A Season to Dance Read online

  Last slow steps. Nice arabesque. With my whole body supported on one leg and the other leg extended horizontally backward, I studied the dance space.

  The girls were still too close, and I wouldn’t be able to go full out. Or would I? No, best not to. That was okay, though. I could still make the end of the solo look pretty for them.

  I took position in the front left corner of the studio and squared my shoulders to begin the big circle of turns. My heart beat so hard and so fast that my whole chest vibrated. That second before the manège part of the music is the longest in a ballerina’s life.

  What was it about pauses that made me nervous? I never felt nervous while in motion. But pausing? Pausing was hard. I would much rather stay in motion.

  Here we go. Goodbye droplets. And hello flood.

  Piqué turn, turn, turn, turn, chaîné tuuuuuuuurn. I spun as fast as a child’s top, and perfect spotting kept me from getting too dizzy. Piqué turn, turn, turn, turn, chain tuuuuuuuurn. But unlike a top, as I spun, I drew a perfect circle using the whole dancing space—without stepping on children.

  The choreography ended with a diagonal of additional fast turns. Here we go. Turn, turn, turn, turn, pa, pa, pa, pa. One more set, hit the brakes, step-up, go to fourth, sous-sus.

  Yes!

  “Brava!” Mrs. B. clapped enthusiastically.

  The studio erupted in excitement and cheers.

  Everything spun like a round-up ride. But I stood and I smiled. Worth the wait. The studio would stop spinning soon. I curtsied, riding the joy, and made sure to face every direction—even toward the windows, crowded with parents.

  If only the rest of my life could stop spinning too.

  “That was delightful, Ana.” Mrs. B. had seen me rehearse before, but performing in front of a group always brought an extra spark to my dancing. “You’re so tiny and perfect. Can you even see your feet beyond your pancake tutu?”

  “Sometimes,” I panted. I extended my leg and looked at my foot beyond the bell-shaped pink rehearsal tutu. We chuckled together, and I rested my hands on my hips. My chest rose and fell with rapid breaths.

  “That was lovely. Well done.” Her eyes twinkled like her diamond stud earrings. “In the beginning, when you do your battus and tendus, really maintain your rotation, hmm?” She showed me the ending position, her slim body and jet-black hair giving her a look of someone much younger than her sixty-plus years.

  I did two repetitions. Pointe shoe to ankle, two beats, and stretch leg out. Pointe shoe to ankle, two beats, and stretch leg out.

  She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Better.”

  “Okay.” I kneaded my left shoulder and rolled it back twice to ease the tension that had settled there.

  “Now, girls”—she looked at the young ballerinas first, then at the teenagers— “I want all of you to try to dance like Ana.”

  Some dancers smiled timidly while others giggled under their breath.

  “I know you can’t turn as easily as she does. And maybe getting en pointe is still hard for you—if it were easy, every girl in the world would go around on the tips of their toes. But I know that you can smile.”

  Several heads bobbed in slow harmony as Mrs. B. walked to the speaker dock. “Look like you are excited to be here. Let’s try the ‘Waltz of the Flowers’ again with that spirit. Yes?”

  Twelve flowers nodded and scrambled to their starting positions. I found a spot near the piano and stretched, watching the teens waltz—some were more graceful than others, but they were all hardworking girls.

  The studio was old—the best always were. The dark marley floor had seen years of pointe work, and the wooden barres looked worn—worn by sweaty hands holding tight to big dreams.

  “You are so beautiful,” the girl cast as Dew Drop whispered.

  “Thank you.” I grinned. “Your variation is looking beautiful too.”

  Her cheeks turned pink, hiding most of her small freckles.

  A newer generation was dreaming now, but the ballet studio still was what it should be: a bastion of civility in an everything-goes world.

  Mrs. B. crouched next to me and watched Jill dance.

  Jill, who was not a strong dancer when I’d first met her, had become a bit of a protégée. In the two months I’d spent working with her, she’d improved significantly.

