by Paddy Eger
“Yes,” Marta said. “I thought she felt stressed like the rest of us from working long hours. Bartley is thin anyway.”
Mrs. Timmons nodded. “Her doctors say her body is trying to shut down. She’s trying to be a good patient, but it’s hard when she’s lonely and feeling like we’re all against her. I called you because she’s asked to see you.”
“Why me?”
“She says you’re her best friend.”
Marta stared at Mrs. Timmons. Her best friend? How could that be with all her family contacts and the dancers she knows in San Francisco? “If she’s sick, what can I do?”
“Encourage her to eat. She thinks she’ll get fat if she eats all the food on her plate. As it is, she only eats a few bites then says she’s full.”
Why was this such news to her mother? Bartley always did that. Marta did it. Most dancers, except Lynne, watched their weight.
“If she continues to refuse to eat, the next step will be a feeding tube. That won’t be pleasant.”
Marta suppressed a shudder by squeezing her hands together.
“Can you talk with her, encourage her to eat?”
“I’ll try. When can I see her?”
Mrs. Timmons stood. Marta stood as well. “She’s in Suite 110. Stay as long as you wish. If you stay for dinner it may encourage her to eat. Just promise you will not help her procure diet pills.”
Marta nodded. As she moved along the carpeted corridor, she pulled two diet pills from her dress pocket and slid them into the wallet in her purse, as if that would hide them any better.
All the doors were closed, but each had a wide window at eye level. Approaching Suite 110, Marta stopped and took a deep breath. Through the window in the door she saw Bartley seated in a swivel rocker reading a magazine. A young woman in a blue-gray dress sat at a desk to one side. When Marta knocked, the woman unlocked the door and stepped aside so Marta could enter.
“Hi, Bartley,” Marta said.
Bartley’s face lit up. She dropped the magazine and hurried to grab Marta.
“I knew you’d come. I’ve missed you so much!”
Bartley wore a soft peach skirt with a matching sweater set that hung off her bony frame. Her face looked skeletal. Her honey blonde hair that Marta had envied last August hung in dull strings around her face. Marta stared, unable to speak, so she encircled Bartley’s shoulders, feeling her shoulder blades beneath her fingers.
“Marta. Say something.”
“I’ve missed you so much. Why haven’t you called or written? We’ve worried about you.”
“I know, but this came up and I didn’t know how to tell you I wasn’t dancing right now.”
They sat together on a leather sofa and talked until dinner. Outside, the small pond disappeared in the darkness. The young woman in the blue-gray dress remained seated nearby and only moved to let the server enter and set the table with two covered plates.
Both plates held small portions of chicken, green beans, a dinner roll, and a pat of butter. Marta laughed. “This looks like my hospital food, but I bet it tastes better.”
“It’s good, but it’s hard to sit here and have someone watch me eat. They don’t give me a napkin or a trash can so I can throw away food. Ana even checks my pockets to be certain I haven’t shoved food in them. It’s like I’m in food prison. Will you eat my roll for me? I hate bread these days.”
“I can’t eat all I have. The flight wore me out. I guess I lost my appetite.” Marta shoved the food around her plate and noticed Bartley did the same.
When they set their plates back on the cart, Ana checked Bartley’s almost full plate, made a note in a file, and rolled the food cart back to the hall. She returned to her seat at the nearby desk.
Marta watched the scene unfold. Her plate matched Bartley’s. But she had an excuse, didn’t she?
After they exhausted conversation about Marta’s ankle, Lynne, Madame, their ballet companies, and Steve, Bartley stood and began to pace.
“I imagine my mother told you I have to stay here until I get stronger. They say I need to gain ten pounds before I’m released and can return to San Francisco. My mother’s such a worry wart. I feel fine.”
Marta reached for Bartley’s hand. “What’s happened to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Bartley, you’ve lost a lot of weight.”
“So have you.”
“Me? I’ve gained weight from sitting around, waiting to get my casts off.”
“I had the flu and then…” Bartley began crying. “They won’t let me take diet pills. And the worst yet, that woman, Ana, sits and watches me all day long. She checks my room for diet pills and laxatives every day. Only my mother comes to visit me, and she’s the one who put me in here. If you weren’t here it would be worse. I’d have to go to see my shrink after dinner. I hate her. She thinks she knows me. She doesn’t.”
Marta forced a smile as she tightened her grip on Bartley’s hand. “I’m going to see a psychiatrist. She’s helping me sort through my jumbled feelings.”
“Does she make you talk about everything?”
“Only what I want to discuss. It’s helping me. Just try talking with her, Bartley. It might help.”
“Maybe.” Bartley picked at her stubby fingernails and bit her cuticles. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you by not being in San Francisco. I wanted you to be envious of my success. I was a bad friend. Then you got hurt, and it broke my heart.”
“You’ve been a great friend. And I was jealous. The San Francisco Ballet is a wonderful place to dance. It certainly beats out the Intermountain Ballet Company.”
Bartley smiled. “I guess it does. I’m sorry to have made you jealous.”
“I’d have done the same if I’d gotten a position there. Right now you need to get well and invite me to San Francisco. You promised, remember?”
