His smile vanished. He must have heard the slurring.
“I’m glad you talked me into it.” Quick, think of something to say, so he doesn’t have to talk… “Oh, and guess what? Mrs. B. said Jill is looking great—remember the girl from church I told you about?”
No reaction.
Stupid disease.
His hands’ involuntary movements became more intense, and he stared at them as if they were foreign objects, found at the end of his arms by chance. The slurred speech must have really upset him—his chorea always worsened when he was stressed or anxious.
I walked to him, the choreography well practiced. I held his unsteady hands in mine, pressed them against my chest, and rested my head on him. His heartbeat was loud and strong, and I watched a quiet and milky sky that helped soothe my unrest. His warmth and traces of his musky cologne—the Burberry I’d given him last Christmas—reminded me we didn’t have to be defined by the disease.
He took a small step back and looked at me. His lips parted as if he were going to say something, but no sound came.
His eyes moved to a large portrait my mom had given me when I’d started dancing professionally, a beautiful dressing-room photo of me applying dark shadow to already dark eyes. The makeup was perfect for the midnight blue tutu. Clear rhinestones and silver sequins and beads sparkled in the soft vanity light.
I remembered that recital. I’d already been accepted to the Allen Ballet—not a big company, but a respectable one and a great start of what I’d expected to be a brilliant career.
My old schoolteacher had choreographed Fritz Kreisler’s “Praeludium and Allegro” for me to dance at that recital, and it was beautiful. I’d felt so grown up, having a piece choreographed especially for me. I’d thought for sure I was on the path to ballet stardom.
My husband looked at me and then back at the girl in the portrait. Did he still feel like he was holding me back because of the disease? One day, maybe, I would manage to convince him that I loved him more than I loved ballet.
He sat and reached for the Gibson guitar that was on the nearby floor stand. I’d been trying to keep the instrument clean without touching the tuning pegs. He strummed all six strings twice and tried to adjust the tension on the first one, his hands failing to get a strong grasp of the tuning peg with each attempt.
I sat next to him, yearning to be near. Maybe he would let me help somehow. But he scooted away and my heart sank. Why don’t you let me help you, my love?
His left hand squeezed the guitar’s neck, his fingertips pale on the fretboard. His right hand kept hitting the strings too low or too high as he tried to play. But he braved each note and every line, and I recognized the song.
As he sang about a man and a woman who completed each other in the most simple and perfect ways, I did what I always do when I don’t want to cry. I counted. I smiled and looked beyond his shoulder, counting the bricks around the fireplace. Seventeen, eighteen…
He finished playing but didn’t lift his head.
“I love you so much.” Lift your head and look at me. Let me help.
“I love you too.” He spoke the words without looking up and with no excitement.
That was okay, though. We’d gone through so much over the years. I knew he loved me.
He put his guitar down and stared at it, looking betrayed.
God, help us…
He walked to the coffee table in small, careful steps and grabbed his keys.
Oh, no. Please don’t let him drive. Please, please, please. “Honey, do you really think you should—” The door slammed shut. Was he serious? I sat there gripping the arm of the couch with one hand and covering my mouth with the other.
At length, I crossed the room and pushed the curtain aside to scan the driveway. He was gone. I slammed both hands on the cold window. “Why?” Would he ever stop driving? His stubbornness would surely kill him sooner than the disease.
Why?
I put Don Quixote, a long and vibrant ballet, in the DVD player, and as I always did when he drove away like this, I tried—with some success—to lose myself in the beauty of the Mariinsky’s production, filmed in 2006 in St. Petersburg, Russia.
He was usually back before the gypsy dance, but the third act started without any sign of him. Drizzle now covered the window, and I did my best to focus on Dulcinea’s enchanted garden. God, please keep him safe. If You’re still mad at me, hurt me, but don’t let anything happen to him. He doesn’t deserve to suffer any more than he already has.
The fourth act started. Please, God.
