GREGOIRE, heaven

[heaven grégoire]

heaven colombe grégoire

name: the blessed virgin PAM
age: methuselah.
gender: fembot
writing experience: eeeeenough.
how’d you find us?: major stalkage.
a favorite book: giovanni's room.
other character(s): dee-dee, and HOPEFULLY FRANCIS SOON.


name: heaven colombe grégoire
age: eighteen
citizen? upper or lower schooling?: upper schooling.
previous residence: liège, belgium.
eye color: soft blue.
hair color: tawny.
height: five-foot-four-inches.
distinguishing features: There is, effectively, nothing entirely notable about the way Heaven readies and dresses herself. She opts for the neat and the feminine, veers toward the conservative, and, more often than not, she prefers skirts and dresses to trousers. She does, however, have a very large collection of both cardigans and sunglasses. The former, she considers to be a wonderful staple, comfortable, sweet, and a means of bringing well-loved summer clothing into her winter wardrobe. The latter is a self-indulgence, and her collection spans the styles and sizes, though it's evident she very much prefers the over-sized ones. You can be sure that at any given moment, she will have at least one pair of shades somewhere on her person.


four good personality traits

four bad personality traits

three quirks

important people

history

The Belgium that Normand Grégoire knew so well was one that was afflicted by pitiful weather. For his whole life, his home of Liège had seemed to be in a perpetual state of ennui, with its gray skies and tempered climate : beautiful, and yet bored, as so many things he knew were. In the spring of 1991, however, the scales tipped and the city changed before his very eyes, if only for those few precious – yet fleeting – months. The clouds seemed less dense, and the trees, more lush; the sun, in a bout of unusual good-humour, appeared to grace the Belgian streets and their many inhabitants with its presence far more than the otherwise intermittent standard Normand was accustomed to. He wasn’t about to complain. It seemed to him that this, this was significant. This was a signal for imminent change and tumult, and he could be sure that something of importance was bound to happen, until he remembered that this sounded foolish. Normand Grégoire, at only twenty-six, was not entirely sure of many things, but he was wholly certain that, if nothing else, he was not a foolish man. Nothing useful could come from reading into the weather, anyway.

So, he went for a walk, presuming all was the same, would be the same, and was meant to be this way, with his hands thoroughly jammed deep into his trousers’ pockets. He tugged at the collar of his starched oxford shirt – it was warm – and then Normand was proven very, very wrong. He was asked for directions, and her voice was beautiful, her lipstick red, her smile wide. She was not his type, and she was not his mother’s type for him. Yet she was undoubtedly intriguing. Her blue eyes danced with the kind of liveliness that he believed couldn’t be native to Belgium, and her hair was, in a word, something. It did curls like he’d never seen before, and when accompanied by her thick accent, his suspicion was confirmed : a foreigner, une Américaine. He’d been warned about those, but there’d never once, as far as he could recall, been a mention of sinfully short lycra skirts.

He faltered for a moment, on two distinct counts : first came the enchanting once-over, then came the street name, swiftly bringing up the rear. It was familiar to him, yes, it rang a bell. It was, if he remembered, somewhere close by, but he wasn’t sure of its precise location. Perhaps he might accompany her, if this wasn’t too presumptuous a thing to propose; he hadn’t anything else planned. She looked him over, appraised him and laughed, though not unkindly. With a shift of her hips, a twirl of her hair, she conceded, and smiled, extended a hand; she was Sam, and did he drink coffee ? He did. Did he want to grab some ? Again, he did, with a slow half-smile, and by the way ? In case she happened to be curious, or possibly wanted to know, he was Normand. And he was a goner. So much for not having intended to be foolish.

In an afternoon, he learnt she was a cellist – an electric cellist – in some kind of avant-garde orchestra. She’d be in Belgium another few weeks, then France, England, and after that ? Who knew ? He found that she swiped the froth off her cappuccino with her index finger, then licked it without a single qualm, that leopard print was, in her opinion, very over-rated, and that she thought salted crackers were absolutely amazing. She was absurd, he realized, and the most important thing told to him that night was her hotel’s phone number. He used it well, and saw her often; he crossed his fingers that the French leg of her tour would be annulled, while his mother, having met the girl, prayed to the good Lord that Sam would somehow have herself deported, and that her son would find himself a nice girl. Twenty-seven years, and this was the first thing he brought home ? In her chi-chi house, with the crushed velvet curtains and Limoges bébelles, and the right kind of people – well-to-do, well-mannered, well-educated : old money – she did not fit in, she would never fit in. Colombe made this clear. What would his father have said, bless his poor departed soul.

