by Sarah Rubin
Mama stays in bed, so I cook dinner: soup with vegetables and no chicken fat. I’ve thrown out the butter and sour cream and all the things Gran used to cook, used to cook. But I don’t cry. I’ve gotta be strong for Mama.
When the hospital calls about what to do with Gran’s body, I tell Mama I’m going for a walk. At the hospital, Mrs. Ryder says she will help me with the funeral arrangements. She says she is sorry and I say thank you, but I don’t really mean it. I don’t really believe that Gran is dead. How could she be? How could Gran, who always knew what to say, die? How could the Cakewalk Queen die?
The funeral is on Thursday. Mama is a little better. She makes me put on the old black dress and pinchy patent-leather shoes Mrs. Ryder sent over. I don’t want to wear them. I don’t care that they’re Ann-Lee’s. I just don’t want to wear them because wearing black is like admitting defeat. But when I look at Mama’s red eyes, I shut my mouth and squeeze in my feet.
The cemetery is full of Warren. All dressed in black and tipping their hats to pay their respects. Everyone seems to have a story about her. “Your gran,” they say as they smile at me. And I know they mean it kindly. But every time they say it, it pinches at my soul, just like Ann-Lee Ryder’s shoes are pinching at my feet, making my toes cramp.
I want them to go away. She is my gran, not theirs. They weren’t there with her like Mama and me. They didn’t know her, not really, no matter what stories they tell. Mama is crying, and I want to cover her ears and take her away and yell at the rest of them that Gran is not dead. Even when they lower the coffin into the ground I don’t believe it. Gran couldn’t fit into that box. Gran is the whole world.
Mr. and Mrs. Ryder drive Mama and me home. Mama’s eyes are pink, but they’re dry. Ann-Lee sits fidgeting in the seat next to me. She is much smaller than I remember. She offers me a lemon drop. I look at her. I want to say congratulations for getting into the ballet school. I mean it, too, and that surprises me. But I can’t. Not yet. Instead, I take the lemon drop and say thank you as nicely as I can.
Mrs. Ryder wants us to come back to their house after the funeral where everyone can say they’re sorry and feed us comfort food. But I say no. I don’t think Mama or me will ever get comfort from eating again. Great helpings of chicken and potatoes will always remind me too much of Gran. Instead I just ask the Ryders to take us home.
The first thing I do is kick off Ann-Lee’s too-tight shoes. I flick them angrily across the kitchen and tear off the itchy black dress after them. Gran is not dead and I’m not in mourning. Mama turns to look at me — standing in the middle of the kitchen just wearing my underwear — and suddenly her face cracks open and I see her smile. I smile, too. We’re going to be OK, Mama and me.
Two days later, I walk in on Mama opening the mail. Reading the cards that make her sad all over again. “I’m Sorry,” they say, and “With Deepest Sympathy.” I wish people would stop sending them. Mama pulls a plain envelope out of the pile and opens it with shaky hands. Then Mama is falling, crunching in at the stomach and crumpling at the knees. It reminds me of the dancers in Miss Martha’s class. Only Mama doesn’t spring up from the floor. She just sits there crying without making a sound or shedding a tear.
I pick up the paper she was reading. It’s a bill from the hospital for Gran’s stay. Just one sheet of paper and not even a note saying, “We’re sorry we couldn’t save her.”
The next day, I am back at work cleaning the recovery ward. I don’t dance my broom dance. I just sweep and empty the trash cans into the big bin at the end of the hall. I don’t go to the janitor’s office unless I have to, because I always see Gran sitting there, resting her feet on her bucket and drinking her cup of coffee.
Mama is back at work, too, because the bill for Gran is expensive. I bet Gran would be real mad if she knew, but that hurts too much to think about. I wish I could stop school and just work. I want to help Mama pay the bill, because owing the money is like having Gran die again every day. But Mama won’t even let me talk about quitting school.