Novikova was finishing her last solo. Don Quixote was almost over. I checked my phone. Four fifteen. Please, God. My hands were shaking, the palms clammy. I exhaled.
And then I heard it. The doorbell. I pulled in a sharp breath.
No one ever came to our place unannounced. No, God. No. Maybe he’s hurt. Spare him.
I opened the door and saw two police officers. The cold drizzle touched my face, and I heard the distant bark of our dog. But he was next to me. Had he barked? I saw one officer’s mouth move, but I couldn’t make out the words.
Memories of our wedding day and of our lives together flashed through my mind.
“I cannot lose him again,” I whispered.
Chapter 2
They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick: I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.
Mark 2:17
Columbus, Georgia
February 2008
Sergei Prokofiev’s music filled my heart with adolescent passion as I rehearsed the Romeo and Juliet balcony scene with Claus. Each haunting note set me on fire, a slow-burning and all-consuming fire that was as pure as it was intense. I was Juliet, and I was supposed to be in love. It was allowed. On that stage, it was okay to forget how much Claus had hurt me in the past, and it was okay to show love for a man other than my fiancé.
I watched Claus use up the whole stage, impressing me with the perfect combination of charisma and virtuosity, in turns and jumps that were faster and higher in person than on YouTube. Why are you here? He touched my cheek. Why after all these years?
The spell of the music and the moment slipped away.
“Ana!” The artistic director interrupted the rehearsal and stopped the orchestra. “What are you doing? You’re supposed to touch your cheek, where he just touched you. You started so strong. Wake up.” He snapped his fingers multiple times. “Let’s do it again. Focus. One hundred percent. Here. Now.”
“Great. Now I’m getting into trouble because of him,” I mumbled as I walked up to the wobbly gray balcony again, thankful my cheeks were already red from the physical exertion.
“Fine. Focus.” What if he told me he was divorced and that he’d come for me? Shh. Stop. “Here. Now.”
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I need to get this right. This is the chance of a lifetime. Next is the Met. I can do this.
“It’s okay. It’s allowed,” I whispered to myself while taking slow, rhythmic breaths to gain control.
The conductor lifted his baton and the musicians prepared. My hands steadied and my stomach unclenched. The orchestra started. Slowly. Softly. The melody church-like as I, Lady Juliet, paced my balcony dreaming of my Romeo.
A “ta-da” in the music interrupted the melody, startling Juliet and announcing Romeo’s arrival in the shadows of the night of old Verona. “Ta-da-da.” Between the dry-ice mist and the spotlight, I couldn’t see Claus at first, and the staccato of the music reflected Juliet’s confusion.
But then—magic. The fog dissipated slowly as if it too wanted to announce Romeo’s presence. The music softened, pulsating like a heartbeat. And then I saw him. My Romeo. What a vision … breathe. Claus kept his sand-blond hair a little longer now, wavy and just below the collar of Romeo’s puffy cream blouse. His baby face frozen at the sight of Lady Juliet. Who did he see? Just Lady Juliet, or could it be he still had feelings for me? His royal-blue eyes filled with expectation.
It didn’t matter. We were on stage. We were Romeo and Juliet. I could love him again. It was allowed.
I ran down to him. The melody became fully established. Luminous. Exalted. Beautiful. We locked eyes. We locked hands. We locked hearts. And then we danced.
I was in the moment, and this time I was able to stay in the moment, wrapped in the red cloak of desire, allowing Romeo to seduce Juliet completely.
Claus held my hands, his grip tight, palms sweaty, and lifted me in the air as if I were an ethereal being. Our connection was tender. He was attentive, and I was receptive. Time and again he begged me to stay. He wanted me to stay. He wanted to show his love. Oh, that was everything I’d dreamt of as a young girl.
Romeo kissed Juliet passionately, and lost in the moment, I melted in Claus’s arms, aware only of his strong body pressed against my small frame.
I didn’t want to stop kissing him, but Juliet had to run up to the balcony. Oh Juliet, Juliet … why? She should have stayed. I rushed back to the balcony, wishing I could remember the words of Shakespeare. What does Juliet say after the kiss? You would think I would know. But the words didn’t matter. She should have stayed.