Normand, however, had made up his mind. He’d always been one to weigh options endlessly, to carefully consider and to examine all aspects; he’d never so quickly made a decision as the one to take Samantha-baby-call-her-Sam-Rusch as his own. It was uncharacteristic, and it was a brash risk to take, but he was in love, completely and utterly, and there was nothing in the world he wanted more. He’d known from day one, but it took him six months to broach the topic with her; he knew she’d say yes, but was nervous nonetheless. Hands clammy, throat tight, ears incontrovertibly red, he awaited her answer, hoped her job wouldn’t be a deal-breaker, though they’d already spoken of her relocating. In her time off after England [his prayers had been answered, in case you were curious, and France had been an impossibility], she quite nearly already had. They were married soon after, Colombe cried all the day, and Sam offered her the tissue she’d stowed away under her bra strap. Normand had smiled, despite being uncertain whether his new wife was oblivious to her mother-in-law’s aversion, or simply unflappable even before its might. Either option, to him, was equally endearing.

The pair were happy – nigh inseparable – for months, and were left unattended by the ever-irked Colombe. Left to their own devices, the two sought to fabricate their own niche in Liège, and did so with immeasurable zeal. All was fine, all was well, all was perfectly peachy-keen until mid-April of ’92. Sam was late. Not the usual kind of late, for that was to be expected. She was late-late, and she thought it would be best to take a test. And so, in the form of a bright blue plus-sign, Heaven made her first appearance in the odd couple’s lives. They were both terrified and excited, on-edge and amazed. Above all else, they were even more enthralled with each other than they had been before.

Punctual even in her incipient stages, baby girl arrived right at the nine-month mark, on a cool November morning, just before noon. She was coughing and mewling, with miniature balled pink fists, and bright blue eyes to match her mother’s. Sam was pleased, held her daughter tight, and showered her with kisses and hugs a-plenty. For his part, Normand was amazed at this life that was his, to tend to and love, and when he cradled her, he was nothing short of enchanted. When his wife suggested they name her for a Def Leppard song, she’d argued that it was unusual but sweet, and besides, she’d be a stunner with a pedigree like that. As always, when it came to Sam, he couldn’t disagree, though he held out for his mother’s name as his daughter’s middle one, and Sam, having got her way when it came to Heaven, couldn’t bring herself to put up much of a fight. What was a small battle when the peaceful war was won ?

Heaven was a darling baby, with a sweet disposition and the warmest little rosy cheeks her father had ever had the pleasure of kissing. Normand tended to his tiny daughter with an equal balance of painstaking care and loving enthusiasm, and thought naught of it, for it seemed to be his duty, though it was far from one begrudgingly fulfilled. For her part, Sam adored the girl, thought she was a barrel of fun, and wasn't she just a cutie to boot ? Sometimes. But she couldn’t seem to get into the habit of routine feedings , couldn’t get used to diaper changes and staying in every night. She loved her daughter, but missed her freedom; she was a restless woman, she’d always said it. She grew agitated, edgy, increasingly unsettled, and Normand wondered what had happened to her former good humour. Sam chalked it up to needing to get out more; he didn’t see a problem with that. Outings to the museum, around the town, to the shops : they seemed to go without saying, to him, but Normand hadn't entirely grasped her intent.

Nearly two weeks before Heaven’s seven months, Sam dropped a landmine on what had been a relatively quiet household. She wanted to work, and didn’t simply want to have a job; she wanted to have hers. It was only normal, wasn’t it ? What else could anyone have expected ? Normand then realized the danger in assumptions : he’d always thought their agreement to marry and settle down would mean a more sedentary life for his wild chérie, but she had other plans. She was a nomad by nature, and a lover of music. Of course, she still loved him, but it had been far too long since she'd been without a musical group with which to tour. Furthermore, she cared little for being reigned in. For a moment, Normand asked himself why she’d even married, if this were so. Quickly, he chastised himself, dismissed the thought, and strove for compassion instead. He loved this woman, did he not ? So should he not want to ensure her happiness ? The answer was an obvious, but solemn, yes, and instead, he wondered what they were to do about their daughter, with her mother's desired va-et-vient.

He couldn’t possibly stop working; he was the family’s primary provider, and despite the money of generations past that he knew could suffice for years to come, he had little desire to solely leech from this fortune. Years of indoctrination telling him to 'protect the capital', coupled with his own desire to be at least somewhat self-reliant did very well in preventing this. Yet he was wary of nannies and governesses : they had no veritable attachment to the child, and he was sure they wouldn’t care for her as they ought. The more he pondered, the more his thoughts led him right back to a single possibility : Colombe. She loved the girl terribly, she endowed her with gifts, and though she despised her mother, she held none of her parentage against her. Sam wasn’t too keen, but had no other options if she wanted to resume her former occupation. So it was with great reluctance that Heaven’s rearing during the work week was passed onto her grandmother, who sought to teach her grand-daughter everything she believed a little girl ought to know.

