She held his head. His air filled her with peace. “I love you.”
His mouth shaped a smile as it grazed hers. “James was wrong about that, wasn’t he?”
They kissed again, longer. Her hands came up and undid a button on her shirt. Then the next one. And quickly the rest, then the clasp of her bra. Peeling open to him, her skin on fire. His cool hands slid to cup her breasts and his mouth fell open under hers.
“He was wrong,” she said.
They rolled, pulled and yanked at their clothes, slid together and understood each other. The windows buzzed, a single cell in a hive now dripping honey and telling the sweetest of stories.
“I HAD NO IDEA JOHN carried a piece of James around with him,” Daisy said. “It makes me wonder if everyone who was in the theater that day thinks they could have changed it. If only they had done or said one thing differently…”
“James was coming into the theater no matter what you did,” Rita said. “And the shooting would have irrevocably changed your life whether you were in the theater or not. Will or Lucky could’ve been killed and it would have been just as devastating for you. A different kind of guilt and responsibility to carry around.”
“I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Nothing you did or didn’t do could have changed the outcome, Daisy. James came into the theater and certain parts of your life were no longer under your control. ”
“I tried so hard to be strong.”
“And maybe you did hold it all together,” Rita said. “I don’t doubt you were a bastion for your friends. A rock. Maybe even a mascot. The symbol of survival. And when you cracked and fucked up, it seemed everything and everyone scattered. That’s a terrible emotional burden to carry.”
“More than ever,” Daisy said absently. “I wish I could talk to Erik. Just to tell him about some of these things. I feel like I could explain it so much better now. Make a better apology.”
“Not being able to atone is a trial,” Rita said. “For Erik to cut you off and disconnect with no closure, without giving you a chance to show your remorse is a terrible burden to carry.”
“But I fucked up.”
“Not admirable, no, not your finest moment. It was a thoughtless and cruel thing to do. An egregious error of judgment when your judgment was badly impaired. We’ve already gone through what happened that day and dug into what may have driven you to it, so let’s take it in the other direction now. You’re full of guilt and remorse and shame and self-punishment. We need to channel that away from your body to somewhere else. Somewhere safe until Erik turns around again. You are beating your head and fists against a closed door—“
“A glass door,” Daisy said. “Glass and windows. It’s all I think of.”
“And closed. You cannot resolve your regret until the door, or the window opens. And that’s the unfortunate unknown. Will it ever open? I don’t know, Daisy. But what can we do with this remorse and regret? How can we get you to evolve even though you are not resolved?”
“I keep thinking about James. When he was out in the yard, looking up at Will’s window.”
“Why?”
“He wanted Will. He was in love and he was out in the dark and the cold, looking up at the one thing he wanted. And I’m him now. I’m James. Out in the yard in the cold. Looking up at the window, wanting what I love to look out and see me. To come down and talk to me and give me a chance.”
“Yes,” Rita said, nodding. “I can see that.”
“I’m looking up at Erik’s window. He went down to talk to James but he won’t come down for me.”
“You both broke each other’s hearts.”
She nodded, exhaling heavy and dark. “Erik was… He liked things to be in order. He wasn’t controlling or anal or OCD but he didn’t like… He liked when things behaved the way he expected them to.”
“And people.”
“Well, sure.”
“Including you.”
Especially her. But she had fallen apart. Smashed like a window and scattered in pieces. She hadn’t behaved the way he expected.
And he left.
“But it was my fault,” she said, and noticed the words didn’t cut quite as deeply as before.
“You were shot,” Rita said quietly. “The girl he expected and the behavior he expected were shot.”
“It doesn’t excuse it.”
“But it helps explain it.”
Daisy closed her eyes and reached soft hands to touch the things which had been beyond her control.
She had to agree.
THE COMPANY WAS IN THE FINAL rehearsals for the season premiere of Aïda. In a week, Daisy would be bare-legged on the stage of the Metropolitan Opera House. Scars out in the open. To explore the options of covering them, she knocked on the tiny office door of Vincent Callegro, the new head of the Met’s makeup department.
