by Renee Fowler
I’m twenty nine, so even if that accident hadn’t ended my professional career, my days in the spotlight were already numbered. So were my days with Mikhail I suppose.
A noise catches me unaware mid Jeté and my foot connects with the hardwood wrong. A year ago I may have wobbled a touch, but maintained my balance. I’m not the same person I was a year ago. My knee collapses, and I pivot to take the brunt of the fall on my good hip. The impact still reverberates through my damaged side. A blast of hot, sharp pain stabs down my flank and takes my breath.
But I’m a dancer. I can deal with pain. I’ve danced through sprangs, bleeding blisters, pulled muscles, a torn meniscus that I had repaired in the off season when I was twenty four. That knee never did heal right, but I deal with it, and I deal daily with the pain of all of these pins and screws holding together my once shattered femur and hip.
What I wasn’t expecting to deal with this morning was a police officer. His shapely lips are forming words I can’t make out, not that I’m focusing too much on them. It’s his sharp blue-gray eyes that snag my attention. They’re deep set and piercing. His expression is serious, or perhaps that’s just the way his features come together. His prominent brow and square jaw couple with the uniform to give him an air of authority. Then he smiles, and the hard edges refine, are softened somewhat.
Forcing myself not to limp, I rush to turn off the music. When I turn around to address him, I’m surprised to see he’s followed right after me. He’s standing close enough I catch a whiff of something clean, masculine. Aftershave perhaps, but it’s mingled with sweetness. Chocolate? It’s an odd combination. Two scents that shouldn’t pair well together, but the intermingling is intoxicating. He’s taller than me, I notice, but not by more than a few inches.
Mikhail used to praise me for my stature. He was one of the few choreographers who did. At five foot eleven, I stuck out like a sore thumb in the corps. Others before him had gently hinted I should consider modern dance, jazz, anything else besides traditional ballet. I just wasn’t built for it, they’d explained. When I started at the age of eight, who could’ve ever predicted I would grow this tall? By the time it became a problem, it was too late. I was already in love. But Mikhail was innovative. He liked to push the edge of tradition. In his eyes, the fact that I could stand shoulder to shoulder with a partner and still appear demure in their arms was a rare talent.
I don’t stand shoulder to shoulder with the man in front of me. He’s taller, broad through the shoulders and something tells me he’s solidly built beneath that uniform. He takes up space. Suddenly he seems huge to me, taking up all the space, all the oxygen.
Realizing we’re just staring at each other rather awkwardly, I clear my throat quietly. “Can I help you?” I almost wince at the sound of my own voice. He’s thrown me so far off that a bit of my native Brooklyn accent slips through. Most ballerina’s don’t look like me, and they certainly don’t sound so unrefined, so I’ve tried hard to train that inflection out of my voice.
He smiles a bit wider, and I’m tilted off kilter another degree. He gives his head a tiny shake, and a longer piece of chestnut hair falls across his forehead. My fingers itch to brush it aside, not because the look is unflattering on him. I think I just want to touch him.
It’s been so long since I’ve been with a man, Mikhail was the last and that was well over a year ago, I think my hormones have gone wonky. The man in front of me is not my type at all. Do I have a type besides dancers, present or former? I’ve never ventured far enough outside that world to find out before now.
“Is there a problem, officer?”
He laughs. “No, not at all. I’m trying to sign my daughter up for classes.” His voice is soft, but deep. Quiet. It wasn’t quite what I was expecting.
“Oh. Of course. Right. What type of class is she interested in?”
“Uhm. The normal kind?” He laughs again. It’s a nice laugh, and the smile that accompanies it transforms his face from modestly attractive to exceedingly handsome. “Sorry. I don’t know a thing about any of this.”
“How old is your daughter?”
“Six.” His smile falters, and is replaced by a slight grimace momentarily. “She just turned six.”
