Brisé

by Leigh Ann Lunsford

  The American Ballet Theatre is performing Sleeping Beauty tonight, and I remember seeing Phoebe dance in that. Of course she was the focus of my universe, and I only watched her on stage. Her mom used to tell me it was because you could only watch her. She was that damn hypnotic. Phoebe swore she never had the bug to dance with a ballet company, but I think she was scared to try. She didn’t train under influential teachers, didn’t perform the camps offered by world renowned ballet companies . . . she couldn’t because she was usually tethered to a chemotherapy IV bag. Her mom never doubted her talent and said it didn’t always matter what training you had, it’s what you could tell the audience. The best dancers weaved a narrative with their movements. I stop and re-read what I just saw. Under ballerina the name Phoebe Wells is listed . . . it says under her name ‘one of the ballerinas last performances.’ I stare at that program. Do I dare? I make my way to the ticket booth and buy a ticket for the show this evening. I’m not sure what I just paid for it, nor where I’m sitting, but I do know that in about three hours I am going to see her again. The girl who stole my heart eighteen years ago, and the one who ruined it four years ago.

  I take the subway home, needing some solace before I see her, even if from afar. I question if this is the right maneuver. I don’t want her to see me; she made herself perfectly clear the day she left and each day after that she stayed away. No contact is what she wanted and what she gave in return. I’ve always put her wishes above mine, but tonight I need to see her. I will be leaving tomorrow and heading home. I have no idea where she’ll be after tonight, so I will be selfish this once.

  Dressing quickly and pacing my apartment, I watch the clock tick, the minutes dragging on. Finally, it’s time to leave, and I hail a cab outside my apartment. I arrive with plenty of time to spare and sit down on the steps pondering what it will be like to watch her dance again. My arms ache to hold her, my lips tingle remembering what it was like to feel her skin on them . . . and my heart aches from missing her. My pulse is erratic from anticipation and not able to wait another moment I walk in the doors to find my seat. It’s an ominous feeling, not knowing what to expect, knowing I won’t speak to her, feel her, suddenly the loss is almost too much to bear. I stand to leave, not able to withstand the torture I’m about to witness. The lights dim and a hush falls over the auditorium. I sit back down and prepare myself.

  Hearing the music start and watching the curtain raise, my whole body is attune to her presence. I watch the scenes before me, but when she steps on stage to do her variance; my skin breaks into goose bumps. It’s the closest I’ve been to her in four years, and I start to memorize every curve that has changed, the muscle tone she’s developed, and the way her feet move in tune to the music, her body swaying gently and performing to perfection. I’m mesmerized, her beauty and grace, her steps . . . just her. I am so unbelievably proud of her; she made it. I am also incredibly sad to see both of our goals reached, but individually, not as one, as I always envisioned.

  The woman next to me gasps when Phoebe does a grand jeté, leaping in the air effortlessly. She lands perfectly and continues like she wasn’t just soaring, lithely never missing a beat. I’m feeling a bit emasculated right now that I know these terms, but it was her life, so I made it a part of mine. Each time I watch her is like seeing her for the first time, and from the trance the audience is in, they feel the same. Additional dancers come out; she’s lifted and handed from one male dancer to another, never losing her focus or balance. Intermission comes, and I’m still riveted in my seat, staring at the place she just left. I should have left before it began; now I couldn’t be dragged away.

  The rest of the performance continues as the beginning. Stunning. Perfect. The curtain descends, blocking my vision of Phoebe. I know it will rise again, allowing me one more glimpse of her. A deep bass fills the theatre, not sure what the music is I watch as the upper principal dancers come out for their curtsy and accolade. Once the stage is again clear, she appears. Doing a small solo, I watch her and forget to breathe. The beats of the drum sound like a heartbeat, and she cups her stomach in a loving gesture, hands linked yet seemingly pumping blood through her; then the melody changes, and I feel like she’s forcing herself to be torn in two. She’s emulating a back and forth struggle, she looks so small up there, slaying an unseen antagonist. I’m frozen in place watching her, feeling her pain, wanting to wield a sword to defend her. I can’t because I realize she is enacting our past in dance. It’s like she gave me a manuscript with our history, our secret burdens and ultimate triumphs written out for me to drown in. I can’t look away. Finally she stops, bending to pick up all the roses thrown out to her, then disappears for a second time. Wiping tears from her cheeks the woman next to me says, “It’s like I was watching a movie. A tragedy, a love story that hasn’t ended.”