He was eating a sandwich and doing the crossword and didn’t look thrilled by the interruption. He had a reputation for being intolerant of divas, fools or drama. She introduced herself and got to the point.
“I’ll be quick,” she said, rolling up the left leg of her sweat pants. “Can we do anything about these? Or do you think anyone will even notice?”
Vincent’s face was expressionless as he stared at her leg and finished chewing and swallowing.
“I’m interrupting your lunch, I’ll come back,” she said.
Vincent wiped his mouth and looked up at her with hooded, unreadable eyes. “Two things,” he said. “First, you’re the little girl who went on in La Giocanda last week.”
She nodded, her face filling with warm pride. The Met always hired stars from American Ballet Theater to lead the famous Dance of the Hours ballet in Giocanda’s third act. Just before curtain, Matilda Schenke tripped on a loose cable and sprained her ankle. Next thing Daisy knew, she was being sewn into Matilda’s $15,000 red tutu while Igor Koslov—one of ABT’s Russian superstars and now her partner—was shaking her hand.
They had exactly twenty minutes of rehearsal and then she was onstage, unannounced and anonymous in front of a full Saturday night subscription house. Dancing half the steps from memory and the other from Igor’s whispered cues. She blanked out on the choreography for her solo in the coda, so she whipped out double and triple fouetté turns until the audience was screaming. She and Igor took four bows and the Times threw her a posy in the Sunday “Arts” section.
Matilda Schenke took an unfortunate fall before the third act. An unidentified understudy took over the role and took home the audience’s heart as well. Hopefully, we’ll see this mystery ballerina again while Schenke is on the mend.
“Second,” Vincent said, and bent over to raise the leg of his pressed trousers. Above his argyle sock, the scar was unmistakable.
“Wow, that’s a beauty,” Daisy said, her stomach doing a small flip. “I ordered the matching set.”
She twisted her leg so he could see the other side.
He nodded, a smile lifting up his mouth and a bit of his stiff reserve slipping off his shoulders. “Quite a thing to wake up to. I took one look at my flesh bulging out and they had to sedate me again.”
“I screamed for about five minutes and then I threw up. Then they sedated me.”
“Well, well,” he said, rolling his pant leg down again. “It’s not often I’m surprised this way, Miss…Bianco?”
“Daisy. What happened to you?” she asked, heart thumping a little stronger.
“To strangers I say a freak accident. To you I will confess to screwing around with fireworks. One exploded near a bucket of nuts and bolts. I turned just in time to take it in the leg. Then an infection set in. Next thing I know, I’m auditioning for Silence of the Lambs.”
Daisy laughed.
He cleared a space on his desk. “Put your foot up here, dear.”
Still holding her pant leg out of the way, she set her foot carefully between sketchbooks, watercolor sets and papers. Vincent put on his reading glasses and peered
. “This looks like a gunshot wound,” he said, pointing to her thigh.
“It is. The bullet severed the artery. My leg didn’t take kindly to the graft and the pressure started building up. You know the rest.”
“Tell me, how does a ballerina find herself in the line of fire?”
“When she goes to school at Lancaster University.”
A silence shimmied between them.
“I see,” he said, setting a warm, respectful hand on her shin. “Then these cannot be your only scars.”
She shook her head.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I have no other words.”
“You know,” she said. “Believe it or not, this is the first time I’ve thrown the topic out to someone casually. I mean voluntarily.” She smiled, letting her eyes and nose wrinkle. “I’m only just learning how to talk about it. And truthfully, I don’t know what we’re supposed to say now.”
“Well then, we’ll go back to the matter at hand. Will anyone notice? The question is, my dear, will you mind if people notice? Because my job is to either transform you into someone else or make you feel beautiful as you are. If you need help with either, I’m your man.”
