy?” She stressed the name.

“Yes,” the boy nodded and spoke; almost sounding apologetic.

“And you feel bad about him being proud, right?” She turned her head toward the CD player. He saw her glance.

“That’s okay…” he stammered. The boy liked the music in the background. He even joked once about how Tchaikovsky seemed to be …seemed to have written a score just for him; the music almost a mirror for his moods.

“You’re sad about his pride?” She knew the answer; counselors often function in a vague similarity to lawyers in that they know enough not to ask too many questions without first having the answer. Funny thing that both are often referred to as advocates. Shewas advocating for the boy so that he might not serve a life sentence; albeit one imposed with the best of intentions. Paracaleo…one who comes along side….

“He’s proud, but not really about me…you know? Mommy understands. I don’t understand why he can’t.”

“Has he agreed to come in with you?” She pointed to the couch, as if the boy’s father might sit beside him. He glanced at the chair furthest away; his look seemed to cast a grey pallor on the room as he nodded his head slowly.

“But you don’t feel he’ll listen, even if we all talk?” The boy looked away.

“It’s so hard to go without feeling some hope, isn’t it?” She said the words slowly, remembering how things had been long ago in another place.

Violins played softly; almost speaking and showing a way for the boy… the tempo started to speed up ever so slowly, if that makes any sense. Suddenly the music burst forth with a brightness that seemed to light up the room. He looked at her and smiled, oddly enough. She realized that just asking the question raised his hopes ever so slightly, but still enough to move him forward.

“You…” He looked down at himself and back at her. He already knew she shared so much in commonality; that knowing that only two people can share if they’re kindred in a way. But he asked again… a frequent question that gave an answer which in turn gave him hope.

“Yes, Billy. I know.” There would come a day; very soon perhaps that gave him enough courage to face his future with hope. A day where her life would no longer be necessary to validate his, as if that was even necessary at all. Freedom.

But he finally would feel confidence and strength and courage no matter what she told him. She smiled and nodded, knowing that it was okay for him to derive his hope from someone who had sought the same from someone else who in turn had received hope from another. Comfort ye therefore with the same comfort you yourself have received?

“So…let’s do a quick inventory, okay?” The boy only nodded, but his face seemed to brighten a bit.

“You came here without anyone understanding, right?” Another nod.

“And now your mom seems to understand, is that right?” A half-smile; the boy blinked back some tears, pulling a pillow close to him like a stuffed animal.

“And your dad…he’s always been proud of you, is that right?” He shrugged his shoulders and half-frowned.

“But now he knows at least that you’re different…that he listens even if he doesn’t quite get it…right?” Another shrug; the grey seemed to be returning to the room, but as a modifier; making the colors more pastel than bright, but still with shades of pink in a way.

“And he’s agreed to come here? To listen to you here?” The tones, color-wise and musically, seemed to brighten once again; almost a visual and audible increase in that one word the boy desired.

“So we can have hope, right? While the nod wasn’t enthusiastic, it still was a nod; speaking volumes without word.

“Would you like to change? I had a cancellation, so my next hour is free. You don’t have to worry.” The boy’s face brightened and he smiled; reminding her of another time and another smile.

“And Billy?” She spoke even as the boy headed toward the office door. He turned and tilted his head in question.

“I think it best that we call you by your name from now on, okay? It will help you feel more comfortable when we talk with your dad, alright?”

A few minutes later a nice looking teenage girl stood at the doorway; she wasn’t pretty so much as she was attractive with a smile that lit up the room. To look at her clothes you’d likely see nothing remarkable. Dark purple jeans and a white tee covered by a plum pullover. Nothing to be done about her hair, unruly as it was even pulled back, but at least you could see the amethyst studs in her ears. She had a purple tam on her head and a dark grey shawl around her shoulders. There was something just so comfortable about her; her figure seemed to paint the room with color.

“I hope you don’t mind, but I put this on,” the woman remarked as she pointed to the CD. Still Tchaikovsky, but the music was even more colorful in some ways. She smiled as the girl sat down.

“So…is that better?” She pointed to the girl’s clothing and the girl smiled even as she continued to blink back tears.

“Yes, Dr. Czerzik. Yes!”

“That’s wonderful, Bella. And please? Call me Alaina?”

Next: Cheryl's Peace

Serenade for Strings
Opus 48, Movement Four
by Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky

The Nutcracker
Peter Ilych Tchaikovsky
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LxBJYSU3RJ8