  “It ended. About four years ago,” I tell her before I make my way out of the auditorium, hailing a cab home. I walk in, glancing around at the emptiness and decide now is the best time to leave. No reason to put it off for another day. I pick up the bag that I packed earlier, flip the lights back off and leave New York, for good. Alone, once again.

  Chapter 18

  Phoebe

  Tonight’s performance feels different. An electrical current is buzzing through all of us, and I play it off as melancholy. This is one of my last times dancing on stage, having accomplished a dream that was never mine. I’m heading home in one week to find my dreams. These last months have allowed me to gain perspective, put past transgressions to rest, and open myself up to believe again. In closing myself off, I stopped myself from healing. Not allowing my emotions out, I hindered any growth. I still have moments where I want to go back in the dark, live in the existence of numbness and unreality . . . but I don’t. I know going home will be hard. I left chaos and pain in my wake. Luke won’t be there, and I have to make amends with that.

  Brett and James have even agreed to think about moving when Brett’s time is up with the ballet. He always has a job with the studio, and Myra says the thrill of me coming home to teach is drawing in students, some willing to travel for over an hour to train under me. I still plan to keep it small and not get too grandiose. I just want to dance for the love of dancing and teach another child the joy that can be found. I’ve enjoyed my time on stage, but I had greater pleasure inside my old studio.

  Standing in the wings, getting ready to take center stage, my heart rate begins to accelerate. I never feel like this before I go on. I’ve only felt like this one other time in my life . . . when I had my audition and he was there. He was my calm before the storm and the raging inferno of my fire. I try and peer out to the audience, but can’t see a thing. I know I am being ridiculous, he isn’t here; he doesn’t even know where I am. As much as he used to support me and my dancing, he isn’t the type to wander in to a ballet on his own. I’m just hyper-aware ever since learning he moved to New York. When we aren’t traveling and at home for performances, I swear I can feel him on the streets, in the park, but tonight I feel differently. I shake it off, focusing on the job in front of me. I dance for the love of it, never missing a step; the whole troupe is on time and flawless. That’s what we are paid to do. Before last curtain call, I take another look, and still can’t see anything. I perform, like always, but this time I feel like I am being judged . . . watched intently, and I want every line in my story to be told. I want there to be no doubt what I’ve faced, what I am working to overcome, and what is still in front of me. I take a final bow and walk off stage.

  I rush past Brett and make my way to the side exit, desperately needing fresh air, I need this overwhelming feeling to disappear. I push open the door and make a left turn. I look to my right and stop all movement. That caramel hair, that walk, his stature . . . it is all how I remember it. He was here, he watched me dance, and never came to find me. I watch as he walks out the doors, out of my life the way I did to him, but I never made a step to stop him. Brett comes up behind me, “Pheebs, you
look like you saw a ghost.”

  “No, just Luke,” I manage to say before I bolt for the exit. He follows closely behind me. Part one of my self-imposed therapy was telling him everything. Of course, his advice was for me to call Luke a year ago, let him know where my head was at that time in the hospital, and see if we had a chance. My reaction was to ignore his advice. I still wasn’t ready. Cowardly of me, I know, but I was still too fragile, things were still too much. I don’t expect to see him and fall back in his arms. He has to be bitter, which is warranted. I still have residual anger, which is unresolved in my heart, and I don’t know how to breach that impasse between my head and my heart.

