Last Dance

by Lurlene McDaniel

  “What will happen if I don’t?”

  “You can pass out. Go into a coma. End up in the hospital. But, as long as you treat a reaction the minute it starts, you’ll be all right.”

  The full horror of the information came over her. “It sounds so scary,” Rachel said weakly. “There’s so much to learn.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Dr. Malar. “You know all the main things already. In fact, I’m thinking of sending you on home day after tomorrow. We need to make room for sick people.”

  “It’s going to be so good to have you home again, Rachel.” Her mother chattered on and on as they packed her suitcase to leave the hospital.

  “Dr. Malar says you can return to school on Monday. Won’t it be good to get back to a normal life?”

  Rachel listened half-heartedly. She was scared. In the hospital things were safe. There were people to take care of her. Nurses to interpret test results. Dieticians to figure out what she could eat. Doctors to help and protect her. At home and in school, she’d be on her own.

  “So, what did you think of that nice boy, Shawn?” Mrs. Deering interrupted Rachel’s thoughts.

  “Huh? Oh, he was okay.”

  “I thought he was kind of cute,” her mother added.

  “I thought he acted like a know-it-all,” Rachel said defensively.

  “Well, your father and I really liked his parents. In fact, we’re planning on attending meetings with them. There’s a big Diabetes Research Institute here in Miami that’s doing a lot of research to find a cure for diabetes. Parents of diabetics meet there monthly. Your dad and I both think we want to get involved.” She paused, then went on. “You know, Marge McLaughlin told me that there’s a youth group that meets, too. Shawn’s in it. These kids are all diabetics. Think you’d like to meet with them?”

  Why was her mother pushing this stuff down her throat? “Not really,” Rachel retorted. “I’d just as soon forget I even have diabetes. And I don’t want to sit around and talk about it with a bunch of strangers. Shawn thinks he knows all about how I feel. Well, he doesn’t. And neither do you. Nobody knows how I feel, and I hate everybody telling me that they understand.”

  Rachel hadn’t thought she could miss the walls of her familiar bedroom so much. Her bed, her stereo, her posters . . . everything looked soft and pink and fresh. Her dad had even sent her a bouquet of pale pink rosebuds. The card read, “Welcome home, angel.”

  In a way, Rachel was even glad to see Chris. Oh, they’d let her come up to her hospital room—even though she was only nine— but Rachel hadn’t thought about her sister too much during her hospitalization.

  “And then Madame Pershoff asked me to do the combination. And I did it, Rachel! I mean, I didn’t mess up once.” Chris chattered away while they both sat at the kitchen table eating their snacks. Chris was wolfing down Oreos and milk while Rachel could only have saltines, cheese, and milk. Rachel hated it.

  “You are going to class this afternoon, aren’t you?” Chris asked her.

  “Oh, I suppose I’ll ride over there with you and Mom. But I won’t be taking class for a while yet. Dr. Malar says I have to start back gradually. It will take a while to get really regulated.” She almost choked on the words.

  In almost every room of the house, subtle changes reminded her of her illness. In the bathroom, her urine testing equipment. In the kitchen, a shelf with syringes, alcohol swabs, and packages of Life Savers for her to carry.

  The refrigerator held insulin, lots of protein foods, fresh fruit, and non-caloric drinks. She felt guilty that the entire family had to change their eating habits because of her.

  “It will do us all good,” her dad had said, but Rachel knew it would be a drag for them.

  Still, she thought grimly, Chris didn’t have to give up Oreos. And Rachel resentfully watched Chris gulp down her cookies.

  The hardest part was walking up the long flight of stairs and into the dance studio. The familiar smells and sounds rushed to meet Rachel and sent a lump to her throat. Even though it was only a Saturday rehearsal, the feeling of Madame’s iron discipline filled the hall. The long banks of mirrors reflected the legs and bodies of dancers in colorful leotards. Miss Lucy’s piano played the familiar exercise pieces. It all made Rachel feel sad and lonely.

