Beneath the Marigolds

by Emily C. Whitson

  I took her up on her offer, dubiously at first, and then with more appreciation. “Thank you.” The shoes felt heavy in my hand, like a treasure. In a rare, out-of-body experience, I realized that my life would never be the same, and I vowed that someday, somehow, I would do something kind for someone else. I would be the girl offering ballet slippers.

  After that, dance became the home I never had. I found an after-school class for—and I hate this word—underprivileged kids. When I got older and could work part-time, I enrolled in more advanced classes with my hard-earned money. When I was sixteen, I stopped going to school altogether to focus on ballet. It seemed like a good idea at the time, and I didn’t have anyone to tell me otherwise.

  In fact, it’s what got me sober. I’m not sure why I tried drinking in the first place. Perhaps it was pride. I’m not like my family. What happened to them will never happen to me! But after my first sip, my first endorphin rush, I knew I was a goner. Alcohol was in the driver’s seat, and I was just along for the ride. I remember thinking: So this is what drinking feels like. I understand now.

  I started missing dance rehearsals. Waking up in strange men’s places. Discovering inexplicable bruises. I was so ashamed, after all my years of open disdain toward my mother and sister’s addiction, that I wouldn’t return home for days, sometimes weeks, at a time. I couldn’t stand to see their reaction. I’d imagine them smirking, thinking, Guess you’re not so different from us after all.

  But the final straw that got me to sober up: I slept through a very important ballet audition. A traveling company. My golden ticket out of my lackluster life. Everything I had been working for. I’ll never forget the look in my teacher’s eye when I saw her afterward.

  “If you’re smart, Reese,” she said. “You’ll get help now.”

  I returned to my part-time waitressing job that night, a sleazy restaurant in an even sleazier part of town. I was wallowing in shame and guilt and indignance. What does she know? I can control this. But then a greasy customer I’d never seen before grabbed me between the legs.

  “Thought I wouldn’t see you after last night,” he whispered in my ear. And then he repeated something I had heard uttered to my mother by one of her (many) boyfriends. “You were quite a ride.”

  I wanted to vomit. I quit on the spot, found the closest AA meeting, and never touched alcohol or drugs again.

  I eventually got another shot at ballet, about six months into my sobriety. An audition for the Nashville Dance Company. By some divine intervention, I was offered a job. And just like that, my life had meaning again. Joy. Stability. For twelve years, my life was like that. I danced all day and sometimes all night, and when I performed in front of a crowd, I soaked up every ounce of applause the audience had to offer. I even landed the lead role in my company’s biggest production, A Christmas Bell, seven seasons in a row.

  I went to AA meetings regularly. I tried to get my mom and sister to join me, but nothing I did seemed to work. They weren’t bad people—just very, very sick. I started sponsoring other women in the program instead. I met Ann, who became the surrogate sister I could save. The type of sister I’d always wanted but never had. I fell in love, multiple times. And through it all, dance was with me, tying together my experiences, good and bad, like charms on a bracelet.

  Then it all came crashing down, three months prior to the retreat.

  I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. When the director asked to speak with me out of the blue, I figured it was to discuss details of A Christmas Bell.

  I hummed as he closed the door. His office was in the oldest and most decrepit part of the studio. Cobwebs decorated the corners. A light flickered above our heads, highlighting the hundreds of papers stacked haphazardly on the floor, on his desk, and on the single filing cabinet. The most recent photo of the dance company was hanging on the wall, just above the director’s head. I was front and center in the group, smiling like a woman who had just won the lottery.

  The air reeked of sweat. Nervous sweat.

  “Reese, how are you?” His mustache sashayed on his lips as he spoke.

  “Fantastic.” I smiled as I bounced in my seat. “I’m getting excited about A Christmas Bell. It’s my absolute favorite time of the year, as you know.”

  He evaded my gaze, and I knew something was wrong.

  “Good, good,” he said as he analyzed his tie. “Reese, I’m not quite sure how to say this. But we’ve decided to give your part to Katherine Phillips.”

