Dance with Me

by Luanne Rice

  “I’m going to recommend that you look at Cherry Vale and Marsh Glen,” Abby said, writing the names down on a card.

  “Our grandmother was in Marsh Glen,” Jane said.

  “What did you think of it?”

  “It was . . . institutional. And she was much older than our mother.”

  “You’ll find that many improvements have been made,” Abby said. “As our generation ‘matures,’ we’re demanding better care for our parents.”

  “Marsh Glen was so far away,” Sylvie said. “It took too long to get to.”

  Abby nodded sympathetically. “You don’t have to decide today, but I think we’ll need a plan by Monday.” She shook both sisters’ hands, then hurried off to answer her page.

  “Cherry Vale and Marsh Glen,” Jane said. “Why is it that all the names of those places sound alike? Scenic, serene, like something you’d find in the Cotswolds.”

  “I know. Merry old England,” Sylvie laughed, relieved that Jane was making a joke.

  Jane’s eyes glittered as she looked up and down the hall, and she suddenly seemed surprisingly fragile. “We have to decide about Mom,” Jane said. “And it’s not easy. I hate thinking of her winding up where Grammy went.”

  “I thought you were all for sending her to a nursing home,” Sylvie said.

  Jane shook her head. “To Marsh Vale or Cherry Glen? How could I be ‘all for’ that? I think it makes the most sense, I think it’s probably even best for Mom, but it’s so hard. We could get a hospital bed for her room at home . . .”

  “And a wheelchair, and a little portable toilet in the room,” Sylvie said. “But who would lift her? With her broken hip, she needs two people just to get her out of bed.”

  “We could do it,” Jane said. “We’re strong.”

  Was it possible that they were changing roles? Sylvie thought of John, imagining what it would be like to camp under the stars with him. They would share a tent; they would kiss all night. Was it selfish of her to want more of that?

  “What about your business?” Sylvie asked. “Aren’t you ever going back?”

  “I don’t think I am, Syl,” Jane said. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. I love it here. I’ve missed Rhode Island. What if I opened my bakery again, but here—maybe not in Twin Rivers, but Providence?”

  “Would you really do that?”

  Jane took her hands. When Sylvie looked into her eyes, she could see that something was different: Jane had made up her mind. She was staying. Sylvie had come to know the signs that Jane was leaving: a certain distance, detachment. But right now, Jane seemed so anchored—to Sylvie’s hands, to her home, to her family.

  “I want to,” Jane said. “I was running away from so much before, but now I don’t have to do that anymore.”

  “So you really mean what you said? That the two of us should stay home and take care of Mom?”

  Jane shook her head. She hugged Sylvie, kissed her cheek. “No, I don’t think we should do that,” she said. “But I think we should both live nearby. To visit her as often as we can, to take turns driving her to the library and the Educators’ Potluck, and to make sure she’s getting everything she needs.”

  Sylvie held on tight. She was so happy to hear Jane say she was staying in Rhode Island, she could almost, but not quite, overlook the rest of it. Her eyes felt hot with tears, and the tears were both happy and sad.

  “She’ll hate it,” Sylvie said.

  “We don’t know that,” Jane said. “Like I said to Abby, they sound a lot like schools.”

  “I guess we could check them out . . . see if they’re better than when Grammy went.”

  “That’s all we’d be doing,” Jane said. “We’ll just check them out.”

  Sylvie nodded. She wiped her eyes and smiled. She had so much to be happy about, after all. Her mother had had a good diagnosis, her sister had come home, and Sylvie was going to Maine with John Dufour.

  If only certain things could change and all the other things could stay the same, Sylvie thought. If only their mother could take care of herself and stay in her own house, everything would be perfect. . . .

  Cherry Vale and Marsh Glen were owned by the same company, Rainbow Healthcare, and they were similar, if not interchangeable, in all ways. Built by the same architect, they were both set on scenic spreads, well landscaped with fruit trees and tidy flower beds. The rooms had large windows that opened wide enough for fresh air but not for a resident to fall out. Improvements had been made. Activities were planned with enthusiasm, as if by a cruise director. The decor had been brightened.

