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Talisman Part I - The Tale Of Kisa And Her Mama Talisman:
“5
minutes, Kristina.” It was a ritual. To go over the words in her mind. Hum them softly after warming up her voice and listen to each sound, each syllable, each octave that came with it. The tempo, the mood. All of it settled deep in her. Tonight was different. For the first time, her Mother would be here. Kristina had known this for months. The arrangements had been made. She knew where her Mother would be sitting. The Port Charles Center for the Performing Arts was a new building. It housed nearly 3,000 seats on three separate floors. When she turned 14, her Father had told her she could have anything she wanted for her birthday. She wanted her Mother back. She wanted her sister back and Uncle Ric back too. But to tell him that would only result in a grimace and unhappy noises from him. So she asked him for the Center. She’d made up plans for the architect and had given input into nearly every aspect of the project. Her Father had laughed and boasted to others about his busy little princess. Of course, he had no idea where her ideas had come from. Nor what the modest plaque in the female dressing area signified. She’d been coy and cute with him when he inquired and of course, he’d written off her secretive nature as a ‘girl thing’. He would never know what it meant to her. He had never been very interested to begin with. But she knew her Mother would know what it meant. Kristina smiled. It was all coming into place. Years of work was going to pay off. Her Mother would finally see what her little Kristina had been doing all these years. Upper right balcony. Row J, seat 220. It would be the first time in 10 years that her Mother had violated the court order put in place. Not that anyone would recognize if they saw her. Not even her Father. A knock at the door came and she rose, smoothing her outfit. She looked perfect. Radiant. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Stunning. Her Father said she looked just like his Mother, but she’d seen pictures of the woman before and could not fathom the resemblance. She looked more like her Mother every day. He refused to see it. He refused to see a lot of things. Before coming to live with her Father, she had grown up with the stories that her Mother had heard as a child. Russian fables. She’d heard them all. The
Stone Flower And her favourite, by far, The Snow Maiden. The one her Mother would tell her so many times until she could say it along with her Mother, late at night, when it was just the two of them. That was when Kristina learned to sing. The little tales that often came in melodies lit a fire within her than would not diminish as the years went by. Her Mother had smiled the first time she’d sang, tears shining in her eyes and she had whispered lovingly in her native tongue to her then only child. “Kisa.” She had laughed at her Mother. “Mama! I’m not a kitty!” “Maybe not, but it’s a special name.” “Really?” “Yes, really.” “Why is it special, Mama?” Her Mother had cupped her cheek, pressed a gentle kiss into her forehead and tucked her under the covers. “It’s special because Kisa is what my Mama called me when I sang to her.” “You sing Mama?” “When I was a little girl.” ”But not anymore?” “No.” “How come?” Sadness washed over her Mother’s face. “My Mama died and I couldn’t do it. It was something so special between my Mama and me.” Kristina gave her Mother a thoughtful look. It would be terrible to be without her Mama. “Then I will only sing for you. You can call me Kisa and I will sing songs to make you happy.” Her Mother had let out a gentle laugh and Kristina smiled. Her Mama was happy again. The next day her Father and his lawyers had come through the door and taken her from her Mama. Kristina rarely saw her Mother after that and when she did, other people were always there, watching them. She couldn’t sing then and Mama couldn’t call her Kisa. And when she turned 7, a terrible mistake had been made and Uncle Ric had been murdered. In front of her little sister, Anastacia, who was only 4. Anastacia had tentatively touched her Father’s lifeless cheek and in a trembling voice, asked, “Daddy?” She hadn’t spoken a word since. None of them could. Not she, not her Mama and not Ana. They couldn’t sing. Her Father had taken that from them. Tonight, she would take it back. As she strode purposefully on stage to her mark, she lifted her gaze and saw her Father. He was quietly bickering with his wife. He would no doubt pay little mind to the aria although he would boast her magnificent gift later on. Probably attribute her voice to his Mother. To his left sat Morgan, her younger brother. Sullen, as usual, he arched his brows ever so slightly upon catching her eye. A knowing smirk played about his lips and she very nearly smiled back, breaking her concentration. It was a wickedly cruel game they played with each other. The fact that it infuriated their Father was just an added bonus to their fun. Just as their Father turned to back to face the stage, Morgan turned his head away. It was an automatic gesture, to reject his Father at every opportunity possible. Of course, it went unnoticed as did most of the things Morgan did in his young life. The lights dimmed and Kristina snapped back into place, taking in a deep, cleansing breath and lifted her head up and towards the upper right balcony. It was dark and she could not see any face but she nevertheless centered her gaze in the precise area where she knew her Mother was sitting. The music crept to life and Kristina opened her mouth. Tonight was special. She would sing for them all. She had bullied the producer into selecting her choice of material and he had relented, knowing who her Father was. It was a piece that had not been sung in over 50 years. One written by a composer who had heard a voice one night and was so transfixed by, that he had fallen in love instantly and by pure inspiration and passion, had bestowed that voice with a gift. Her Grandmother had sung it. Kristin Bergmann. She had heard the recordings many times. She had heard the way her Grandmother sang, the way each syllable came out and the intense emotion that was put into every word. As the first few words came from within her, Kristina felt her heart swell with love. She was singing for her Mama. She was Kisa again. Her Father would never know what hit him.
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