  She longed to stretch on the barre, but she felt shy and afraid. Everyone glanced over at her. They all know, she thought. They all know I’m sick. Then she saw Melanie at the far end of the studio, standing off by herself, doing a graceful arabesque. How lovely she looked!

  Lovely, Rachel thought bitterly. And perfectly well. No illness for Melanie. Only perfect health.

  A perfect dancer’s body. Rachel looked away, afraid that tears might brim over.

  But her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Madame Pershoff saying, “Rachel! How good to see you again! Come, come into my office right now. I must talk to you.”

  -SIX-

  “Now sit down, here. Let me look at you.” Madame motioned Rachel to the sofa in her cramped office, then sat down carefully in her swivel chair. She leaned forward on her silver-headed cane.

  “I am so sorry about this thing that has happened to you. It is bad . . . I know this. But I also know that you can live with it. You are a strong girl. Do not let it take your mind off dance. I want to know when I can look for you again in class.”

  Rachel felt her stomach knot up. “I don’t know.” Her voice was so soft, Madame had to lean forward.

  “So much has happened to me during the last two weeks,” Rachel said. “I know that my doctor says that it is all right to dance. In fact, he wants me to continue. It’s good for my control. But . . . well, I had serious plans once about dancing. Now I just don’t know. . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Do not give up your dreams, Rachel. Look at you. Still you have a dancer’s body and carriage. Still you have two legs that work.” She paused, and Rachel knew that Madame’s words must be painful for her to say. “Your life is not over. You can adjust. I know it. You still can dance . . . if you put your mind to it.”

  Rachel stared at Madame Pershoff. Once there had been a time when she would have given anything to hear what the old teacher was telling her now. Once those words would have filled her with confidence and pride and joy. But now. . . she was so confused and scared.

  “I have many pupils,” Madame continued. “Some are good. A few are very good.”

  “Like Melanie.” Rachel spoke the words before she realized it.

  “Yes.” Madame nodded raising her eyebrows. “Like Melanie. She is good, Rachel. But—” Rachel’s head shot up at the sharpness in her voice. “She is a technician. And that is important. Skill is involved. But you, Rachel . . . ah, you have the heart for the dance. The feeling, the spirit, the soul. This is something one is born with. One cannot learn it, no matter how many years one practices. Do you know what I am telling you?”

  “I–I think so . . .”

  “Come back to class. Naturally, it is too late for you and the Christmas concert. I have given the part to Melanie. But there will be other concerts—and parts for you. Come back to ballet. Some barre work . . . exercises. In no time you will be ready to be a full-time dancer. I feel you have a future. Please. Do not give up.”

  Rachel lay awake for a long time that night. She hadn’t told anyone about Madame Pershoff’s conversation. Whom could she share it with?

  Her mother? Her sister? Even Jenny? No, none of them could possibly understand what she was going through. Of course she wanted to dance. She wanted to become a professional ballerina, but this diabetes had messed up her life so much.

  It was as if a stranger had moved into her body. It was a part of her, yet it was an alien, too, running around inside her, pulling strings as if she were a puppet or something. “Don’t eat this. Eat that. Get your shot. Beware of reactions.” Would it always be like this?

  She finally fell into a deep sleep and dreamed that she was looking into the window of an old house. All
her friends were inside, laughing and eating and having a great time. Her parents were there, too. But she was locked out. She banged on the windows. But no one heard her. She shouted. But no one came over. She raced around to the front door and tried to get someone to open up and let her in. Suddenly a hand reached over and turned the doorknob. She watched the door swing open. She could still see all the party people having the time of their lives. But she was afraid to go inside. The hand that had opened the door for her took her gently by the elbow. She turned and looked up . . . into the smiling face of Shawn McLaughlin.

  She was nervous her first day back at school. The last thing she wanted was everybody asking her a bunch of dumb questions. Rachel wanted everyone to just forget about her, to pretend that she’d only been out a few days with the flu or something. She didn’t want them to think of her as different— or weird because she had to have insulin shots.