I wander into the doorway in the back corner that opens up into a small office. This time he doesn’t follow along with me. I quickly snatch up one of the fliers and walk it back to where he is standing with his hands jammed in his pockets. “At six, she’s really old enough for any of these,” I say. “Here are the classes I’ll be teaching,” I slide a finger along one length. “And there’s another instructor, but we’re trying to form groups by ages. She’d probably do well with ballet or tap if she wants to start right away. Well, we’re not opening for two weeks.” Why am I so nervous? I feel like I’m ramblings. “You can always bring her in if you’d like, let her help decide.”
“Maybe I should, just to be sure. What were you doing when I came in?”
“Huh?”
“You were dancing.”
“Oh. Right. Ballet.”
“I think that’s probably what she wants to do.” His smile returns, drawing butterflies in my belly. I am way too old to be fawning over this man, any man, especially one who is likely married for all I know. “Honestly, I think she’s more interested in the little shoes you all wear and the pink outfits.”
I breath a quiet laugh. “The attire is certainly a selling point for some girls that age.”
“But I’m hoping to get her into something that might give her some structure. Maybe teach her a bit of… discipline. I’m not sure if that’s the right word.”
I nod quickly. “Ballet certainly demands discipline, or I should say it encourages it, but it’s also fun, and she’ll have a chance to interact with other children her own age.”
“Where are you from?” he asks, giving me a curious smile.
“I’m originally from New York.”
“I thought so. What in the world are you doing all the way out here?”
“The other instructor, Laura, we danced together for a number of years, and this is her hometown. There are plenty of dance schools where I’m from, but none here, so…” I giggle. Oh, god. I actually giggle like a silly, smitten girl. What is wrong with me? The big, burly, country boy cop standing in front of me is so not my type, it’s almost laughable, but I still find my eyes searching out a wedding ring on his fingers. His large, strong hands are devoid of any adornments. “I’m sorry. What’s your name? I should’ve asked.”
“Jack. Jack Marsh.” He regards the paper I’ve handed him for a second, then tilts his smile back in my direction. “And I guess you’re Miss Anna.”
“That’s me, but just Anna is fine. Anna Bishop.” I wonder if he would recognize the name Bella Bishop if I spoke it outloud. I’m well known in some circles, but something tells me Jack Marsh doesn’t travel in those circles, or care much about them probably.
He thrusts his hand in my direction, and I clasp it with mine a little too eagerly. His palm is a bit rough, slightly calloused, just textured enough that it might feel nice against my skin. Oh, my god. I’m biting my lip. Not consciously. It just happens. I force myself to stop. I drop his hand like it’s burning hot, and glide back a step.
I’m being ridiculous. Maybe he really is married for all I know. Plenty of people don’t wear wedding bands, or perhaps he has a girlfriend. Even if he’s unattached, Jack has a six year old little girl I may be teaching soon. In the event that that doesn’t happen, I’m ruined.
There’s a mess of scars along my left hip and the upper side of my thigh lurking beneath this leotard. Another jagged one that cuts across my lower abdomen. That hit and run didn’t just destroy my career. I can’t imagine any man seeing all of that and not being revulsed. I can barely stand to look at myself in the mirror now.
“Why don’t you bring your daughter in, and we can go over the different choices together,” I say in my most professional voice. “I’m sure she’s in school right now,
but I’ll be here until fiveish today if you’d like to swing back by.”
He nods. “Today is her birthday, so we’re a little busy, but maybe-”
The small radio clipped near his collar crackles to life and a masculine voice cuts in loudly. Jack gives me a small, apologetic smile, and reaches up to press his thumb over the button and answer. “Officer Marsh, responding from South Main.” His whole demeanor is different. He seems so serious again suddenly, then he releases the button, and fixes me with another smile. “Can I call you?”
My heart flutters in my chest for one foolish moment until I realize he wants to call about bringing his daughter in. “Of course. The number for the studio is on the flier, but in case it’s after hours, since you’re busy.” I start to reach for the pen tucked into the breast pocket of his uniform top, then pause. What am I doing? He smiles at me again, and something in my chest melts. Without taking his eyes off mine, he reaches for the pen. He fumbles a bit before his fingers close around it, and he presses it into my palm. I scrawl my cell number along the bottom. “I look forward to hearing from you, Jack.” I like the way his name sounds on my tongue. “What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Sarah.”