I’m glad when people stop asking how we are doing. I am tired of lying. I feel numb inside when the Priss brags about her big city plans for next year, Sally and Beth hanging on every word. They always drop their voices low when I walk by, like they’re worried I might break if I hear them. But I am too tired to care.
It is all sweep, eat, sweep, sleep for me and Mama. It is a rhythm, but it’s not a dance. Nothing is a dance anymore.
It is a month and two weeks exactly after we buried Gran. I walk home from the hospital slowly, tired and hollow. Each step thuds against the side of the road. Mama is waiting for me at home. She works the night shift most days now. It pays more, but it means we only see each other for about an hour at dinner. Two ships passing in the night, Mama calls us.
Today Mama is sitting at the kitchen table with an old shoe box and a stack of papers. Her face is dry, but I can see where her tears have left two salty tracks along her cheeks.
“Sit down, Casey,” Mama says. I pull up a seat.
Mama pushes the shoe box toward me. It is full of money, full like a treasure chest, full of dimes and nickels and quarters and rolled-up dollar bills neatly wrapped together with kitchen twine. I look at Mama, my mouth open wide. There must be a hundred dollars there, at least.
“Where’d you get this?” I ask.
“I started to clean out Gran’s room,” Mama says quietly, staring at the tabletop.
“You were going through Gran’s stuff?” I say angrily. That’s Gran’s room. No one goes in there but her.
Mama doesn’t say anything. She just hands me a sheet of paper and folds her arms. It is a letter from Gran.
I always knew I wouldn’t be around forever, and if you’re reading this it means I’m gone. I have lived a full life and I’ve followed my dreams and I don’t have any regrets. You can’t ask for more than that. This money is for Casey to follow her dreams, wherever they take her. Make sure she uses it well.
I read the letter again. And then again, just to make sure. But the letters are strong and wobbly, just like Gran. I know she really wrote it. The money is mine, but I don’t want it at all.
The money sits between us like an accusing finger. This is all your fault and now you have me, so I hope you’re happy.
I am not happy. I killed Gran. All those times she sneaked sweets and second helpings, and cooked with butter or fat from the can. I never said anything. Mama tried to save her, but I never helped. That’s why Gran always won.
Worst of all were the mornings I had detention. I lied and told Mama that Gran and I were taking a walk. She’d been so happy that Gran was exercising, and I was so worried about being in trouble and not being allowed to audition that I didn’t tell her the truth. I was greedy for my dream, so greedy I forgot my family. And now the money points at me.
“You can have the money,” I say. “That will pay the hospital bill.”
A storm passes over Mama’s face. For a moment, I think she’s going to slap me.
“How dare you even think that? Your gran didn’t work cleaning that hospital for forty years to save this money just so you could give it right back.”
My heart leaps, because this is Mama talking, the real Mama. My no-nonsense, strict-as-nails Mama. But I still don’t agree with her.
“But Mama —” I say.
“No buts, Casey. Gran said that money is for you to follow your dreams. So you better use it.”
Mama’s voice is so sure that I feel myself go soft against it. And when I go soft I feel something that might be hope. But when I look at it, it’s not. It’s too low around the edges to be hope.
“Mama,” I say. “I don’t know if I can dance anymore.”
Mama hugs me. We hug a lot more now than we used to.
“Casey, you were born dancing. I’ve been trying to get you to sit still your whole life.”
I smile but I don’t really mean it. All the dance went out of me when Gran died, like a snuffed candle.
“I know you’re sad now, Casey, but think about Gran.” I don’t want to think about Gran. It makes the ache come back. “Think about what she would want you to do. She wouldn’t want you to spend the rest of your life cleaning the hospital.”
I want to ask, What about you? Do you want to spend the rest of your life cleaning the hospital? But I am too tired to argue. Mama nods. She stands up and puts the money in the cookie tin on top of the refrigerator. Then I go to bed, and she goes to work.
The next morning I’m late for school, but no one says anything. They just cluck and shake their heads as I walk by. I grind my teeth because I know what they’re thinking. They’re thinking, Poor Casey Quinn. She’s lost her grandmother. We’ll give her time. She’ll get over it. But I won’t. Not ever, you hear me?