Daisy’s throat grew warm. Partly with gratitude. Partly because his Italian accent was so reminiscent of Marie del’Amici.
“For opening night, I mind,” she said. “Maybe in time I won’t.”
“Come early at dress rehearsal then,” he said. “You can watch me do it, learn how. And in time you can cover them yourself as you see fit.”
“All right. Thank you.”
“No, Miss Bianco,” he said, shaking her hand and laying his other one on top. “Thank you.”
The encounter gave her courage, as did finding a bearer of the same war flag. And a week later, when she stood on a table in the dressing room and Vincent explained to his assistants various techniques for covering the scars, she felt almost blasé. People passing through stopped and stared, openly curious. Some asked questions, making exclamations of shock, disbelief or concern at her answers. Whenever she started feeling self-conscious, she looked down at Vincent, who winked over the rims of his glasses or smiled at her.
It was a novelty for a few weeks. As telling the story became more and more natural, it became ordinary. A line on her resume, not the caption on her headshot.
“You can make your remorse ordinary, you know,” Rita said.
Daisy was skeptical. It seemed remorse had taken permanent possession and put down roots too deep to yank out.
“Let’s just accept it,” Rita said. “You will always be sorry for what you did to Erik. It matters. Deeply. But you can let your sorrow accompany you on the road of life without letting it be the road itself. Without letting it define the rest of your life. You don’t have to walk around with a scarlet A on your chest.”
It could be part of everything.
“I’m sorry, I will always be sorry,” Daisy said slowly. “I love you, I will always love you. But—”
“No,” Rita said, holding up a finger. “Not but. And.”
“And?” Daisy said.
“And,” Rita said.
“I love you, I will always love you,” Daisy said. “And I am… And I am moving on.”
“You can do both at the same time.”
“And,” Daisy said, staring.
“What else?” Rita said.
“I love you and I’m letting go.”
“What else?”
“I’m sorry, I will always be sorry. I love you, I will always love you. And…” Daisy drew in her breath. “And I’m forgiving myself.”
IT BECAME HER MANTRA. Changing but to and. Whispering or thinking “I’m sorry, I love you and I forgive myself” when the sorrow threatened to drown her in the night. Trusting she could do all things simultaneously. Channeling the regret into a section of her being, not letting it become her entire being.
She picked at the tight stitches on her invisible scarlet letter and gradually let it fall free. It belonged in a keepsake box of learned lessons, not on her chest as a constant, shaming reminder. As if she could forget.
Spring came. She went around bare-legged, letting the air and sun touch her scars. Trees and flowers bloomed in the park and space bloomed in her apartment. She shoved things aside in closets and dressers to make room for John.
“I just realized the date,” he said, setting down an armload of boxes. “Tomorrow is April nineteenth.”
“It is? You’re right. I lost track of time.”
“Four years,” he said.
She touched his face. “Seems a good day to make a beginning.”
He hummed agreement but his eyes were off to the side. She followed their gaze to the cardboard box where she kept the things Erik left at Jay Street. She’d have to get creative if it was going to go back in her closet.
Or maybe it was time to accept she had no room for it anymore.
She wasn’t onstage that night. After John left for work, she unpacked the box. Jeans and three shirts. Erik’s pocket knives and Allen wrenches. Guitar picks, strings and a capo. His book of Swedish folk tales. The rest were the pictures, cards and notes she pulled out of his wastepaper basket.
She held the clothes to her nose but they only smelled of cardboard. Her fingers dipped into the front pocket of the jeans, pulled out a crumpled dollar bill, a dime and four pennies and some lint. The other front pocket had a couple of small screws and washers and a guitar pick. And more lint. She searched the other pockets, then gazed down at the small pile.
“Honestly,” she said.
She gathered John’s bag of dirty laundry along with the contents of the bathroom hamper, added Erik’s clothes and took it all to the washing machines in the basement.