“Bravo!” someone in the crowd of families and dancers shouted amid claps, whistles, and more shouts.
So this is what it feels like.
“Bravo!”
I came down from the balcony, a giant grin stretching my lips. What a treat—to dance the most romantic scene of the most romantic ballet with my first love and lover.
Claus reached for my hand for an improvised curtain call, and I blushed and looked down for a moment. This is it. This is my time.
I stepped forward, looked at all the faces, and curtsied. Next is the Met.
Brian, our artistic director, walked toward us with a spring in his step. That was all the excitement he was going to show. But that counted. That was our Brian. If he was not yelling, that meant he was happy.
“Ana, I love your little leap at the bottom of the steps but jump in a diagonal. This way when you run, he catches your hand center stage.”
“Got it.”
“Claus, this stage is not as big as the ones you are used to.” Brian chuckled, probably to keep things light. He was talking to one of the best dancers in the world. “You are coming out too far in your initial run. Stay close to the balcony. Work the shadows.”
Claus nodded. “Yes.”
“That’s it for tonight, everybody. We meet here again tomorrow at four for a light class and warm up. We’re expecting a full house.” Brian raised both eyebrows and lowered his head to look at us over his eyeglasses. “Ana and Claus, feel free to stay and go over anything you may need to. I have a dinner with our sponsors.”
I watched him walk toward the dark curtains.
“Do you mind going over my entrance to mark the things Brian mentioned?” Claus used his wrist to wipe sweat off his forehead.
“Let’s do it.” I stretched my arms and moved my head from side to side. “Wait until people leave?”
“Yeah.”
Where is your wife? I should just ask.
Claus was still a principal in the same company in Wiesbaden where he’d started his career, in their native Germany. But there was no mention of her on the company website, not anymore. She’d been the highest ranking dancer there for many years too.
But I couldn’t ask. I mean, I could … but I shouldn’t. How could I possibly maintain my I-don’t-care façade and attitude if I asked? The question would betray me.
Claus went over some of his turns. No, I couldn’t ask.
I looked up at the balcony and went over the spacing in my head. Why was it taking so long for the theater to clear?
Suddenly being there felt wrong. I was with Peter now and I was happy. I’m just working. Nothing to it.
A hand on my shoulder startled me.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” Claus took a small step back. “Sorry. Are you ready?”
“Sure.” Why did he have to be so perfect? I touched my shoulder—the spot where his hand had been—and climbed up to the balcony.
“Pa pa.” He went through the steps of his entrance without actually doing them, walking and marking the space instead. “Parara, parara, pararara. Pa pa pa…”
“You must have it right because I can’t see you at all.” I stretched as far as I could to look for him. “You’re good.”
“Good.” He showed up at the bottom of the steps. “Now come on down.”
He disappeared again, and I came down looking for him. Where are you, Romeo?
Then right where Brian wanted us to meet, I felt Claus’s warm hand on mine.
“And that’s good.” The pitch of his voice was low. I’m not going to look at him. No way.
We walked forward. Right, left, right, left. I withdrew my hand from his and touched my chest to feel my heartbeat. At that point I was supposed to take his hand and place it over my heart so he could feel it too.
Should I? Did I trust myself around him? Not today. I took a step back.
He lowered his gaze.
Did I still love him? I had to be able to answer that question, right? The theater air touched my cheeks and cooled my face. Who was I kidding? I already knew the answer—had always known the answer. So much. There. I loved him so much…
But I loved Peter too. Just as much—maybe more. Definitely more. Didn’t I? Claus had to go. “We’re done then.”
“Do you want to go over anything else with me?”
Like why you’re here? “No. I’m good.”
He nodded but stayed on the same spot.
“I want to go over a couple of things on my own.” Please leave. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The orchestra was still practicing bits and pieces of our music. Enough with the balcony scene already—please.