  Jenny helped make her return easier. A few jokes and some funny faces, and by lunchtime the kids had forgotten that Rachel had even been gone a day. She was relieved and glad. She didn’t want anything to remind her of her problems.

  She took a long sip from her milk carton and glanced down the long lunch table at Brandon Mitchell. He was talking to a bunch of guys. He obviously didn’t know that she was in the same room. But she knew he was there. If only she had the guts to go over and talk to him. She still owed him a “thank you” for helping her to the clinic that day.

  If only she had Jenny’s outgoing personality. It would be so easy to say something flip and cute. Wasn’t anything ever going to go right in her life?

  “Rachel, why is that perfectly gorgeous guy waving at you from the lunch line?” Jenny’s voice interrupted Rachel’s thoughts.

  “What? Where?” Rachel squinted to see across the room. She saw a whole group of boys in uniforms of some sort standing with Mr. Perez, the PE coach. One kept waving at her. It was Shawn. He said something to the guy behind him and walked over to her seat.

  “Hi. Thought that was you.”

  “What are you doing here?” Rachel asked.

  “Our intramural soccer team is playing your school’s team after school today.”

  She vaguely remembered hearing something about it over the speakers during announcements that morning. “Yes, of course . . .”

  “So how goes it? Life back to normal yet?”

  Darn him anyway! Rachel thought. Why can’t he just be quiet? Why remind everyone about me?

  Naturally, all movement had stopped around them, and Rachel felt like everyone in the school could hear them. “Everything’s fine,” she lied.

  “Saw Dr. Malar yesterday. We’re having a group meeting this Sunday. We were both wondering if you’re coming.”

  “No . . . I don’t think so. Would you excuse me? My lunch hour’s up.” She picked up her tray and tried to go by him.

  He grinned down at her. “Why don’t you come on out to the game today? We’re going to stomp your team.”

  How arrogant! Suddenly she hated Shawn McLaughlin. Even if he was cute. All he did was remind her of all the things she wanted to forget. “No!” she called over her shoulder as she headed for the door and out onto the patio.

  The sun was shining brightly but the air was cool, even for November in Florida. Rachel sat down heavily on the stone bench in the student courtyard. Kids milled around her, but she felt completely alone.

  What a miserable day, she thought. Of all the people to run into. Why him? He made her very uncomfortable, looking at her as if he could see right through her, right into her private thoughts.

  “You knew that gorgeous creature?” Jenny plopped down beside her.

  “We—I mean, I met him in the hospital,” Rachel answered.

  Jenny shook her head at Rachel. “And you never said a word?” She sounded kind of hurt.

  “He–he’s got diabetes, too. My doctor sent him in to advise me,” she added sarcastically.

  “He likes you, Rachel.”

  “That’s silly.”

  “No, I could see the way he was looking at you. Why aren’t you going to the game this afternoon? Ben and I are going. You got ballet or something?”

  “Yes. I mean, no. I’m not back dancing yet. I don’t know. I just don’t want to go.”

  “That’s dumb. A really cute guy invites you to come watch him play soccer and you’re too busy. Really dumb.”

  “Look, Jen,” Rachel fumed. “I said I don’t want to go. Now stop bothering me about it. I don’t particularly like the guy. Cute or not.”

  The trouble with chorus was the size of the class. One hundred fifteen kids, seventh through ninth graders, all practicing in a small room during the last hour of the day. Sometimes Rachel wondered why she ever took chorus in the first place.

  Spitballs sailed over her head. Jack Keegan kept snapping a ruler on the back of a chair.

  Miss Hoggard was trying to regain control of the class. “Now, stop that this instant!” she yelled.

  Rachel stared absently at her sheet music. Christmas songs. Normally she loved Christmas. But this year? No dance concert. No anything that meant something to her. Melanie would dance the Dying Swan solo. Well, at least Rachel didn’t have to go and watch her.

