Brisé (14 page)

The next morning before running rehearsal, I put the music from Luke in the CD player. Sam Smith’s ‘Lay Me Down’ plays through the PA system. His version is a tad slower, but his voice is calling to me, and I blindly follow. The beats ricochet off my body, I feel every one prick my skin as if it is being ripped open, fileting me open and bare for the world to see. I dance, I remember, and most of all . . . I feel. I feel for him and the pain he was obviously in when he sang this, I feel his love in the performance he’s giving, and I feel his confusion for how I could just leave him if I loved him half as much as he loved me. I did, and I still do. I loved him more than myself, I just can’t get over him loving me more than our baby . . . our future and happiness. It’s still irrational, and I understand that now. The clearest of answers aren’t always the easiest solutions. After his letters, I questioned myself as to what I would do if I was faced with losing him. Every choice I would make would be him . . . just him.

I don’t even know what steps I have performed, for the first time in forever I danced from my heart. I didn’t count steps, didn’t mark my spot on the stage, didn’t count turns . . . I just told a story. Of love. Of loss. Of longing and despair. Not a fairytale, not even close.

Hands down, I got the ballerina spot and promised Claude my storytelling was here to stay. I would make the audience hemorrhage with me when I was done telling my tale.

Chapter 17

Luke

The Big Apple is daunting. I’m not used to the constant frenzy of the city. I miss the quiet nights on the porch, strumming my guitar, not being in a constant hurry to get from one place to another. Peace. Something I’m longing for, yet haven’t experienced for years. Katie is getting booked for more and more shoots; hopefully, she will make a name for herself. Having her here to split the bills is a godsend, and I’m lucky I didn’t think my decision through, or I wouldn’t have lasted this past year. Expenses are astronomical here compared to back home, and I struggled the first few months. I had a job lined up with a prestigious firm on Wall Street, but I was not prepared for all it entailed. Fast paced and constant hustle and bustle is what made the money, and I wasn’t cut out for any of it. I was slower, trying to be careful and not make mistakes. I triple-checked most of my transactions, weighing all options and then checking again. I was always worried I would transpose numbers or read the terms wrong, even though it wasn’t my money I would never want to destroy someone else’s future.

I got heckled a lot by the other brokers at first. They were picking up about three new clients to my one, and making hundreds more trades than I was. I kept reminding myself slow and steady wins the race, but I was discouraged seeing everyone sprint past me. One transaction changed the pace for me. I was working on a portfolio for an elderly couple. They were well-off and ready to travel the world but still wanted to have enough assets to leave a sizeable inheritance to their children; that was their goal. I was getting frustrated, seeing everything they had invested in, seeing where I could diversify and feeling like I couldn’t let them down. After some tweaking, selling, and buying, I had somehow managed to triple their worth, and in return made a sizeable income for myself. The next week I had an influx of clients, all word of mouth referrals; all willing to work with me; and not looking for instant gratification. Once the pressure was off, and I was able to take my time without feeling rushed, I became known as the boy wonder. Instead of being heckled, I was envied. The snide remarks continued, but not to my face anymore.

After almost a year, I have decided this isn’t where my heart lies. I’ve made a lot of money, helped some wonderful people, and will leave them in the best hands, but I am ready to go home. Katie is leaving for an international tour, and will just sub-let the apartment for the duration of our lease. I’m going to hand over all the accounts I have to my boss. He paid close attention to how I handled them and assured me he would keep doing what I’ve done. I’m going to drive home this time, sight-see, and take my time. My parents are relieved. My dad wants to start enjoying the years, and they aren’t getting any younger. The last four years since the death of the Phoebe’s parents has been a jumble of one event and clusterfuck after another. It’s time for a breather. Time to regroup and move on. I assured my dad that I’m up for handling the business when he travels with my mom, but it won’t be a full-time thing. I have invested my windfall well, and if I don’t live like I belong on MTV
Cribs
, I should be fine without a full-time career for a long while.