Colombe, silver-haired with keen pear-coloured eyes, was exacting and precise : she undoubtedly ran a very tight ship. Though while her hand was firm, it was also gentle, at least when it came to her small grand-daughter, and despite Grand-Mother’s sometimes strange and seemingly unfair rules, Heaven grew to love the woman dearly. She feared her rebuke, but adored her caress, and, after Normand, she was the girl’s very favourite person in the world, although her knowledge of others was somewhat limited. Without a doubt, she was sheltered under Colombe's wing, never out of sight, much less out of mind, and the treatment she received from her well-intending grand-mother could have been perceived as cloistering by another. Yet it didn’t bother her, and she was happy as could be to assume her role as la petite to the Mamie who seldom called her by her name. Perhaps it was then, as a child roaming Colombe’s precious gardens and being called back using a series of sweet pseudonyms, that she first grew averse to her first name. It may have been during the quiet tea parties for two – or for three, if Normand or one of her dolls happened to be in attendance as well – though the visits to other women much like her grandmother, but far stuffier, as far as Heaven was concerned (but then, she was just a little bit biased), were plausible options as well.

And so passed her childhood, in a blissfully smooth and quiet way; or at least, in a most privileged and quiet way. She was doted upon and granted most whatever she wanted, though in return, her behaviour was required to be nothing short of excellent. Her company was almost exclusively that of adults generations older than she was, with paltry exceptions made for the various relations of family friends. Her mother, notably, flitted in and out of Heaven's life, and the frequency of her appearances about on par with that of other children. Having reassumed the position she'd pined for so much, her situation was such that her young daughter barely knew her at all, though what she knew was very, very fun. Sam, after all, knew how to do fun, and in-between orchestra tours, and rehearsals, and all kinds of other so-called grown-up outings, she was as affectionate toward her daughter as anyone could be. Heaven, for one, looked forward to such meetings with the elusive Maman, though she questioned not why she was so seldom around, particularly in comparison to her darling Papa. Papa who was tired, and Papa who worked so hard : she was only a child, and she could already tell, since fatigue, as it happens, is familiar to all. Yet he was still hers, and he always came home for dinner, always tucked in at night. Or, at least, he tried to. But the older she grew, the more nights it seemed she was spending with Grand-Maman, so that by the time she'd started school, it really did seem that her weekday life had been usurped by Colombe.

Upon the commencement of Heaven's education, however, two things were very soon understood. The first was that the child was unusually precocious. Clever and curious, though far, far quieter than most of the students in her year. She learnt quickly and retained much; her analytical ability was quite uncanny and her observational skills were top-notch. Yet she refrained from proudly waving her hand when questions were asked, and similar behaviour was observed on the playground. She hung back and watched while others took center stage, and she rarely sought extraneous attention. It was peculiar, and it wasn't for lack of pride, for Heaven did indeed take pride in her work. Painstaking pride, in fact, and it was all done with great effort and diligence - thanks, in part, to les exigences of Colombe and Normand. For her far-more-than-satisfying performance and her very good behaviour, Heaven was a favourite among her teachers. In spite of this (or perhaps, it might be more accurate to say as a function of this), it seemed that she was quite destined to be a wallflower, an introvert, a quiet little thing.

It was curious, to both Colombe and Normand, that the girl seemed to have taken nothing from her mother. Any wild and wanton ways seemed to have been lost in the shuffle of gene selection, and any that may have lingered by, eluded the process of natural selection, appeared to have been thoroughly stamped out. Colombe was, in a word, relieved, but Normand, he had doubts; he might have even been a bit disappointed. Logically though, he hadn’t any reason to be. His little girl roamed the estate with wide-eyed wonder, but she never strayed; she performed in school, she was very well-behaved, and at the end of the day, she was always ready to crawl into his lap for a story, a cuddle, or perhaps a simple discussion. She seemed to like this last one very much.

And Sam ? She still visited, as she would for years to come, for weeks, sometimes months, occasionally only days, at a time. She was proud of her daughter, and she told her so, while she showered her with warm hugs and unusual presents. Yet a part of her remained somewhat disappointed (perhaps even dissatisfied), as she still clung tight to the quiet hope that perhaps, her girl would grow up to be a bit…livelier. It was a shame, she couldn’t help but think, that a child of hers would be so tame, so sheltered, so – dare she say it, she didn’t want to, but couldn’t help it – stuffy. Their conversations were consistently sweet, yet awkward, and upon their good-byes, Sam couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt and a shadow of doubt; perhaps, it was in not remaining here that she was truly missing out. The thoughts, however, were quickly shoved away; her daughter was in better hands anyhow.