  We’d worked on the position of her shoulders, head, and neck. Her épaulement was elegant now, and her arm movements had become smooth and supported. Jill seemed happy and confident, and with that new vigor her leg movements transformed too. They were better defined and more dynamic. She looked like an artist now. She was an artist.

  “You did a great job with Jill.” Mrs. B. rested her hand on my shoulder as she spoke. “I’m glad I let you talk me into giving her a front-row spot in the waltz.”

  “Thanks.” You go, girl.

  “I want to talk to you before you go.” She fiddled with her earring, her eyes on the waltz.

  “Okay.” No, I don’t want to teach.

  “Much better, girls.” She walked to the speaker dock once more and shut down the sound system. “That’s it, everybody. I’ve kept you long enough. Thank you. Now, I need all soloists to go by the sewing room before you leave the studio today. Stahlbaums, I need you to stop by the sewing room too. Everybody else is free to go.”

  I grabbed my ballet bag and sat by the piano again to remove my pointe shoes.

  The younger ballerinas rushed out to their parents and now looked and acted like little girls again. From the large studio window I saw one of them on her tiptoes doing a bourrée from my solo. Another sat on her daddy’s shoulder. She still wore her ballet slippers, and he held her tiny feet firmly while she lifted her arms to fifth position. He spun around the sidewalk, and she held her pose. I watched their improvised pas de deux until they disappeared into the cool autumn day.

  “I love these girls too.” Mrs. B.’s comment startled me—I didn’t know she’d crossed the room. “Having a studio is far more fun than I’d expected.”

  “Good.” I watched the last girl exit the studio. It’s not for me, though.

  She unplugged her iPod and put it in her bag. “Jill is a different dancer now. You have a gift for coaching, you know?”

  No, I don’t. “Thank you. There’s something about her that’s special. I like her.”

  “I don’t know what you saw.” Mrs. B. removed her ballet slippers and wiggled her long white toes. “She was never good. But somehow you fixed her.”

  I shrugged. “I can always tell when a girl is holding back. Jill had a confidence problem, not a dancing problem.”

  She sat on the piano bench. “How did you figure that out?”

  I wasn’t sure how to explain without making my dad seem like a bad person. He wasn’t, but it’s amazing the power a parent’s words have in the life of a child. Even words they later regret and apologize for. “I had a huge confidence problem myself.” I picked a piece of lint from my leotard sleeve.

  “Why?” A line appeared between her brows.

  “My dad once said that if I were destined to be a prima ballerina, we would have known it by the time I was twelve.”

  “Ouch.” She cringed. “Is he a dancer?”

  “No.” I laughed at the idea of my dad dancing. “He didn’t mean anything by it. He says weird stuff sometimes. But yeah, ouch.” I imitated the face she’d made.

  “That’s awful.”

  “It’s okay.” I shook my head. “It’s old news.”

  “Well, you’re a great dancer and a great example for the girls—always on time, impeccable bun, hard worker, unassuming… Ana, you should teach and help me run the company. Really.”

  I knew it. “No, I really shouldn’t. It’s nice that you want me to, though. I appreciate it.”

  “Why not teach?” She leaned forward.

  “I don’t know.” I puffed out my chest. “I guess I still feel like one of the girls. I’m just not ready to take the leap.” I had big d
reams too, and teaching wasn’t one of them. Maybe my big dreams were dead, but if I were to start teaching now, I would surely become resentful. Wouldn’t I? Who was I kidding? I was probably resentful already.

  “I’m not saying stop dancing. You shouldn’t. But do both—transition and open new doors.” She stood and seemed to prepare to dance something. “And just so you know, I feel like one of the girls too.” She did little ballottés from the ballet Giselle, humming one of the first act’s solos. “Pa, papa, papa, papa, parararapa… It never changes. It’s a blessing and a curse.”

  We both chuckled.

  I shook my head in slow motion. “Not now. I just helped Jill because I know her from church.”

  She turned to me sharply. “Really? You don’t seem like the church type.”