  “You see that we honor our residents as individuals,” said Rosalie Drance, the intake administrator at Cherry Vale, showing Jane and Sylvie that week’s schedule. “No matter what their interest, we try to accommodate it. Everything from foreign movies to line dancing.”

  “Line dancing?” Jane said, glancing around the recreation room, where most of the residents were in wheelchairs.

  “We don’t let wheelchairs stop us,” Rosalie laughed. “We get people moving however we can—if they can dance, great. If they can’t, we push them.”

  “Our mother’s not really the line-dancing type,” Sylvie said, with quiet dignity. “She was a school principal; she enjoys more quiet pursuits, like reading and writing.”

  Rosalie smiled. “We never make anyone do anything they don’t want to . . . Let me show you our library.”

  Jane followed along. Rosalie was making it hard not to see the good in Cherry Vale, just as her counterpart had done at Marsh Glen. Sunlight sparkled on the gleaming floors. Cherry trees waved in the breeze. A yoga class was taking place in the shade; about half the participants were in wheelchairs. Jane watched them, wondering whether they were enjoying themselves. She wondered how often their families visited.

  The library was not extensive, but it was more than perfunctory. There were shelves of novels, both classic and modern, shelves of nonfiction, a selection of reference books.

  “You see, we have the Encyclopedia Britannica,” Rosalie said.

  “Mom thinks encyclopedias are an inferior way to do research,” Sylvie said. “And as a librarian, I agree.”

  “We certainly welcome input, and we try to honor all requests. Are there any specific volumes you’d like us to get?”

  Sylvie folded her arms tightly across her chest, eyes closed shut, as if making such a list while trying to hold herself together at the same time. Both Jane and Rosalie watched silently.

  “Sylvie,” Jane said gently, after a minute. “How much research do you honestly think Mom’s planning to do?”

  “It’s just,” Sylvie said, breaking down. “This is a nice place, and so was Cherry Vale—”

  “This is Cherry Vale,” Jane reminded her.

  “I mean Marsh Glen, I should know that, it was where Grammy . . . but this is our mother! And she’s rigorous and brilliant, and no matter how pleasant it is, it’s not home!” Sylvie sobbed.

  Jane put her arm around her, nodded to Rosalie, who seemed utterly sympathetic and not even slightly alarmed. “We need to think about it,” Jane said.

  “I know,” Rosalie said. “No matter how many times I show families around, I never forget how hard it is.”

  The sisters went out to their car, and Sylvie gulped the fresh air as if she’d never breathed it before. “I’m sorry,” she sniffled. “I didn’t mean to fall apart.”

  “You did it for both of us,” Jane said.

  Sylvie wiped her eyes, then looked up. “You feel bad, too?”

  Jane nodded. “How could I not?”

  “Isn’t there some part of you that wants to control her life—the way she controlled yours?”

  “That’s a horrible thing to say,” Jane said.

  But wasn’t it true? Just a tiny part? Having spent a little time with Chloe, Jane realized how hungry she was to spend much, much more.

  “A star in the attic,” Jane said, leaning on the car, staring at a lone woman framed i
n a third-floor window, staring out at the cherry trees.

  “A what?”

  “Someone who doesn’t matter anymore,” Jane said. “Someone you just pack in a box and put in the attic . . .” She kept staring at the woman. Did her family ever visit? Had they forgotten her? Did she feel abandoned by them?

  “Is that what Mom will think we’re doing?”

  Sylvie seemed to think it over, but she couldn’t quite answer. They climbed into the car, and Jane started driving. Of the two places, they liked Cherry Vale better; but Jane didn’t want to tell Sylvie her reasoning: it was on the far side of Crofton, and their route to visit would have to take them very near Chadwick Orchards. Jane swung down that way now, and Sylvie instantly stiffened.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  Jane didn’t reply. Maple tree branches interlocked overhead, making the road dark with green shadows. Deer grazed along the roadside, oblivious to the traffic. The orchard began, hillsides covered with apple trees, and Jane’s heart began to beat harder. As they drove closer, Jane saw that Chloe had added some new signs: shaped like apples, painted red, they were spaced about fifty feet apart. In sequence, they read:

  An Apple

  A day

  Keeps the doctor

  Away

  And so

  Do pies

  by Calamity Jane!