I decide to venture out on my own today, take in the part of New York that has made me feel void, watching all the people walking to their destinations, never stopping to see what’s happening around them. I felt most discontented with this aspect of the city. I may not know everybody in my hometown, but I have never been around so many strangers. New York is a good place to go if you want to get lost or blend in. Nobody stands out here, and while that may be a beautiful thing for many, it’s a downfall for me. My apartment is about seventeen minutes via subway from the financial district, and I’ve never ventured too far from that point. It’s a beautiful day, so I decide to walk, stretch my legs and blend in like everyone else. I get jostled, not keeping up the brisk pace of the many around me and almost decide to pack it up and go home, but I keep walking and dodging.

Suddenly the beauty before me stops me, and I find myself walking up steps towards a fountain surrounded by glass front buildings. This focal point is huge, and I look around to give me a clue where I am. The Lincoln Center … it sounds familiar for some reason. I follow a group of people and take a program on what is housed here. It is a performing arts center; even though I am not very cultural I begin scanning the upcoming performances. Opera, classical music, jazz, theater, and dance. I look immediately at the dance performances, wondering if I would recognize them from watching Phoebe’s many performances. A longing comes over me, a dull ache that I thought I’d gotten past. I constantly miss her, but have pushed her to the back of my mind, a distant memory, but a permanent disappearance in my life. She’s gone and nothing I can do will bring her back. I have accepted that.

The
American Ballet Theatre
is performing
Sleeping Beauty
tonight, and I remember seeing Phoebe dance in that. Of course she was the focus of my universe, and I only watched her on stage. Her mom used to tell me it was because you could only watch her. She was that damn hypnotic. Phoebe swore she never had the bug to dance with a ballet company, but I think she was scared to try. She didn’t train under influential teachers, didn’t perform the camps offered by world renowned ballet companies . . . she couldn’t because she was usually tethered to a chemotherapy IV bag. Her mom never doubted her talent and said it didn’t always matter what training you had, it’s what you could tell the audience. The best dancers weaved a narrative with their movements. I stop and re-read what I just saw. Under ballerina the name Phoebe Wells is listed . . . it says under her name ‘one of the ballerinas last performances.’ I stare at that program. Do I dare? I make my way to the ticket booth and buy a ticket for the show this evening. I’m not sure what I just paid for it, nor where I’m sitting, but I do know that in about three hours I am going to see her again. The girl who stole my heart eighteen years ago, and the one who ruined it four years ago.

I take the subway home, needing some solace before I see her, even if from afar. I question if this is the right maneuver. I don’t want her to see me; she made herself perfectly clear the day she left and each day after that she stayed away. No contact is what she wanted and what she gave in return. I’ve always put her wishes above mine, but tonight I need to see her. I will be leaving tomorrow and heading home. I have no idea where she’ll be after tonight, so I
will
be selfish this once.

Dressing quickly and pacing my apartment, I watch the clock tick, the minutes dragging on. Finally, it’s time to leave, and I hail a cab outside my apartment. I arrive with plenty of time to spare and sit down on the steps pondering what it will be like to watch her dance again. My arms ache to hold her, my lips tingle remembering what it was like to feel her skin on them . . . and my heart aches from missing her. My pulse is erratic from anticipation and not able to wait another moment I walk in the doors to find my seat. It’s an ominous feeling, not knowing what to expect, knowing I won’t speak to her, feel her, suddenly the loss is almost too much to bear. I stand to leave, not able to withstand the torture I’m about to witness. The lights dim and a hush falls over the auditorium. I sit back down and prepare myself.

Hearing the music start and watching the curtain raise, my whole body is attune to her presence. I watch the scenes before me, but when she steps on stage to do her variance; my skin breaks into goose bumps. It’s the closest I’ve been to her in four years, and I start to memorize every curve that has changed, the muscle tone she’s developed, and the way her feet move in tune to the music, her body swaying gently and performing to perfection. I’m mesmerized, her beauty and grace, her steps . . . just
her
. I am so unbelievably proud of her; she made it. I am also incredibly sad to see both of our goals reached, but individually, not as one, as I always envisioned.