  Katherine was new to the company. Early twenties. Her face was unlined, her ponytail as thick as my bicep, and her metabolism as fast as a racehorse’s. She was young, young, young.

  “You’re just getting a bit . . . old. We would keep you on until the end of this year, but the budget is tight and . . . well, you know how it goes.”

  The director chuckled nervously, and the floor seemed to open up beneath me. He proceeded to discuss the details of my departure, but I wasn’t listening. I had known this day would come eventually—all ballerinas have an early expiration date—but I never let myself think about it too much. I didn’t know what I would do without dance.

  I didn’t tell many people about my layoff. Even Ann. I didn’t want to acknowledge it. The longer I kept it a secret, the longer I could continue to live in a fantasy. It was naïve and immature, but I wasn’t ready yet.

  I had a little bit of savings, but not much. No studios were hiring dance teachers at that time of year. I didn’t have any other skills, not even a high-school degree. I tried to get a loan, but banks only give you money if you already have money. I could have asked Ann—should have asked Ann—for help, but I didn’t. With ballet gone, she was the one constant remaining in my life. I was supposed to be the one who helped her, not the other way around.

  So I did something incredibly stupid. I borrowed from Luca, one of my shady exes. Or, technically, I borrowed from some of his friends. I should never have contacted him, but he owed me, and he lived thousands of miles away, in L.A. I knew I’d reached a low point when he and his friends forced me to communicate through a burner phone. I told myself it was just temporary.

  But I couldn’t find another job in time to pay back the loan. I tried to think of things I could sell, but my only asset was my car. I sold it, gave the money to these guys, and then they wanted more. For their troubles. I didn’t have more. I didn’t respond to their calls and texts, or even Luca’s calls.

  Before I could put together a plan, the day before I left for the retreat, I found one of Luca’s friends sitting on the front doorstep to my apartment complex. He was twice my size.

  “I’m getting the money together,” I blurted out before he could ask.

  “You’re already two days late. Do you know what my boss makes me do to guys who are two days late?”

  I shook my head. Whatever it was, I assumed it was bad.

  “I break their kneecaps.” He stood up, straightened his jacket, and my stomach sank. “My boss is willing to hold off for another day, since you’re a friend of Luca’s, but only another day.”

  “I’ll have it by tomorrow night, I promise.”

  I would not have it by then. I would be on a plane to Last Chance. I would also be evicted from my apartment. I hoped, naïvely, that in the month I was gone, Luca’s friends would forget about me. I didn’t have a job, or a home, or even a car, and they didn’t know any of my friends except Luca, so how would they find me? And besides: It was a few hundred dollars. That was nothing to those men, and certainly not enough to start a manhunt.

  “You better, or I’ll be back, Reese.”

  He whistled as he strode off, his breath forming small clouds in the cold. I could still hear the tune when I went to sleep each night.

  I put my ballet shoes away and went downstairs, to the kitchen, to look for Lamb once more, praying for a miracle.

  23

  Ann

  Back in my room, after my date with Nick, I check my phone for a message from Ned. T
here isn’t one. I check my watch and add five hours: 9:05 p.m. CST. That’s not too late to call, right? Plenty of associates work until then, and Ned’s a go-getter. I massage my conscience for another minute before dialing. No answer.

  “Hey,” I say once I reach his voice mail. “It’s me. Ann. Just checking in, to see if you found anything on Lamb Martin. I also have some good news: I found out Christina worked on the set of the movie Happily Ever After as a stylist or costume designer—an intern, most likely. The movie came out in ninety-two. That should be enough for Pat. If you can, look into Nick Keyser too. The son of the actor Frank Keyser. He’s here on the retreat with me.”

  I hesitate before asking him one more thing that’s been bugging me. Then I go for it.

  “We also . . . well, we eat at really weird times here, and never on dates. Is that something they do on dating reality shows? Maybe eating messes with the audio? I feel crazy asking, but I can’t think of another reason why we can’t eat on dates. Okay, I think that’s it. Thanks, Ned.”

