Exceptional Rachelle's Version Detour : Leaving Rebekah by Rachelle Allen

Background Rachelle Allen and Gretchen (GW) Hargis are on a road trip from Baltimore to the International FanStory convention in Jersey. En route, though, they experience many detours.         We have less than an hour now before we arrive in Babylon, New York, a Long Island suburb. Maria’s house is on Eaton Lane, a short street that ends with a yacht club poised on the Great South Bay. It will either spoil Rebekah forever or make her homesick beyond words.         Will she go for walks, taking in the vast expanse of water and sky, and see limitless potential? Or will it look more like stultifying emptiness? Will studying opera, as her mamm did, tether her to her roots in rural Pennsylvania or spur her to stay away and complete what her mamm could not – or would not – complete for herself? So much hangs in the abyss that is her future.         All I know is that, from a musical standpoint, this girl is a natural. She may not have perfect pitch, like her brother Solomon does, but her relative pitch is impressively solid. She grasped how to read notes with the flashcards I bought at the mall faster than any student I’ve ever taught, and when I had her sight-sing – try a piece she’d never sung or heard before – her skills were far above average. Maria is going to be so thrilled.         I steal a glance at Rebekah and watch as she remains glued to the Wicked book, absorbing each page – the story, the characters – while she listens to the score with earbuds Tova provided when she also bestowed the phone.         How is she the same girl who, just this morning, was wearing a bonnet and long dress as she left a simple, clapboard house on an Amish farm? In any Englisher family, this girl would be ready to burst forth onto the music scene with great expectations and years of knowledge and training under her belt. She’d have the support – both emotional and financial – of her family, and she’d be ready to meet the challenge.         Instead, she is here with strangers, no musical education, no experience and the forlorn and disapproving faces of her aunt and uncle, respectively, as her most recent memories of home.         I cannot predict how this will play out. All I can do is hope it enriches, rather than defeats her, this girl I’ve grown to cherish so much already.         As we enter the township of West Islip, Gretchen says, “Wow! This is some seriously upscale area!”         I give Rebekah’s arm a squeeze, and she returns from her musical reverie and removes her earbuds.         “We’re only about five minutes away now,” I tell her.         Her beautiful blue eyes become unreadable. They seem to be offering up an amalgam of fear and excitement, anticipation and dread as reality settles in.         Because I don’t want Jane to insinuate herself into these precious last moments, I text Rebekah: I am always just a phone call away. And the FanStory convention is only two-and-a-half hours from here. I will gladly come get you no matter when you call. Or we can just talk.         She reads my text then puts her head on my shoulder. Oy! This child. G-d bless Old Reliable for stranding me in this girl’s beautiful orbit.         You have arrived at your destination, the crisp voice of Google Girl informs us.         “Whoa!” Gretchen gasps and takes in Maria’s house.         “Ohhhh, puh-leeeeeeease!” says Jane. “You should see MYYYYYYYY house! It makes this look like a cottaaaaaaage!”         The first feature to grab your attention is the ornamental six-foot-high wrought-iron fence that encircles what, compared to the neighboring homes, is very obviously, a triple lot. The structure is vast and Victorian – white with tall windows and black shutters, three stories, and a wraparound porch. Wind chimes of every size and design dangle, like exotic earrings, from the porch’s rafters and serenade us as we exit our vehicle.  Maria bursts from the front door at a full run, arms outstretched, face beaming. She reminds me so much of her grandmother, my own beloved voice teacher, at this moment, the way she’s brimming over with life and enthusiasm.         “You’re here at last!” she says with a voice so robust and melodious that it sounds as if she’s singing to us. Rebekah’s face lights up.         Maria wraps us both inside her arms and says, “Welcome!” then smooches me on the cheek. “You look as beautiful as ever,” she says, holding me at arm’s length.         “Ditto!” I say. Her hair is still lush and long and jet black, her eyes like dark chocolate bon-bons. It’s her smile, though, that always beguiles people – so warm and inviting and movie-star beautiful.         I remember how, even as a teenager, when she took voice and piano lessons from me, she was decades beyond her contemporaries in the areas of charisma and social grace. When she was tapped for the New York City Opera, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. She had “star quality” written all over her from Day One.         “This has to be the talented Rebekah!” she says, and I watch as Rebekah becomes so immediately enchanted, she’s not even blinking.         “I can’t WAIT to work with you!” Maria says and squeezes her. “We are going to have so much fun here together!”         “Ummmmm. Hellloooooooo!” says Jane, tapping Maria from behind.         Maria’s back becomes rigid, and her eyebrows hook together at the bridge of her nose like mating caterpillars. She whirls around to face Jane and uses an imperious, Icy Diva tone to say, “I am speaking with my student right now, Madam. Do NOT interrupt me!”         Gretchen, who is standing outside of Jane’s sight lines, pantomimes a prolonged scream of elation, which she punctuates with an enthusiastic fist above her head.         And just like that, Maria’s charms have even won over the perpetually wary and stand-offish Gretchen.         She turns back to face Rebekah and asks, “Are you hungry after such a long trip, Dear Student? I’ve made a huge pot of pasta and meatballs.”         Rebekah nods, and Maria links elbows with her. As they head toward the house like life-long buddies, I say, “We’ll bring in her stuff.”         “Perfect!” says Maria to me over her shoulder. “See you all inside.”         Jane is still standing in the exact position she was in during the moment of her rebuke from Maria.         “Well, I’m SOOOOO not going in THERRRRRRRE!” she says, curling her upper lip.         “Suit yourself,” I say, causing her to gape and then instantly pout.         Gretchen meets me at the trunk, and we divvy up Rebekah’s suitcase and the bags full of treasures from our morning’s shopping spree.         As we head toward the house, I shout, “Hey, Jane! On the ride to Atlantic City?”  I pause so she’ll have to break her silence and answer me.         “Yeahhhhhh?” she shouts back like an insolent teenager.         “I call shotgun!”         It takes a moment, but then Gretchen whispers, with breathless incredulity, “Oyyyyyyy!” Immediately, she adds, in a low voice, “You have no concept of how much I adore you in this perfect, priceless moment, Allen.” She gives me an admiring look followed by a love-nudge with her whole body.         “Ditto,” I say. Then, I give her Wise Eyes and add, “Game on, yes?”         “Oh, SOOOOO yes,” she answers back and sighs like she did at the hot springs when we immersed ourselves after hours of berry-picking.         With a bounce in our step as we anticipate the final leg of our road trip, we ascend the porch stairs together for a homemade meal and to say goodbye-for-now to our fabulous and beloved Rebekah. Recognized

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