  “I’m not. I’m not even saved—I don’t think.” Why did I say that? Now she’ll think I’m weird. “I just have a lot going on.”

  “Oh… Well, babies are not easy—or so I hear. I never had any.”

  She ignored it. Good. “No, they are not…”

  “Is that why you didn’t want to be in the production last year? The baby was still little?”

  “Kind of, but the baby—who’s not really a baby anymore—is the easy part, in all reality.”

  “Is it your husband? He doesn’t want you to dance?” Mrs. B. smacked her forehead. “You married a man like your father? I see it all the time.”

  “Oh, no. It’s the other way around. My husband is the one pestering me to dance more.” If I had it my way, I would be by his side all the time.

  “Oh, good. Then I like him already. He should come see a rehearsal one day.”

  “That’s the thing.” Did I have to talk about his disease? I swallowed hard. Try not to cry.

  “What is it?”

  “He’s sick. He doesn’t get around much these days.” My eyes burned and hot tears welled up.

  “Aw.” She handed me a tissue from an old box that’d been on top of the piano since I’d started taking classes there. “I’m sorry he’s sick and sorry I upset you. I certainly didn’t mean to. When he’s better, he can come, huh?”

  But he would never get better. He would only get worse. And yet I still had dreams—dreams of a cure and a bright future, dreams of a father playing with his child, and dreams of growing old with my husband. I dabbed my cheeks.

  Mrs. B. walked to a nearby shelf. “Here,” she said, looking through a long box, “I have something that will cheer you up.”

  “You do?” I tossed the used tissue in the wastebasket by the piano and pressed my hands to my cheeks. Oh, how I hated feeling sorry for myself.

  “Ta-da!” She held the Sugar Plum tiara with both hands.

  “Aw…” My heart beat slow, perfectly aware of the unique nature of that small moment. Pink and silver crystals glimmered in a floral pattern that reminded me of my wedding tiara. “It’s beautiful.”

  She put the headpiece on my hair with ease, crowning me queen of the Land of Sweets.

  I glanced at the closest mirror—the tiara looked even shinier against my dark hair. Wow. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” She took a step back and looked at me with an aura of love and pride that reminded me of the way my mom used to look at me when I was little and she had to help me get ready for performances. “I hope I get to see you dance many ballets and wear many tiaras here.”

  “Thanks.” I rubbed shaky fingertips against my cheekbones. Still just one of the girls. Good.

  She gave me another tissue and looked in the direction of my ballet bag. “Do you need to get that?”

  I cocked my head. What did I need to get?

  “I think your phone is vibrating.” She pointed at my bag.

  “Oh, yes. I have to.” I stuck my hand in the old cloth bag, going straight for the phone. The institute. “Hello?” I held on to the closest barre while riding a massive wave of dizziness. “Hello?”

  “Hi, Ana?”

  I recognized Dr. Zimmermann’s voice. “Yes. Hi. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes, everything’s fine now, but your husband took a hard fall during therapy today. We tried to call so you could come get him, but you didn’t answer.”

  “I’m sorry. I was rehearsing. Is he still there?” I bit my lip, trying to fight off worry. I knew this performance was a bad idea.

  “No. Ed drove him home about an hour ago.”

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll keep the phone handy in case something like this happens again. I feel bad.” I should have monitored the phone.

  “Don’t, Ana. You need to take care of yourself too. I just wanted to tell you because he probably won’t. Call me if you see him showing signs of pain. I wanted to do an x-ray, but he didn’t let me.”

  I nodded. “I’ll do that.”

  “And have a little extra patience. He had a rough day. He was in a pretty bad mood when he left.”

  Awesome. “Thanks for the heads up and for having Ed drive him home. I don’t know what we would do without you and all the staff there.”

  “Don’t worry. You guys try to have a good weekend, and we’ll see you on Monday, okay?”

  “Okay. We’ll see you then.”

  When I put the phone away and turned around, Mrs. B.’s eyes met mine.

  “I’m sorry.” Sorry indeed.

  “Sorry for what?”