  I hang up and take a deep breath. I feel crazy. Absolutely crazy. But the longer I’m here, the more I think maybe Ned is right. This is a TV show. There’s Christina’s odd fixation on dressing us up. The way she maneuvers us into certain angles. The way she asks us the same question, in different ways, until we give her the answer she’s looking for. But I still can’t figure out why they don’t just tell us? Is it to make the drama more believable? And if it is a show, does that mean Reese is okay? Is she hiding somewhere, waiting for the premiere? But then why would she ditch her phone at Riverfront Park?

  My mind is buzzing with all these unanswered questions. My legs itch. I’ll go for a run—try to blow off some steam and collect my thoughts.

  Twelve minutes later, I’m outside. The sun beats down on me as I pick up the pace on the beach. The sand grabs my feet, holds onto them, but it only makes me run faster. Despite my change in venue, I still can’t get my mind to settle. What did Nick mean when he said Reese’s disappearance could be closer to home? Was he trying to point me in the right direction, or the wrong one? Or was he simply curious, or trying to be helpful? What did he talk about with Henry? Nick seems sympathetic, with his poor-little-rich-boy story, but maybe it’s just an act. Perhaps he’s told all the women on the island that story.

  What does closer to home even mean? The police talked to Reese’s most recent love interests: a total of six men in the past two years. Three have moved out of the state, and the others have rock-solid alibis. There are other liaisons of Reese, of course—the police could have looked even further into her past, could have interviewed dozens more men. But most don’t strike me as particularly harmful. Assholes, maybe. Misogynists and cheaters, most definitely. But harmful? Violent? Not so much. And Reese is rarely one to cut off the relationship—she’s loyal until the bitter end—so there isn’t a long line of jealous, vengeful ex-boyfriends.

  Except for one.

  About seven years ago, Reese dated a man by the name of Luca Ferrrari. She met him at the restaurant where he worked. She enjoyed her meal so much, she wanted to meet the chef. And then he looked like Luca, which is to say he was gorgeous. Olive complexion, lush brown hair. Obviously great skills in the kitchen. They hit it off right away, but from the beginning, I didn’t like him. He was controlling. He texted and called all the time, and if she didn’t respond right away, he got upset.

  “He just worries, that’s all,” Reese said over coffee one day, as she typed out a message, her phone vibrating with text after text.

  The closer it got to Reese’s performance in A Christmas Bell, the more their relationship seemed to fray. It was like the thought of sharing her with anyone else was too much for Luca to handle.

  Luckily I was there when he turned up. From my seat in the audience, I saw Luca saunter toward the stage after her solo. I could tell something was off, so I followed him. Ironically, he and I were able to sneak backstage because everyone—the crew, the audience, the other dancers, even security—was entranced by Reese’s performance. It was breathtaking. Transcendent. She glided like a woman without a skeleton, her limbs moving in ways I didn’t think humanly possible.

  Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t reach Luca in time. Just as Reese exited the stage, Luca grabbed a fistful of her hair and slammed her face into the nearest wall. I remember the blood from her nose oozing onto her pristine white leotard and spotting her tutu.

  Security reached Luca before I did, and they were able to escort him out of the building and to the police station before things could get any worse. I filled out an order of protection that night and had it in a judge’s hand by the next morning.

  Suffice it to say, I’ve been worried about Luca ever since. Reese said she blocked his number, and as far as I know, she hasn’t seen him since—although she did lie to me about blocking him, as there was a missed call from him on her phone when the police found it, so I guess she could have lied about seeing him too. I told all of this to the police, when they asked me about suspicious characters.

  “Luca Ferrari,” I had said. “That’s F-E-R-R-A-R-I, like the car. You need to talk to him immediately.”

  But despite the missed call, they didn’t take my suggestion seriously because the relationship had ended seven years prior. But I hounded them and hounded them and hounded them, until they tracked down his current residence just outside of Los Angeles. To my relief and disappointment, he had an airtight alibi.