  “QUIET!” Miss Hoggard screamed at the top of her voice. Immediately every voice and sound stopped. “That’s better,” she continued calmly. “Now, class, turn to page four, measure two. Sopranos, you’re in, then altos, then tenors. Basses, you’re at least four beats off. Pay attention.”

  The piano began the familiar Christmas melody. For some reason it sounded far away to Rachel. She felt weak. Her hands started trembling! And suddenly she had such a headache. Her breath came in little gasps, and she felt faint.

  “Are you all right?” Dianne asked next to her. “You look so pale.”

  Horrified, she knew what was happening to her. Insulin reaction! She’d been so flustered by Shawn’s appearance that she hadn’t finished her lunch. And now—now she was so weak and sick.

  “M–my purse . . . ,” she said to Dianne through white, trembling lips.

  By this time, the entire soprano section knew something was wrong.

  “Girls!” Miss Hoggard snapped. “What is going on up there?”

  “Rachel Deering doesn’t feel very good,” Dianne explained.

  “Well, then go to the clinic, Rachel. I have a class to conduct.”

  Rachel fumbled with the clasp on her purse. Her hands were shaking wildly. Don’t let me pass out, she begged silently. Finally she found her Life Savers and put three at once into her mouth. The entire room was staring at her now.

  Slowly, as the candy dissolved, she began to feel better. And as her strength returned, her embarrassment grew.

  “Are you all right now, Rachel?” Miss Hoggard asked at the next break.

  “Yes,” Rachel whispered, fighting to hold back her tears. She had never been so embarrassed in her life. The kids were whispering to each other.

  “Then can we get back to the music?”

  The pianist resumed the Christmas music. The basses managed to come in at the proper time. But Rachel sat very still in her chair. . . wishing she could die. Absolutely die.

  All she wanted to do was go home. Home and away from her diabetes forever.

  -SEVEN-

  “I won’t go! I’m telling you, I simply won’t go!” Rachel slammed her bedroom door and threw herself across her bed. “Open this door right now, young lady!” Her mother pounded on the door.

  Rachel pulled her pillow over her head, wishing her mother would go away. But, of course, she didn’t.

  “I mean it, Rachel. Right now!”

  Slowly she got up, walked over, and opened the door. Her mother stormed inside the room. “What’s the meaning of this tantrum of yours?” she demanded.

  “I told you,” Rachel fumed, “I don’t want to go!”

  “Well, I’m telling you, you are going. Your sister has been chosen to dance in Madame Pershoff’s Ch
ristmas concert, and we—and that includes you—are all going to watch her.”

  How could her parents be so unfair? Didn’t they realize how hard it would be for her to go and sit there? To sit and watch all her friends dance? To watch Melanie dancing the part she had wanted so desperately? Why did Madame have to choose her dumb sister for the part in the concert anyway?

  “Listen, Rachel,” her mother continued, “you’re the one who decided to quit dancing. Dr. Malar, your family, Madame Pershoff—all of us encouraged you to take it up again. But no. You took a little barre work three weeks ago and then walked out. No explanations. No nothing.”

  How could she tell them about her fear of insulin reactions? Ever since that day at school, Rachel had lived in fear of reactions. That day three weeks ago she had felt another one coming on at the barre and had run out of the studio and gotten a Coke just in time. Dr. Malar said reactions were just part of a diabetic’s life. How could she dance, living in fear of passing out in class or on stage?

  “I plan to go back to class,” Rachel said defensively. “Right after the holidays. But I’m still trying to adjust—”

  “Rachel, your father and I are very sorry about your diabetes. But we can’t change it. Don’t you think I’d trade places with you if I could?”

  She looked at her mother. She could see that her mom really meant it!

  “Now, I know how miserable it is to have your life turned upside down,” Mrs. Deering said. “But it’s time to start living again. After all, you’re only thirteen. You can’t crawl in a hole and disappear.”

  Rachel wished she could. She could think of nothing to say back to her mother.

  “That nice McLaughlin boy says their group would love to have you visit and meet with them. Why don’t you?”