Enjoy the threesome, she thought, slamming the lid and giving the dial a vicious spin.
Back upstairs, she fished from a hidden compartment in her jewelry box a small scotch-taped lock of Erik’s hair. She put it into an envelope and added the pocket finds and the lint. From another hidden place she pulled the packet of love notes, cards, pictures, the empty bag of Swedish Fish and all the other keepsakes. Everything went into an accordion folder on her closet shelf, behind her bank statements and tax returns. She wasn’t ready to throw the mementos away, probably she never would. But she could handle assembling them in one unemotional place, up high and out of sight.
She sank onto the bed and opened the book of folk tales. She couldn’t remember how it had gotten into her room at Jay Street. Part of the invisible migration of objects back and forth.
The text was entirely in Swedish. Peppered with umlauts, slashed Os and ringed As. Erik couldn’t read it but he loved the pictures. Every other page was a full-color illustration. Giants, trolls and werewolves. Golden queens and princesses in glass mountains. Roosters, lame dogs and hornet swarms.
The inside flyleaf was inscribed in neat, looped handwriting. A Christmas dedication to a grandson: Till Byron Erik. Med kärlek vid jul. Farfar och Farmor.
Swedes had different terms for maternal and paternal grandparents, Daisy remembered. Farfar was father’s father. Farmor was father’s mother.
On the back flyleaf, in careful, childish print: Erik Fiskare. 307 Hugunin Street. Clayton, NY.
She fetched the laundry, folded Erik’s clothes, smoothing them square and trim. She packed the other possessions tight around them and put the book on top. She let it go with a sighing regret, not a crippling grief. The box was just a box now, not a shrine. The religion had gone out of his belongings.
The next day, after John left to run some errands, she squared her shoulders and dialed Erik’s number. One more time. She didn’t go in crawling, but standing on her feet, head on his level. He’d ignored her for three years. Rita said his statute of limitations was over. It bolstered Daisy’s courage, having the tiny bit of reassurance that Erik, perhaps, was slightly in the wrong now as well.
The same hollow silence on the other end of the line, although he did manage, “
Hi.”
“It’s the nineteenth,” she said. “I was thinking about you.”
“That’s right.” His voice was tight, as usual. Like he was threading words through a needle. And yet her ear thought it detected the tiniest bit of hesitation, as if he weren’t fully committed to this strategy anymore. A flickering flame of conciliation. She let her breath hover over it, fighting the urge to pile on tinder and kindling.
“How are you?” she said.
“I’m fine and I have to go.” The flame snuffed itself out, leaving only a wisp of smoke. “I’m late for a game.”
“Erik, please. It’s been three years.” She kept her voice low and gentle. The voice she used with the drug-addicted babies.
I know. I know it hurts. Please know that I know, Erik.
“Are we ever going to talk about this?”
Silence.
She closed her eyes. Please let’s talk about it. It doesn’t have to mean reconciliation but it’s been three years. We’re older, we’re wiser. Can’t we have a conversation?
He hung up.
Daisy opened her eyes. They were dry as she put the phone down.
She tore a piece of paper in half and wrote one last note to say she was sorry, he would never know how much. She would love him until she died. And she was done now. She taped the note to the inside of the box and taped the flaps shut.
Before leaving the apartment she wrote a second note, letting John know she was going to the post office.
It was important her boyfriend know where she was.
JULIE VALENTE CONVINCED her to go to Chicago where they were holding non-union auditions for Phantom of the Opera.
“I don’t sing,” Daisy said.
“You’re auditioning for the ballerinas,” Julie said. “You don’t have to sing. And anyway, you have a sweet little voice.”
“I do not.”
“You know, when I don’t hear you talking to yourself—”
“Those are private conversations.”
“—I hear you singing to yourself. You’re right on pitch. Probably with regular voice lessons you could have some decent game.”
The idea of a girls’ weekend away was more appealing than the audition. And in Chicago, where Daisy had never been.
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