I am still fuming when I get to work. I scrub the dirt like it’s all those people who think they know how I feel. They don’t know anything. I slip into Mr. Homes’s room, silent as a flea. I wouldn’t want to disturb His Majesty. Oh, no, not precious Mr. Homes.
He’s sitting up on his web of a bed, waiting for me. He always watches me clean, and I always ignore him.
“You’re in a mood today, aren’t you?” he says as I beat the dust with my broom. “Who pickled your ears?”
It’s the first time he’s said anything to me since before the ballet audition. I go right on ignoring him.
“You lose your voice or something?”
I empty the dustpan into the trash.
“Well, at least I don’t have to watch that infernal cakewalk you call dancing anymore.”
I slam the trash can down, pick up the bag, and start to head out of the room.
When I reach the doorway, Mr. Homes says, “Wait.”
I don’t know why I turn around. He probably wants to tell me I missed a spot. I stare at him, waiting. He looks a little confused, like he’s scared of my eyes.
“I’m . . .” He licks his lips. “Your grandmother was a powerful lady,” he says. “I’m sure you miss her.” Then he clears his throat and rolls over, turning his back to me.
I stand there, wide-eyed.
“Well, can’t you see I’m trying to sleep?” he rumbles.
I think that is the closest Mr. Homes has ever come to saying he’s sorry, to anyone. And the funny thing is, out of all the people saying things about Gran, I think that Mr. Homes is the only one who even started to understand.
I wonder if he lost someone he loved as wide as the ocean, and if that’s what made him so hateful. Maybe Gran knew that. I think Gran knew a lot about people. I throw the trash bag into the big bin at the end of the hall, and then start for home.
I don’t want to turn sour inside like Mr. Homes, but I don’t know how to stop it. Already I can feel my soul curdling, and every time I think about Gran it gets worse. All my trapped tears are in there like poison, but I can’t let them out. Now I know why Mama is so sour sometimes. I wonder if that’s why she gave up painting.
Step. Swish. Step. I sway down the sidewalk toward home, looking for an answer, and only seeing my feet.
I sit still and unsmiling the whole bus ride to New York. I feel unsolid and uncomfortable in my blue-and-white-striped traveling dress. I am so different from who I was the last time I wore this dress. That evil worm is coiling itself inside my stomach and squeezing all of my organs into new, uncomfortable places. The only way to keep it quiet is to be very still. I spend most of the time staring out the window but not seeing anything.
I leave Warren at night, and it is already afternoon when the man calls, “Port Authority.” No one even looks at me as I walk toward Miss Martha’s studio. I drag my feet the whole way.
I don’t understand why Mama sent me here. She was right before. A person shouldn’t be greedy for their dreams. Besides, even if I get in, I can’t go. I can’t leave Mama all by herself in dry-as-dust Warren. Just her and the hospital. She needs me.
I walk up the steps and go into the studio. The same strange, wobbling music fills the air and my heart leaps a little, but I stop it flat. It isn’t right to want to dance when I don’t have Gran anymore.
There are only a few other girls here, and a boy. I go to the corner and take off my top layer. I’m wearing the leotard Gran made and it itches, but it is the only one I have.
Miss Martha sweeps into the room. Her lips are painted bright red and her hair is pulled back with a white band.
“Take the floor,” she says. We spread out across the room and watch each other nervously. “We will begin with bounces. Edith will demonstrate.”
A skinny woman with long dark hair moves to the front of the room and sits down facing us with her knees bent and the soles of her feet together. She then curves her back and bounces her head gently toward her feet.
I remember seeing the dancers stretching like this when I was here before, and as I sit down it seems like that was a very long time ago.
“Now in time with my counting,” Miss Martha says.
So I bounce. But the movement doesn’t fill me up like it used to. This thing growing inside me seems to be taking up all the space.