  “I don’t know.” Sorry for myself. Sorry for my husband. Sorry for our son. Sorry I didn’t answer the phone. Sorry I don’t understand why we need to live like this…

  “Is everything okay?”

  No, everything was not okay, but I chose the polite answer. “Yeah. My husband took a hard fall during therapy. He should be home now. He’s okay.”

  “What does he have? If you don’t mind me asking. He will get better, right?”

  I shook my head and pressed my lips together. “He has Huntington’s disease. There’s no cure.”

  Sadness clouded her features. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “He’s dying, one brain cell and function at a time. Involuntary movements, thought processes…” I shook my head again. “Everything is a struggle. And there’s nothing I can do but watch him suffer and secretly dream of a cure. He’s been so angry lately that even my hope makes him mad.” I snorted. “We’re trying to get him to stop driving now—that’s the next big battle. Wish me luck with that one.”

  “Oh, Ana. I had no idea you were dealing with all this.”

  “C’est la vie.” I shrugged. “About three years ago, we had it all.” Images of crowded theaters, travels, and our wedding day reminded me of what happiness looked like—carefree happiness. We were still happy. It was just a different kind of happy.

  I had to get home. I dug my clothes out of the bag.

  “At least you have your faith.” Mrs. B. took a step back.

  “I wish I had faith.” I stepped into a simple black skirt and put on my old Allen Ballet jacket.

  “But you said you know Jill from church. So you guys do go to church, right?”

  “Something like that. I’ve been going on my own, and I’ve been reading about faith a lot and the Bible a little, but I’m not too sure what to think of it all yet.” I placed the rehearsal tutu I’d used at the end of the barre. “But you’re right. It helps.”

  I looked around the room, remembering how it’d been spinning when I’d finished the variation. In ballet, we enhance control and prevent debilitating dizziness with proper spotting. While the body rotates at a relatively constant speed, the head periodically rotates much faster and then stops on a single location, a single spot, again and again.

  Spotting worked for life too. My husband was my spot. But while in ballet it’s okay to pick a spot that moves, like another dancer, it’s not okay to pick a spot that’s completely unpredictable.

  As my spot became more and more unpredictable, I could only hope that religion would work. I’d run out of other options.

  “I need to go.” I picked up
my bag.

  “Let me know if I can help. And I mean it,” Mrs. B. said when I reached the door. “I can babysit too, if you need.”

  “Thanks.” That was sweet. “Gabriel is getting his weekly dose of grandma sugars. He’s all right.” I saw a hint of disappointment in her eyes. Who did she go home to?

  “Maybe another time.” She wrapped her arms around herself.

  I nodded and exited the studio. Let me find him well, God. Please.

  The blue and beige magnolias of our vintage tablecloth disguised the truth, but the delicate pattern didn’t eradicate our reality. My husband got only half his food in his mouth these days.

  I looked at what was left of his baked chicken salad still sitting on the kitchen table and mentally ticked off the calorie chart the doctor had given me.

  I found him standing by the living room window, his frame still beautiful and strong despite the ravages of Huntington’s on his body. “Hi.”

  He turned around. “Hi, gorgeous.”

  I think he’s actually in a good mood.

  “How was rehearsal?”

  I kissed him before answering. It was nice to be home. Really nice. “It was awesome. I want to show you something.”

  “What is it?”

  “You have to wait a minute,” I said mysteriously. I walked to my bag and found the tiara tangled to a loose thread of the inner seam. One of the little crystals bent as I pulled the tiara out. Come on. I tried bending the gem back into place, but it broke off. Of course…

  “What do you want to show me?” He took a small step forward.

  I tossed the broken crystal back into the bag and put the tiara on my head. “What do you think?”

  “Wow, look at you!” He nodded with a proud grin. “It suits you.”

  I enjoyed the heat his approval sent to my cheeks.

  His blue eyes came alive, and he smiled and flashed his eyebrows in a rare but welcome moment. “And to think you didn’t want to do it.”

  His voice came out a little slurred.

  Please don’t get angry…