  Jane watched Sylvie lean forward to read the signs.

  “Good Lord,” Sylvie said.

  “Aren’t they wonderful?” Jane asked.

  “We’re about to make the most important decision of our mother’s life, and you’re lost in the past?” Sylvie asked.

  “She’s not the past,” Jane said.

  “Don’t do this,” Sylvie said, as the stand came into view, and Jane started beeping the horn. Chloe and Mona jumped off their stools, waving madly. Jane’s heart swelled with pride, even as Sylvie grasped the car seat—as if she was at the top of the scariest roller coaster she’d ever ridden, about to take the big plunge.

  “Too late,” Jane said. “They’ve seen us.”

  Sylvie sat completely still, staring at Chloe as if blinded by headlights. “She does look just like you,” she whispered. “She really does.” And for the strangest moment, Jane thought that this wasn’t the first time Sylvie had seen her.

  “Come meet your niece,” Jane said.

  Chloe and Mona bounded around the stand, grinning like a welcoming committee.

  “Did you see the new signs?” Chloe asked.

  “They’re great,” Jane said. Glancing up, she smiled at the blue banner with the doctored dolphin. “And I love the shark.”

  “You’re the only one who knows the real story—besides Mona, of course.”

  “Yeah, Zeke’s a shark in dolphin’s clothing,” Mona said.

  “I’d like to get my hands on him,” Jane said.

  They stood close together, a pack of three, smiling at each other. Then, feeling proud and happy, Jane turned around. Sylvie stood on the outskirts, staring at Chloe. Reaching out for her hand, Jane pulled her into the circle.

  “Girls, this is my sister, Sylvie,” Jane said. “And Sylvie, I’d like you to meet Chloe and Mona.”

  “Oh, your sister bakes the best pies,” Chloe said.

  Sylvie stood there stiffly, as if she was acting out a part to which she didn’t quite know the lines. She smiled weakly, eyes darting quickly to Jane. “Yes, she does.”

  “We’re both going to be massively overweight by Labor Day,” Mona said, gesturing at an empty tart shell on the counter.

  “Yes, we can’t resist,” Chloe said. “Jane, we’re eating up all the profits!”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Jane said. “In my next delivery, I’ll include two with your names on them.”

  “She really does that,” Sylvie said. “Writes people’s names in piecrust.”

  “Or finds the perfect symbol that only they will understand,” Chloe said. “A couple of weeks ago, when we all thought Zeke was okay, she put a dolphin on one pie. But usually she does these beautiful apples, and blossoms . . . then just last week, a bunch of stars.”

  “I liked that one that showed a house,” Mona said. “With a star in the top window.”

  “A star in the attic?” Sylvie asked.

  Chloe gasped. “How did you know about my dream?”

  “I told her,” Jane said.

  They stared into each other’s eyes. Jane could see the wheels turning, Chloe registering that Jane cared enough to tell her sister. If only she knew; Jane could hardly contain her emotions right now, introducing her sister and her daughter. Her skin tingled, as if she had a fever. She wanted so badly to tell the truth, to have Chloe know that Sylvie was her aunt.

  “It’s a beautiful image,” Sylvie said. “Very creative. I’ll bet your teachers love you.”

  Chloe snorted. “I wish, but they don’t. My biology teacher hates me, because I refused to dissect frogs, and my English teacher thinks I’m demented, because when I did my term paper on Charles Dickens, I did a comparative study on the orphanages of Victorian England compared with the ‘animal control’ facilities of modern America—they’re both barbaric!”

  “Yeah, Chloe lives for animal rights, and we both take a special interest in books with orphanages in them,” Mona confided.

  “Excuse me?” Sylvie asked.

  “My mother’s dead, and Chloe’s real mother abandoned her.”