“I’m so glad you came.” Bartley squeezed Marta’s hands tightly. Tears slipped down her face. “I started auditioning for small solos, but when I got the flu I had fainting spells. They sent me to a doctor, and he called my parents.” She scanned the suite, then moved close to Marta. “This looks like a nice place, but I can’t leave. Do you know all the doors are locked? They force me to go to nutrition classes every day. They’re all crazy. I’m no thinner than before. In fact, I’m fat.”
Bartley’s comments sounded like Marta’s own just last week. The difference was that she actually had gained weight; her clothes were tighter than last fall. Bartley looked several sizes smaller since the end of the Nutcracker performances in December.
When Bartley’s mother returned, the girls said their goodbyes wrapped in a snug embrace. As they parted, Bartley whispered, “When you come tomorrow, bring me diet pills; any kind you can find, okay? But don’t let anyone know. It can be our tiny secret.”
“I’ll try,” Marta said.
After a five-minute drive, Marta stepped into The Regents Inn. The reception area had overstuffed chairs arranged in conversational groups near a crackling fire in a metal faced fireplace. A uniformed maid tidied the side tables filled with silver trays of fruit and pastries, an assortment of juices in pitchers, and several wine decanters. Plates and glassware lay on a nearby table. Marta shuddered. More food. Why did everyone obsess over food?
Her room on the second floor was three times the size of her room in Billings. A cozy sofa and chair faced the picture window. The huge bed with a green silk spread and extra fluffy pillows looked small in the over-sized space. A fruit basket with her name on it sat on the corner of a massive desk.
Pale yellow marble covered the bathroom walls and floor. Even with a separate shower and tub, two sinks, and two toilets, the open space left ample room to practice a routine without any fear of bumping into fixtures.
She resisted the temptation to call Lynne or her mom and describe the hotel and her room. Keeping her promise kept her from sharing the luxury that surrounded her.
All night she tossed and turned, thinking of Bartley and how desperate she acted. The next morning she counted her stash of diet pills. Eight, plus the two in her purse. She had enough to share, but she’d promised Mrs. Timmons. She took two and locked the rest in her suitcase before she returned to Eaglecrest.
Bartley stood by the door, waiting for Marta. When she entered, Bartley hugged her. “Did you bring any?”
Marta mentally crossed her fingers. “I didn’t know where to buy them. Besides, you need to do what the doctors say. Then you’ll…”
Bartley shoved Marta with both hands. “You’re like the others. I thought you were my best friend.”
“I am, but they’re right. You’ve lost too much weight.”
“I hate you!” Bartley grabbed Marta’s shoulders and shook her like a rag doll, then pushed her backward.
Marta screamed as she fell against a chair and landed on the floor, her legs tangled in the chair legs. Marta saw Ana rush to the door and hit a button. Then she stepped in to restrain Bartley, avoiding Bartley’s flying arms, pushing her away from Marta.
“Marta, I need pills. You promised you’d bring them.” Bartley twisted to free herself, but Ana held her tight. Two men unlocked the hall door and rushed past Marta to help restrain Bartley. When she relaxed, they led her into the bedroom and closed the door.
Marta lay on the floor feeling chained in place, watching the actions unfold like a violent movie scene. Another young woman entered the suite and helped her stand. “Are you okay?”
“I think so,” Marta said. “Will Bartley be all right?”
“Perhaps. Please come with me.” She led Marta back to the reception area and waited for her to sit down. “May I bring you something to drink?”
Marta shook her head.
“They’ll let you return to visit with Bartley if she settles down.”
Marta’s whole body shook as she sat waiting for whatever might happen next. She rubbed her left thigh. Did she feel any new pain? No, but why did Bartley attack her? She acted possessed, like the woman in the scary movie The Electric Monster that she’d watched one night when she worked at the theater.
Suddenly, Marta felt her stomach roil. She raced down the hall to the public bathroom and threw up.
When she returned to the waiting area, she thumbed through magazines absentmindedly and watched the clock hands circle: thirty minutes, one hour, thirty more minutes. She replayed Bartley’s reaction. Her eyes looked frightened when she grabbed Marta, like she might drown. But then she’d pushed Marta to the floor using super human strength. Marta moved away from the receptionist, turned her back to the main room, and cried.
Two hours later, Marta sat beside Bartley in her suite, staring at a frightened, disheveled, red-eyed girl. Bartley stroked Marta’s hands. “Did I hurt you, Marta? I’d never want to hurt you.”
“No, I’m fine.”
Bartley straightened and lifted her chin. “I told you I’d eat and gain back the weight, so why didn’t you bring me pills?”
“I didn’t have time. I’m only here for part of today. And I promised your mother.”
Bartley let her body sag. Tears hung in her eyes. “She’s wrong, you know. I can stop taking diet pills anytime I want.”
Marta rubbed small circles on Bartley’s shoulder. “Tell me about San Francisco and the big old house on Russian Hill. And all about dancing for a famous ballet company. I’m excited to come visit next summer.”
In the late afternoon, Mrs. Timmons returned. “I hope you two had a good visit. It’s time to get Marta to her plane.”