  “He came to see you dance?” I shrug my shoulders because I don’t know why he came. “Was she with him?” I hate when he brings up Katie . . . I have replayed the words ‘dashing duo’ in my head enough.

  The silence continues to hang around us, and I break it. “I’m good. I knew he was here.”

  “He told you? Have you been holding out on me?”

  “No. I just always know when he’s near. I can feel it.” He gives me his eyes, and the display of pity is almost my undoing. I shake my head at him, begging him to stop. Reaching out he grabs my hand, pulls me to his chest, and lets me cry against him. “He didn’t even wait around to see me.” Brett has no response for me; we both know actions speak louder than words. Luke wasn’t here to see me, to talk to me, but I don’t know why the hell he was here. Before I can get lost in the despair, I wipe my eyes and shove my emotions down. It’s a bad habit, one I was trying to break, but I wasn’t prepared for tonight. I realize now, I won’t ever be ready for the feelings he evokes in me. I was good when he was there, protecting me and supporting me, but when he is walking away from me, I can’t handle them. Irony hits me full force, this must be how he felt. I had a purpose when I left. I had cancer to defeat, and a dream to achieve. He had nothing, but a town full of memories and a heart full of love with nobody to give it to. I am so sorry, Luke. I hope he knows that, and maybe one day I’ll get a chance to tell him.

  Getting through the last few performances became a chore, and I wasn’t at my best. When I suggested to Claude that he let my understudy take over sooner than expected he all but jumped at the chance. Saying goodbye to Brett and James a mere two days after seeing Luke is almost too much. It almost feels like that day I left my hometown. Too many farewells in my life. At least this time it isn’t forever. I know they’ll come visit even if they don’t relocate. I let Myra know last night I would arrive today and made the decision not to stay at my house. I’m not ready to come face to face with the walls that hold such fond memories, but also the last memories with every important person in my life I’ve lost. There is a small space attached to the studio that can be converted to a living space, so I can stay in a hotel for a few weeks. Myra offered his house, and I quickly declined. Never being very close to him until my parents’ death, it just wasn’t a comfortable situation for me. He said he would get construction started right away, and there isn’t much to do; put up a few dividing walls, check the electricity, and furnish it.

  I’m drained from my flight, and immediately crash on the bed as soon as I walk in the room. When I wake up, it’s close to dinnertime so I order room service, check in with Brett, and go back to sleep. I feel refreshed this morning as I take in the pale walls of the hotel room and decide I need some color in my life, so my first stop will be Momma Nichols. I cut her out of my life when I left; it was a selfish move, and I regret it. I just hope she can forgive me. I may have lost my mom, her son, and our baby, but she lost her best friend, grandchild, and her son along the way because I am sure I didn’t leave him in one piece. All I can do is grovel for forgiveness and hope she welcomes me back in to her life.

  Hesitantly, I bring my hand up to knock on the front door. It feels weird to do so, this was my second home, and we never had formalities like knocking on the door. It flies open before the second wrap of my knuckles, like she’s expecting someone, but by the look on her face, it wasn’t me. “Phoebe,” she whispers. “Oh, my girl, come here.” I feel her grasp my arms as she pulls me towards her, and once she embraces me, a wave of relief passes through my body. I wrap my arms around her, and I can feel her body shake as she cries. I give her this moment, knowing how she feels. I pull back and give her a weak smile. I’m unsure … is she really happy to see me or was that a knee jerk reaction from me being like a daughter to her for so long?

  “Hey, Mrs. Nichols.”

  “Child, when did Mrs. replace Momma? I can still tan your hide. Now get in here and tell me where you’ve been.” It feels like I never left, but at the same time like I’ve been gone forever. The house is exactly like I remembered, but along the dining room wall, boxes are stacked and suitcases next to it. She notices me looking, “Mr. Nichols and I are going on a vacation. A long overdue vacation, and I’m preparing.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “All over. A cruise in the Bahamas, two weeks in Paris, and then driving to the mountains for a month. Six whole weeks together, one of us may not come back alive.” I smile at her casual demeanor, and it’s easy to see how excited she is. Examining the boxes, I can tell she’s been online shopping . . . a lot. “So fill me in. Help yourself to what you want, you know where everything is.”