  Sylvie was silent. Her hands were clasped in front of her, like a teacher about to address her class. Jane felt as if she had something caught in her throat. She coughed, looking away, wishing she could tell Chloe how she really felt . . . but she didn’t have to. Sylvie did it for her.

  “I know someone,” Sylvie said quietly, “who gave a baby up for adoption. It was the hardest thing she ever did. And although I don’t know everything she was thinking, I do know this: She would never have abandoned the baby. Never. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all my years as a school librarian, it’s that most things are not as they seem. Literature exists to show us that very thing.”

  “Things are not as they seem,” Chloe echoed. “So you mean . . .”

  “I mean, she might not have given you up willingly.”

  “She might have been coerced,” Chloe said.

  Sylvie nodded. “Speaking hypothetically, that seems possible.” Jane stood aside. Sylvie’s voice was so direct, like a schoolmarm’s. Both girls were listening intently. Jane felt tears come into her eyes.

  “Adoption is all such a mystery,” Mona said. “Who the real parents are, why they did what they did, where they are now. Compared to some stories. Mine, for example. My mother got sick; she died; my father married a witch.”

  “I like to think she didn’t abandon me,” Chloe said, gazing straight at Sylvie, as if Mona hadn’t even spoken.

  “Consider the possibility,” Sylvie said in that same bookish voice, “that she would rather die than think that you believe she consigned you to ‘the attic.’ Although, I congratulate you on a fine literary metaphor. The attic is a place of dust, where people store their discarded things. I just don’t happen to believe your real mother would have sent you there.”

  “Jane, you have a cool sister,” Chloe said, speaking to Jane’s back. Jane had turned away, to hide the fact that her sister’s words and support had completely sliced her heart. “She gets it!”

  “Yes, she does,” Jane said, when she could turn around again. “She completely does.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Shall we have dinner before or after we visit your mother?” John asked Sylvie as they drove toward the hospital.

  She was lost in thought, staring out the window. Her pulse had quickened at the sight of Chloe, and hadn’t slowed down yet. She had just met her sister’s daughter—her niece! Glancing across the car seat, she wondered what John would think if she told him the whole story.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” he asked.

  “I’m thinkin
g about my sister.”

  “Jane,” he said. “Your own personal black sheep . . .”

  Sylvie looked at him. “I’ve never called her that,” she said.

  “You didn’t have to,” John said. “I can just tell. You quit your job, managed your mother’s health care up until now; your sister would call now and then, but she never came home . . . You always talked about her, living in New York, as if her life there was edgy, risky, kind of dangerous.”

  “Did I?” Sylvie asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “You did. And then I met her, and I saw what you meant.”

  “What did you see?” Sylvie asked, curious about his impressions.

  “Well, I saw her black leather jacket, and a way she has of holding herself back; and I saw a certain suspicion in her eyes, as if she was giving me the once-over and wondering what I wanted from you.”

  “Jane was hurt once,” Sylvie said. “And I don’t think she’s ever gotten over it. I’m sorry she made you feel she was suspicious of you, of all people . . .”

  John reached for her hand. “I liked her for it,” he said. “She’s looking out for her sister. I admire her for protecting you. I want to do that—”

  “I’m strong,” Sylvie said, as he turned into the hospital parking lot. Her eyes traveled up the building to the fourth floor, and she found her mother’s window. And she felt a lump in her throat as she thought of how strong she had had to be in her life: to withstand her father walking out, and the disappointment of arriving for freshman year at Brown, when she had expected her sister to be there as a junior, and the rumors floating around campus, seeing Jeffrey Hayden with his new girlfriend . . . and sorrow, always, for her mother and then her sister.

  She thought of going home for weekends, hearing Jane weep and shriek for Chloe, in the darkness of night; and she remembered Jane moving to New York, because being in Rhode Island was too painful, it was like having the worst sunburn in the world, and she was afraid some reminder of her daughter would bump into her and make it even worse.

  “I want my sister to be happy,” she whispered, staring up at their mother’s window.