“Tell Sarah I said happy birthday. Hopefully I’ll get to meet her soon.”
He nods curtly, any hint of warmth or joy vanished from his expression. I have no idea what any of that police speak over the radio meant. For all I know I’m holding him up from some important task.
“Thanks, Anna.” He waves the paper through the air absently and turns to go.
Just as Jack is exiting the studio, Laura is strolling in. He holds the door for her.
“Well, aren’t you a gentleman. Thank you officer,” she smiles sweetly and bats her eyelashes up at him. As soon as the door swings shut to her back, Laura fans herself. “He could give me a pat down any day of the week. Are you in some kind of trouble I should know about, Anna?”
“Yeah, you know me. Always getting into mischief.”
Laura laughs because she does know me. She’s known me for years, and we were roommates for a while in New York. We both know between the two of us, she is way more likely to get into any kind of trouble. “What did he want?”
“He was asking about enrolling his daughter in classes.”
“Ah.” Laura dumps her purse and bag near the wall, then she rubs her hands together in excitement. “You ready to put the last few finishing touches on this place?”
“I’m ready,” I say enthusiastically. Maybe teaching dance in a little one room studio wasn’t the future I envisioned for myself, but after all those months spent laid up, not sure if I would ever move freely again, I need to be thankful. Things could be worse, I remind myself over and over again. There’s no use being bitter or resentful of the life I once had. I have to keep moving forward.
Chapter 3
Jack
For the occasion of Sarah’s party the house is chaos, with more people than there are places to sit, and kids running everywhere. Thank god Jamie is here to help me manage. My mother showed up early to lend a hand too, as did Claire’s. They are conspiring together in the kitchen, presumably replenishing the snacks, but it’s hard to say for sure with those two. They are both hell bent on fixing me up.
Yes, even my late wife’s mother thinks it’s time for me to move on. At least for now I’ll be safe from their meddling. They both know better than to prod and nag me with that nonsense today of all days.
“I’m not sure if we should be feeding this to the children,” my mother says, inspecting the spray bottle of processed cheese.
“You’re the one that bought it,” Evelyn points out as she arranges the mini cupcakes on a platter.
“That’s before I realized it’s not even real cheese. If it’s not cheese, then what is it?”
“Some mysteries remain better left unsolved,” I say, popping one of the crackers topped with a dollop of cheese-like spray in my mouth.
“Listen to your son. He knows what he’s talking about.” Evelyn pauses to give my cheek a little pat on her way out of the kitchen, leaving behind a faint cloud of an old fashioned, floral perfume she often wears. Her springy curls are more grey now than blonde, and they fan out around her head in a frizzy halo.
“Another successful party in the books,” my mother says, staring out the window over the sink towards the bouncy house, and the bored looking man giving pony rides out back.
“Well, it’s not over yet,” I point out.
“Stop being such a pessimist.” The pony pauses to relieve himself mid stride, and Mom wrinkles her nose. “Ugh. What a mess.”
“Who’s the pessimist now?”
“I’m just being a realist. I mean, there is really horse crap all over your yard.”
I laugh.
“You should have Jamie help clean that up tomorrow. Make her earn her keep.”
“She does plenty around here to help out.”
Mom grumbles under her breath. “I don’t know why she didn’t want to come back home.”
I know why. Our mother is quick to point out Jamie’s short comings, the fact that she parties too much for a woman her age, she has terrible taste in men, and has yet to give her a grandchild. “You live pretty far out there. It would be a long commute for her,” I say, which is also true. “And we’ve got the room. I don’t mind having her here, and neither does Sarah.”
“Sarah mentioned she’s going to be a ballerina.”
“That’s the plan anyways. I’m going to take her to get signed up tomorrow, but we’ll see how long she sticks with it.”