  “I’m sorry, Momma Nichols.” I can’t keep it in. I need her to know I am remorseful and that I did miss her.

  “For what Phoebe?”

  “Running. Leaving you, leaving home, but most of all for the way I treated the only family I have left.”

  “There’s a lot I could say to you about your choices, but you have to live with them. I understand, in a way, why you did what you did at first. I don’t know why you stayed away for so long, or why it was all so secret. We love you like our own and would’ve done our best to respect what you wanted. It’s been four years, you are almost twenty-two years old, so you don’t owe me an apology. Now tell me where you’ve been.” I can read between the lines, I may not owe her an apology but I owe her son one.

  “Mainly New York. I danced after going through chemo.” She raises her eyebrows at me, and I know she isn’t happy I did that alone. “I beat it again, it was hard, but I persevered. I danced, just like my mom wanted.” I let her take that in and see the tears welling in her eyes.

  “She would have loved that.”

  “I know. She saw me, and I know she was smiling down at me. I traveled a little, too, different states; Arizona, California, Minnesota, wherever we had a performance, but we were based out of New York.”

  “You’ve been there the whole time?”

  “I know that’s where he is, and no, I never saw him,” I lie to her. I don’t want to tell her about my performance.

  “You home for good?”

  “Yes, I am converting the extra space in the studio to an apartment, and I am going to start teaching.”

  “What’s wrong with the house?”

  “I’m just not ready.”

  “You are. You just can’t admit that to yourself. That’s your home, Phoebe. We are only given one life, you have been given more chances than most . . . don’t throw it away because of your fears.”

  “I do love him, you know.”

  “Love is a verb, Phoebe, not a noun. You need to show that action, not spout if off so easily. For one syllable, that’s a powerful word, one that has the power to make you or break you. I have seen it do both with each of you.” I don’t have a rebuttal to that. After a few moments of silence, she starts filling me in on the comings and goings of the town. It’s time for me to go, and she reminds me, “I’m always here for you, no matter what; but you need to accept what you did and move on from it. You can make amends, but it’s your future actions that will prove what your intentions are. Don’t make me miss you again, please.” I give her a hug with a promise that won’t happen.

  “When do you leave?”

  “In two days. Mr. Nichols is closing a deal tom
orrow, and his replacement will be here sometime next week. When we get back, don’t be a stranger.”

  “Never again.” I feel lighter as I make my way back to the hotel. It will take some maneuvering around sensitive subjects, but I have two very important people back in my life, and with them I feel a bit more grounded . . . to life, to my parents, and to Luke.

  I make a detour to see how the construction is going and if there is an estimated time frame. I walk in to sawdust, drywall, and the stench of hard working males. One stands out and as the smile spreads across his face, I know he hasn’t forgotten me. “Hey, Phoebe. Long time no see.”

  “Hey Drake. Surprised to see you here.”

  “It’s my brother’s business. I work for him occasionally. I thought this was your mom’s place. Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay. It’s my place now, and this will be my apartment.”

  “You aren’t living in your house?”

  “Have you been under a rock? I haven’t been home for four years.”

  “I haven’t been around for about three. Got caught selling.” He seems ashamed.

  “Hope you learned your lesson.” He just nods at me. “Any idea on how much longer?”

  “Probably another day. I’m putting the floors in when we are done with all the construction.”

  “Can I paint before you do that? I need color in my life.” I don’t know why I just told him that.

  “I’ll help you paint and let you throw me off schedule if you agree to one thing.”

  “What?”

  “Dinner with me. We got kind of cheated in high school.”

  I laugh out loud at him. “Cheated? You did do that well.” I pause because that wasn’t fair. “I’m sorry, Drake. You may have been a cheater but we weren’t really ever exclusive, we were fill-ins for each other.”