  But, as my legs pound the sand beneath me and sweat pours into my eyes, I still wonder if somehow, some way, Luca had something to do with Reese’s disappearance.

  24

  Ann

  I run faster, pushing harder against the breeze coming off the ocean. I narrow my eyes, trying to push away lingering concerns. I don’t like to think about these facts, but I can’t keep ignoring them.

  The first is the Nashville Dance Company. Reese had left three months prior to the retreat. After the police informed me of this news, I paid the director of the company a brief visit. A stout man with a seventies-porno moustache, he proved to be entirely unhelpful. He didn’t know where she went after leaving his company.

  “But I don’t understand. Why did she want to leave then, if not for another dance company?” I was dumbfounded. Ballet meant the world to her.

  “Well.” He looked sheepish. “She didn’t want to leave. We had to let her go. She was getting too old. You have to understand, it’s just part of the business.”

  His words felt like a sucker punch to my gut.

  Another worrisome item: her apartment. On the day she was supposed to arrive home, I called the landlord to ask if he could check on Reese. I was worried about her, and I hadn’t heard from her. He was quiet for a moment, before finally admitting she had been evicted.

  Then there’s her car. I asked police to look for it, and it turned out to be with an elderly couple who claimed to have bought it from Reese a month prior. They had the papers to prove it, and when describing the woman who dropped the car off, they painted Reese to a tee.

  And finally, there’s Reese’s mom, Lily. Reese’s sister was in prison for theft, but the mom—she was still around. The police said they talked to her, and from their conversation, they didn’t suspect foul play. I wanted to talk to her myself, though, so I decided to pay her a visit. It took a while to track her down, but Pat was able to get an address from a friend on the police force after a few too many beers.

  I drove to Lily’s house, a run-down, single-story farmhouse two hours outside of Nashville, making sure to take my father’s old handgun. Reese’s disappearance was really starting to wear me down at this point, and I wanted to be extra careful. During the car ride, I offered a silent prayer of gratitude for my father’s shooting lessons. Our afternoons spent aiming at targets, out in the woods he knew so well.

  Lily’s house was coming apart at the seams. The windows were boarded up. The wood siding was missing. An enormous hole decorated the rusted metal roof. Plan
ts were overtaking the yard on all sides. Weeds, mostly. No one answered the door for several minutes after I knocked. The house was deathly still, and I wondered for a moment if Pat had received bad information. Or if the police scared Lily off. Just as I was leaving, the door creaked open a slit, and a pair of yellow eyes stared at me from the shadows.

  “Whaddya want?” the eyes asked.

  “I’m looking for Lily Marigold. I’m a friend of her daughter’s.”

  The door closed then, and I heard shuffling. Whispers. When the door opened again, an older version of Reese greeted me. She was rail-thin, her red hair stringy and unkempt, her ivory skin wrinkled and pocked with abscesses, but she was unmistakably Reese’s mother.

  “Lily?” I asked.

  “Yes. Whaddya want?”

  “I’m a friend of Reese’s. May I come inside?”

  Lily took a step toward me, blocking the entrance. It’s amazing Reese was—is—as open and lovely as she is, with the family she has.

  “I ardy talked to the cops. I dunno where she is.”

  “You haven’t talked to her lately?”

  “Not for a year or so. She was trying to get me to go to those damn meetings again.”

  “Do you have any idea where she would go if she ran off?” It hurt me to consider this course of events, but I was getting desperate, hoping for just a shred of information. “Please, it’s important.”

  Lily peered at me for a minute, sizing me up. After a while, she dropped her shoulders.

  “She always liked flowers. Found ’er hidin’ at a local garden shop a coupla times. I tried lockin’ that girl up, but that girl could pick any locked door. A professional escape artist, that one. So yeah, I found ’er at flower shops. Marigolds were ’er favorite.”

  My heart sunk thinking of a young Reese—sweet, compassionate Reese—being locked up and forgotten. I knew her childhood was difficult, I knew that. But seeing her mom made the pain and sympathy sharper.