“You go to bed early, yes?”
“Yes.” I took another step back. “Promise.”
I watched him as he walked toward the stage door. His body hadn’t changed in a decade—his legs were as perfectly muscular now as they’d been when I’d first seen him. He was compact, like Michelangelo’s David.
He was walking a little taller and slower than usual.
Oh, I bet he knows I’m looking. I closed my eyes and blushed. Claus needed to stay in the past where he belonged.
I filled my lungs to capacity and exhaled slowly. Peter should have come to the rehearsal. He was the perfect mix of handsome, successful, and easygoing, and the mere sight of him relaxed me and put a smile on my face. He was my future. Everything else was nonsense.
I didn’t want to wait another day to see him, but for him to stay away from his Pine Mountain ranch for two nights, he had to plan ahead. Didn’t hurt to ask, though. I would call him on my way home. I climbed the narrow steps leading to the balcony, the thin wood moving and squeaking under my Bloch Balance European pointe shoes.
What I’d told Claus about staying back wasn’t true. I didn’t really need to go over anything. I was just not ready to go home. In the middle of all my heart’s turmoil, it would have been easy to overlook the marvelous quality of what was happening to me on that stage, but I didn’t want to overlook anything. This is my moment—my season to dance—the best thing that’s ever happened to me in my career.
Once at the top, I sat on the edge of the balcony, swinging my legs like a little girl—hoping not to freeze in Juliet’s silky cream gown.
As I indulged in I-can’t-believe-I’m-Juliet thoughts, the structure wobbled and squeaked again. My heart raced and I felt dizzy.
Who could be coming up?
“No way,” I whispered, spotting Claus.
He sat by my side and stared at the dark audience, as I did. And like me, he said nothing.
We watched the orchestra pack up and heard the pit grow silent. Soon everything was quiet except for sporadic shouts from one stagehand to another. What was he doing?
His hand inched toward mine, and I closed my eyes.
I felt the warmth of his fingertips and welcomed the heat.
And then thin fabric caressed my hand. Huh? I looked down and gasped. “You’ve kept it.” The delicate cherries of my small neck scarf had faded, as had the aquamarine chiffon. The tiny white polka dots were barely visible now. I held the scarf up, examining it as though it were a rare jewel.
He’d bought it for me at the Saks Fifth Avenue store in New York and given it to me on our most memorable date.
I’d handed the scarf back to him at the end of every encounter, so he could always have a little bit of me with him.
He’d kept it. All these years, he’d kept it.
I looked at him, my heartbeat loud and strong. He’d kept me.
His eyes no longer reflected the exuberance of Romeo’s feelings. Instead, they were filled with sorrow. And love, too. It was all so unexpected. I was in dangerous territory, but I didn’t stop.
With his fingers under my chin, a Claus signature move I remembered well, he pulled me in and kissed me. I felt his lips part, and as I reciprocated, I resisted the urge to go from gentle to passionate. Gentle was good. Gentle was right.
Things were perfect just the way they were, right there on that balcony ten feet above the stage floor, and I wanted to be there forever.
If only for that moment, the brokenness in me was fixed.
The perpetual ache erased.
If only for a moment.
But he pulled back, nibbling my wet lips with a sigh before a quick kiss in the middle. Then one on the corner.
He faced forward again and held my now sweaty and shaky hand.
Oh, this is amazing. Wow. “Claus…”
He brought my unsteady fingers to his soft, perfect lips.
His kiss was warm. Tender. Wow…
But then he let go of my hand.
I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want it to be over. Again, I didn’t want it to be over.
He looked at the scarf on my lap, and his eyes were sad once more.
Why hadn’t he stayed with me that first time—ten years ago? Now it was too late. Did he realize that too?
He kissed my forehead and stood.
Hot tears filled my eyes. What could we have done differently? Oh, what I wouldn’t have done to avoid the pain of that moment. Hopelessness pooled in my stomach as I watched him leave. Please look back.
A Season to Dance Page 3