“I’m sure she’ll love it.” She pauses to take a pointed looked around the cluttered kitchen. “I’ll have to stay and help you get all this cleaned up.”
“You don’t have to. That’s what Jamie is for, right?” I know Mom doesn’t like driving after dark, and the truth is I’m in desperate need of a quiet moment. This day has always been a rough one for me, and this year was no exception.
∞∞∞
“Did you have a nice birthday, princess?” I ask Sarah at the end of the night.
She nods and blinks up at me sleepily as I pull the comforter up around her shoulders. “I wish everyday could be my birthday.”
“Then it wouldn’t feel special anymore.”
Sarah murmurs something unintelligible. It was a big day for her, and she’s nearly half asleep. I bend down to give her a kiss on the forehead, and reach over to turn off the lamp beside her bed. My eyes quickly skitter past Claire’s picture displayed there. Looking at it straight on is too painful.
Once the house is reasonably back in order. I collapse on the couch with a beer, intent on finding something mindless on TV to occupy my thoughts. I haven’t made it halfway through that first beer when Jamie wanders into the living room.
She curls up on the opposite side of the couch. Instead of a beer, she has an entire bottle of wine clutched in one hand, her phone in the other. “He’s already engaged! The ink has barely dried on our divorce papers, and he’s already making it Facebook official.”
I can barely contain my exasperated sigh. “Why are you looking at that? Stop torturing yourself, Jamie. He’s a loser anyways.” He really is too. Cole couldn’t hold down a job to save his life, and when he did work, most of his paycheck got spent at the bar, or dumped into that old car he was forever upgrading. “You’re not married, so he’s no longer your problem. Now he can be this new girl’s problem.”
“She looks like a stripper. Check this out. These are fake tits, right?” Jamie holds up her phone for me.
“Jesus. Don’t compare yourself to her. Anyone that would screw around with a married man has issues.” I snatch the phone out of her hand. “And block his pathetic ass. I would do it for you, but I have no idea how this stuff works.”
“You need to get with the times, little bro.”
“I’m not sure if being four minutes older than me qualifies you to give me advice, or call me little
.”
“Yeah, maybe not.” Jamie takes a big swig of wine, and plops the bottle down on the end table. “You doing’ okay, Jack?”
“Yup.”
Jamie tilts her head to the side, and stares at me intently for a moment. “Claire would hate to see you like this. You know that, right?”
“Can we not talk about this again?”
“You know I’m right.” Her words are a bit slurred. I’m not sure how much of that bottle she’s finished yet, but I’m guessing she’s made a fair dent. “You’re too young to just roll over and wait to die. Claire would want you to be happy.”
“I am happy.”
“Bullshit.”
I sigh loudly, and stand up. “How about you worry about your happiness, and let me worry about mine. Maybe consider saving the rest of that wine for another night too. You’re going to feel like hell tomorrow as it is.”
“Don’t get all pissed off, and stomp away. We’re just talking.”
“I’m not pissed off,” I say, but I am. Drunk or not, she should know better than to come at me with this crap today. Despite being grown, we have a tendency to slip into petty, sometimes childish arguments at times. My best option right now is to walk away before this becomes one of those times. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Maybe I’m not happy exactly, but I’m not miserable, I think to myself as I lay alone on my side of the bed. It’s not the bed. It’s not even our old room. I started sleeping in the guest room after Claire died, and left our old room closed up to collect dust.
Over the past six years I’ve purposefully changed most of the remainder of the house, trying to buy myself some peace. It didn’t work. I don’t keep her picture out anywhere, although Sarah has that one in her room, and an album she can look at whenever the mood strikes.
I don’t actually want to forget about Claire, but I don’t want to torment myself with her ghost constantly either. I want to move on, but I don’t know how, and at this point I’m tired of trying.
This isn’t the life I imagined for myself, but it’s the one I’ve got, and I just have to make due. I have plenty to be thankful for. I’ve got Sarah, a job, a roof over my head, family, friends. Staring at the ceiling, I silently count my blessings because it sure as hell beats torturing myself with memories of what I lost.