Edith moves her legs out to the sides and keeps bouncing. I copy her.
Miss Martha stops us. “Now we will try something more difficult. Watch Edith.”
Edith kneels next to Miss Martha. She isn’t pretty like a ballet dancer, all soft lines and grace, but when she moves everyone seems to stop breathing.
Miss Martha counts to six, and with each beat Edith shifts, her body surging forward like a river breaking its banks. Her head is on the floor, her back arching until I can see the force in her legs like the high winds of a hurricane. She relaxes back and then rolls forward again, her whole body rippling and rushing like water. She is beautiful and strong, and it is frightening to look at her.
Miss Martha looks at us. “We will try. The power comes from drawing your stomach toward your spine as you breathe out. Use your breath.”
We all kneel, and she raps out the counts with her feet.
One. I flow forward slowly, more like a gentle stream than a river in the rainy season. I want to dance like Edith, to dance out all my feelings like I used to, but it hurts too much.
Two. I place my head on the floor and breathe in the dust of the studio.
Three. Up again.
Four. Head on the floor.
Five. Breathe.
Six. Get ready to start again.
Miss Martha walks around the room, watching us all carefully. “No, breathe out forcefully. Keep your stomach strong.” She scowls at us and roars, “Again.”
My legs start to tremble.
“Stop!” She is standing next to me. “What happened to you? Why aren’t you dancing?”
I look up into her huge eyes. I don’t want to say anything. Miss Martha waits. She isn’t going to let me pretend nothing is wrong. I swallow hard. Then I say what I haven’t said yet. I haven’t said it to anyone. Not even to myself.
“My gran died,” I say. One fat tear, big enough to hold all the sadness I haven’t cried, wiggles behind my eye.
“So?” says Miss Martha, raising one eyebrow like it is a dance all by itself. “You shouldn’t stop dancing because you are sad. You should dance more than ever. We’ll do the exercise again,” she says to the class. “And this time put some feeling into the movement. Let your body speak. One!”
I breathe out hard and roll forward and think about Gran. It hurts, but I make myself do it anyway.
Two. My neck curves as if I’m diving into murky water, and I think about her smile and her great wobbly arms and how she always believed in me.
Three. I push up, fighting against the storm. I think about her swollen ankles and how she never listened to Mama, not once.
Four. I become the river, anger and sadness flowing into my movements. Why wouldn’t she listen? Why did she have to be so stubborn?
Five. Breathe.
“Six!” yells Miss Martha. “Again!”
; One. The news of Gran’s death washes over me like a flood, rolling my body forward and forcing the air from my lungs.
Two. I hold on to my sadness with all my strength, arching my back until I feel I must break.
Three. I rise up as if to catch my breath until . . .
Four. The power of the river pulls me back down, tumbling over and through and all around me.
Five. I sit still, holding tight to Gran’s memory.
Six. Again.
And again.
And again.
We run through the moves until my muscles are numb. I am sweaty and tired, but I keep going, driven by emotion. I finally understand how Ann-Lee danced until her feet bled. As I feel the tumble and rush of the movement, all of my sadness rises to the surface of my skin. I shut my eyes because I don’t want to look. But Miss Martha yells, “Don’t shut your eyes. Shutting your eyes is cowardly and self-indulgent. Present your gaze!”
My eyes snap open as we go through the counts again. The cycle of loving Gran, and letting go, and understanding that she’s gone.
When we finally stop, I am soaking wet from sweat and from tears. I am crying. Giant sobs shake my whole body and fill the room, but I don’t care.
“All right,” Miss Martha says. “That’s enough.” She is talking about both my tears and the audition. I nod and dry my face. I feel very light.
No one says anything about my crying as we dress and go out to the hall to wait. No one talks to me, either, but I don’t mind. I feel very separate from everything. All I want to do is to go home and see Mama.
One by one, the other dancers are called back into the room, and one by one they come back out and leave. I am called in last.
Miss Martha is sitting in a director’s chair at one end of the room. She motions me over to her.