The woman next to me gasps when Phoebe does a grand jeté, leaping in the air effortlessly. She lands perfectly and continues like she wasn’t just soaring, lithely never missing a beat. I’m feeling a bit emasculated right now that I know these terms, but it was her life, so I made it a part of mine. Each time I watch her is like seeing her for the first time, and from the trance the audience is in, they feel the same. Additional dancers come out; she’s lifted and handed from one male dancer to another, never losing her focus or balance. Intermission comes, and I’m still riveted in my seat, staring at the place she just left. I should have left before it began; now I couldn’t be dragged away.

The rest of the performance continues as the beginning. Stunning. Perfect. The curtain descends, blocking my vision of Phoebe. I know it will rise again, allowing me one more glimpse of her. A deep bass fills the theatre, not sure what the music is I watch as the upper principal dancers come out for their curtsy and accolade. Once the stage is again clear, she appears. Doing a small solo, I watch her and forget to breathe. The beats of the drum sound like a heartbeat, and she cups her stomach in a loving gesture, hands linked yet seemingly pumping blood through her; then the melody changes, and I feel like she’s forcing herself to be torn in two. She’s emulating a back and forth struggle, she looks so small up there, slaying an unseen antagonist. I’m frozen in place watching her, feeling her pain, wanting to wield a sword to defend her. I can’t because I realize she is enacting our past in dance. It’s like she gave me a manuscript with our history, our secret burdens and ultimate triumphs written out for me to drown in. I can’t look away. Finally she stops, bending to pick up all the roses thrown out to her, then disappears for a second time. Wiping tears from her cheeks the woman next to me says, “It’s like I was watching a movie. A tragedy, a love story that hasn’t ended.”

“It ended. About four years ago,” I tell her before I make my way out of the auditorium, hailing a cab home. I walk in, glancing around at the emptiness and decide now is the best time to leave. No reason to put it off for another day. I pick up the bag that I packed earlier, flip the lights back off and leave New York, for good. Alone, once again.

Chapter 18

Phoebe

Tonight’s performance feels different. An electrical current is buzzing through all of us, and I play it off as melancholy. This is one of my last times dancing on stage, having accomplished a dream that was never mine. I’m heading home in one week to find
my
dreams. These last months have allowed me to gain perspective, put past transgressions to rest, and open myself up to believe again. In closing myself off, I stopped myself from healing. Not allowing my emotions out, I hindered any growth. I still have moments where I want to go back in the dark, live in the existence of numbness and unreality . . . but I don’t. I know going home will be hard. I left chaos and pain in my wake. Luke won’t be there, and I have to make amends with that.

Brett and James have even agreed to think about moving when Brett’s time is up with the ballet. He always has a job with the studio, and Myra says the thrill of me coming home to teach is drawing in students, some willing to travel for over an hour to train under me. I still plan to keep it small and not get too grandiose. I just want to dance for the love of dancing and teach another child the joy that can be found. I’ve enjoyed my time on stage, but I had greater pleasure inside my old studio.

Standing in the wings, getting ready to take center stage, my heart rate begins to accelerate. I never feel like this before I go on. I’ve only felt like this one other time in my life . . . when I had my audition and he was there. He was my calm before the storm and the raging inferno of my fire. I try and peer out to the audience, but can’t see a thing. I know I am being ridiculous, he isn’t here; he doesn’t even know where I am. As much as he used to support me and my dancing, he isn’t the type to wander in to a ballet on his own. I’m just hyper-aware ever since learning he moved to New York. When we aren’t traveling and at home for performances, I swear I can feel him on the streets, in the park, but tonight I feel differently. I shake it off, focusing on the job in front of me. I dance for the love of it, never missing a step; the whole troupe is on time and flawless. That’s what we are paid to do. Before last curtain call, I take another look, and still can’t see anything. I perform, like always, but this time I feel like I am being judged . . . watched intently, and I want every line in my story to be told. I want there to be no doubt what I’ve faced, what I am working to overcome, and what is still in front of me. I take a final bow and walk off stage.