The years changed, but the sentiments remained the same, and little but her daughter’s growth was altered between visits. Even Normand’s feelings for her – adoring from a distance, tolerant of her choices, but disappointed, longing, eager for her returns – varied not. Though there was one exception, one vital difference that came not long after the second discovery soon after Heaven began school. Back and forth between her parents’ sumptuous home and her grandmother’s estate proved to be trying on a small girl, and an erratic schedule, both Colombe and Normand agreed, was a terrible idea for such a young child. And so, negotiations commenced, sparked by Colombe with a wary Normand. He clung tight at first, to the idea of his own home, but his mother was obstinate, as she always had been, and by the end of the school year, the decision was made. He’d spoken with Sam, who’d been quick to refuse, but with her discontinuous presence, it was clear that she really had no say. Son and grand-daughter would move in with Colombe before the summer’s end, and daughter-in-law would be welcome when she chose to grace them with her presence. Or, at least, she’d try to make her welcome.

It was in this way that time passed, with little that was noteworthy, beyond all that’s been said, until the summer before Heaven turned twelve. She’d implored Mamie to s’il te plait, let her go to the park by herself; she’d be fine, she was old enough, and besides, she was careful. Reluctantly, eyes narrowed, Colombe had agreed. The visit to the park had gone by seamlessly, and Heaven was very much pleased with herself, but on the way home, a store caught her eye; it was an old-fashioned bouquinerie of sorts. Curiosity struck, and Heaven bit; she entered the shop and came across an assortment of used items, things her grandmother would never want in her house, covered in dust, and otherwise obviously second-hand, but then, she’d never been nearly as averse to such things as Colombe. She perused the store, wondering quietly if she’d find something to take home – something small, something cute, perhaps a vintage barrette – when she found it.

It was the bright blue glare that first caught her eye, but the title – Adrenalizer – that then drew her in. Eager fingers scooped it up, turned it around, and wide blue eyes scanned the listing to land on track number two. Just as she’d suspected, it was there, right in place, “Heaven Is”. She’d heard it before, at least a few dozen times, but this, this was something else. This would be hers. She flipped it around, traced the lettering on the front, and considered, for a moment, that she didn’t have a record player. It didn’t matter anyway. She could always get one later, and for now, she was content simply to hold this. So she paid it, not much, only a few hundred francs, and brought it home, swiftly stowing it away. This was the first in what would soon become a large collection of Def Leppard paraphernalia, to be joined, very quickly, by an old record player (for listening to Chopin, allegedly, which she did, on occasion, along with Handel and Brahms, to support the ruse).

When all others were out though, and she was left to her own devices, the box marked, Anciens essais was slid out of her closet, and Heaven listened over and over again to Joe Elliott’s discography. It wasn’t long before she knew the songs by heart, and although she really was more of a softer music kind of girl, she bore a great love for this one hair band, as she sat in her room, quietly, as though waiting for some kind of divine intervention by means of heavy metal. It made her feel, somehow, more in tune with her mother, more understanding of what she’d wanted, and, in turn, somewhat disappointed in herself to not being able to fill the snakeskin heels her mother had so hoped she would. She made small attempts, here and there, but it was never anything substantial. She never really got much further than a choppy haircut that she promptly wore tied back right until it grew out. She was a good girl, and though it wasn’t an omnipresent bother, there moments when it really couldn’t have frustrated her more. She did hate to be a letdown, and this was what she felt like, when it came to her mother, despite Sam being far from a guilty party in the two-way game of calamities. She’d never been there for her daughter, not really, and Heaven’s resentment was thoroughly misplaced, not in her mother – she admired her, and romanticized her far too much for this – but in herself. Perhaps if she’d been more like what she’d wanted, Sam would have been there more.

At least Normand, however, was much more than accepting, and though Heaven couldn’t meet what she presumed were Sam’s expectations, her father’s desires were far easier to fulfill. Good daughter that she was, her high school and university were predetermined : l'Académie d'ouvard, of course. Her father had gone, and his father, and his father, naturally, too; if Normand had any siblings, they’d have attended as well, no doubt. So she came, with no qualms about the decision, only a childish kind of sadness at being away from home. She did love her father, and of course, the doting Colombe; whatever time she had with them, she wanted to take advantage of, but this was what she was supposed to do, and so, dutifully, she did it. Her academic performance was in no way stunted, though her social life seemed to be not much ameliorated, even with being constantly surrounded by people her age; perhaps she was far too unaccustomed to this for it to make much of a difference. As always, it was much of the same, though she invariably looked forward to both visits home, and her father dropping in. At least, for the time being, she still had Réglisse.

if you could be anywhere, where would you be? Truthfully ? I'm not horribly picky. I miss home, I do, but so long as I have an armchair and ample time and books to read, I'll be happy. I'd just like my family to be there. And Réglisse.

character’s play-by: tupper, rosie.

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[headmaster.]

courtois
arcséne
TBD