Marta gripped Bartley’s hands. “I promise to call you every week. Promise me you’ll eat.” Marta released Bartley’s hands and backed away.
“I’ll try, but I need...”
Marta shook her head. “Promise you’ll eat.”
Mrs. Timmons rode with Marta to the airport. They didn’t speak for several minutes, giving Marta time to pull her thoughts together and try to make sense of what had happened.
“I’m sorry Bartley attacked you. Is your ankle okay?”
“I think so. I wish I’d known sooner that she was sick.”
“So do I.” Mrs. Timmons wiped her eyes and tucked her handkerchief in her sleeve. “It wasn’t until she collapsed that we knew it was serious. Looking back, she must have thought taking diet pills would be safe. I used them for years, to take off the winter weight, you know, before swim season.”
“Bartley told me. She thought that if you took them they were safe for her to use as well.”
Mrs. Timmons shook her head. “Ballet is so beautiful, but it demands so much from a dancer’s body. Bartley always wanted to be perfect. She’ll need to work hard to gain back her health. I should have paid more attention.”
Marta didn’t speak again until the limousine stopped at the airport terminal. “Thank you for inviting me to visit Bartley. She’s a good friend. I know she’ll get stronger now that she’s getting help.”
“Yes, she will. Thank you for coming, Marta. Your visit meant a lot to her.”
The driver opened the car door for Marta. “I’ll call her every Sunday.”
30
Marta straightened her shoulders as she entered the dancers’ door and walked to the dressing room. The flight home got her into Billings after eleven and in bed by twelve, but not to sleep. Starting her first rehearsal on three hours of sleep didn’t bode well for her success. One pill would help her through the morning. As she swallowed it, she replayed Bartley’s situation. She shuddered. After her audition she would start cutting back.
Several dancers said hello; most were surprised at seeing her return. She changed clothes, then joined Lynne to walk to the rehearsal.
“Where were you this weekend? I called but no one knew where you had gone. You missed a great last minute party at my place.”
“A friend showed up unexpectedly.”
“You could have brought her along.”
Marta yawned.
Lynne studied Marta. “Looks like you two must have had a lot to talk about.”
“We did.” Marta shook out her hands and legs. The diet pill kicked in; she felt a surge of energy return. Now, if the knot in her stomach didn’t interfere, she’d pick up the choreography with ease.
After struggling through warm-ups, Marta felt winded. The corps dancers standing around her looked ready to continue at a moment’s notice. Her months without the rigor of rehearsals showed, even to herself.
“Let’s talk before we begin the choreography.” Damien smiled at the corps dancers. “Take a seat. I’d like to introduce you to our next program.”
The dancers sat cross-legged on the floor, facing him.
“Rhapsody in Blue is an American piece written by Gershwin in the 1920s. We’ll be using the symphony and two soloists: one on piano, the other on clarinet.
“Imagine a stage with a white backdrop covered with silvery stars and bold streaks of blue. You’ll wear long, blue chiffon skirts and ballet slippers. The principals will wear silver costumes. Let me play the recording of the first section for you. I imagine most of you will recognize the opening clarinet slide.”
Marta closed her eyes and pictured her father sitting in his rocking chair listening to the music. The tranquil introduction to the music pulled her along its graceful flow of notes. She swayed as she listened.
Damien lifted the needle off the record. “This is a change from our usual classical ballet that I hope will be well received. Your performance during the opening chords will set the mood for the entire work. I need you to be better than your best. Keep that in mind as you learn each dance.”
The choreography required long slow moves as well as quick steps. Marta kept pace until her ankle tired, leaving her to walk through the steps rather than dance them. By the end of the hour her leotard was soaking wet, but she felt more alive than she had since her accident.
Every rehearsal during this last week in April resulted in the same situation: early on she danced as well as before the accident; midway her energy and ankle lagged. She iced her ankle before and after every practice. At least pointe shoes weren’t required. That would have spelled disaster.
The first week of May raced forward. On the afternoons there were no corps rehearsals, Marta warmed up on her own until Damien was free to join her. Having the small practice room reserved for her lessons with Damien gave her ample space and a wall of mirrors to study her movements. And Madame couldn’t chase her out.
The fact that Madame never spoke to her bothered Marta. It was as if they moved through the same building in separate worlds. Maybe she should make an appointment to talk with Madame. But what would she say? How are you today? I’m sorry I fell? Best to wait, do the audition, then speak with her.
Marta checked the clock: four o’clock. Damien should arrive soon. She needed every minute he could spare to perfect her audition. She restarted the record, posed, and stepped into the first arabesque. Damien stood in the doorway watching her practice. He nodded as he walked into the room. “Good. Your strength is returning. For the audition, you’ll perform the first three minutes of the main theme. You’ve learned the steps, so let’s refine your arm movements and your flow from one move to the next.”
Marta used every ounce of energy and skill she could gather. Her ankle ached from the fall from when she visited Bartley a week ago; not the way she wanted to remember their visit. She shook her head to push the thoughts away. Damien stared at her, waiting for her full attention. She straightened and posed as he restarted the record.