by Maggie Wells
Diane proved to be a visionary and we discovered that I was good at execution. Dance schools in the greater New York City area were a dime a dozen as were the aspiring stars. But Diane had discovered a way to bring together the demand and supply for young dancers. She called our school “Broadway Connect” and all of our classes quickly sold out. That allowed us to become more selective and we started requiring auditions, only accepting the most promising students. The strategy paid off. We began to build a reputation in New York and as far away as Los Angeles as an elite school and a reliable source of talent.
I loved being around the girls, the pre-teens especially. They were still babies and had yet to develop the cattiness and sassy backtalk of the older girls. The younger ones looked up to me and seemed to bask in individual attention. I wondered about their home lives and what made them act so needy.
My favorite was Greta. She was ten, with strawberry hair and freckles. She still carried a little baby fat, but she was showing real talent and she was a hard worker. She would hang around the studio after class and help me tidy up. She liked to run the Swiffer around the dance floor.
“What’s up with your ride?” I asked. “Why are you always here late?”
“My dad is coming from work,” she said. “He texted me—he’s on his way.”
“What about your mom?” I asked.
“She died,” Greta said. “When I was seven.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“No, just me,” she said.
“What does your dad do?” I asked.
“He’s an engineer,” Greta replied. “He works for the city.”
Just then, the buzzer went off and I walked out to open the front door. Greta’s dad stood there. He had her red, wavy hair and freckles. He was tall and lean; he looked like an athlete.
“You must be Greta’s dad? She’s just gathering her things,” I said. “I’m Jasmine.” I extended my hand and he took it. His palms were soft.
“Tadge,” he said.
“I’m sorry?”
“That’s my name—Tadge,” he said. “It’s Dutch.”
“Wow,” I said. “Cool name.”
“Jasmine is pretty cool, too,” he said.
I realized that he was still holding my hand and my face started to get hot.
Greta came running out and he dropped my hand.
“Well, here she is,” I said, feeling stupid.
Greta pushed past us and headed toward the car. “C’mon Dad, let’s go,” she said. “Bye, Ms. Walker! See you next week.”
“Bye, Greta. Bye, Tadge,” I said.
As I locked up the office, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tadge and those freckles, even though he must have been twice my age.
As I got ready for bed that night, I thought about Greta growing up without a mother. And that made me wonder about Orchid and what kind of girl she would grow up to be. I decided I needed to see her again.
I logged onto Facebook. There she was. With each passing day, Orchid looked more like me, except for those crazy blue eyes. That was pure Eddie. Hey, baby, I thought. I’m coming back. Mommy is coming back.
I sent Allison a private message: “Thanks for the invite to Orchid’s first birthday party. I’d like to come.”
Allison didn’t respond right away. I imagined her discussing her reservations with Griffin. He didn’t seem to be on Facebook. Maybe Allison hadn’t told him that we were friends. Maybe Allison had forgotten that we were Facebook friends. Maybe she meant to post the photos not for me, but for her own extended family. I imagined the argument they were having right now. Maybe they were regretting agreeing to the open adoption.
The family! Oh, my God, I hadn’t thought about Allison’s family. Maybe they would all be at the party. Undoubtedly, they didn’t want to meet the birth mother. Suddenly I realized how awkward this could be for Allison. Who knows what she had told her family about me? What should be a joyous celebration—Orchid’s first birthday—suddenly could devolve into a drama worthy of reality TV. I started to think that the concept of open adoption was really a scam to lure scared and vulnerable young women into giving up their babies. The adopting family would prefer to slam the door and raise their child in blissful ignorance. I thought back to Caroline’s first words when I had walked into the agency.
“How old?” Caroline had asked.
“Two months,” I said.
“Perfect,” Caroline had said.
It was perfect because Orchid would have no memory of me, no memory of any mother other than Allison.
I slammed my laptop shut in anger.
I texted Claudia on my phone: What was I thinking? I’ll never see Orchid again!
Claudia: What happened?
Me: I sent Allison a message telling her I wanted to be at Orchid’s birthday party
Claudia: And?
Me: No response
Claudia: Maybe she’s not online right now. Chill
Me: Maybe ur right. K
Claudia: Meet you in Cape May this weekend?
Me: Sure. I’ll drive down on Saturday
NINETEEN
CLAUDIA HAD OPENED HER PILATES STUDIO IN PHILADELPHIA and her business was growing.
“Look at us, the successful business owners,” Claudia said. We were lounging on beach chairs and sharing a chilled bottle of Portuguese wine.
“This is the life,” I said.
Except what I was really feeling was a gaping emptiness. All the visible trappings of success—your name on the door, a waiting of list of eager clients, respect in the dance community—none of it could fill the hole in my heart, the loss of my baby. Nothing seemed important to me—market share, savings in the bank—none of it really made life worth living. What felt meaningful was getting up every morning to Orchid’s smile and knowing that she needed me. I desperately needed her too. What had I done?
“I’m so proud of you,” I said. “Your studio—is it everything you’d hoped it would be?”
Claudia’s next words came as a shock.
“I think I’d be happier being a mom,” she said.
I burst into tears. “Me too!”
Claudia jumped up to hold me and rock me in her arms.
When we had both calmed down, I asked the big question: “Are you seeing anybody?”
“All of my clients are middle-aged women,” Claudia said. “The UPS guy is looking pretty hot, though.”
We burst into laughter.
“There’s this guy—the father of my student, Greta,” I said. “His wife died a few years ago. I think he’s kind of hot.”
“How old is he?” Claudia asked.
“I don’t know—maybe thirty-six?” I guessed.
“Too old!” Claudia said.
“No,” I protested. “He’s in great shape—no gray hair. He must be some kind of athlete. I can’t remember the last time I flirted with someone.”
“It’ll come back to you,” she said.
That evening, back at the cottage, I logged onto Facebook and there it was—a message from Allison.
“We’re planning a picnic in the park on Sunday the twentieth,” Allison wrote. “Just family and a couple of playmates from Gymboree. We’d love it if you could join us.”
“Claudia!” I screamed. “She wrote back!”
We jumped up and down in joy. Claudia cranked up her iPod and we danced to Earth, Wind & Fire.
I woke up before the alarm went off on Monday. Greta came to class on Monday and I was excited at the possibility of seeing Tadge again. With that in mind, I selected a particularly flattering violet-colored leotard with a plunging neckline. Oh, yeah, he will notice me, I thought.
Monday was our busiest day. In between classes, I got caught up in the details of billing and receivables and scheduling. Tadge had completely slipped my mind until Greta showed up at five.
I wondered how I was going to connect with him, but I needn’t have worried. He arrived before class
was over and stood in the corner of the studio watching. Watching Greta? Watching me? Who knew? But I was definitely watching him.
He lingered as the other children packed up and raced out to meet their parents.
“Greta’s getting changed,” I said. “She’ll be out in a minute.”
“You’re really great with the girls,” Tadge said. “Greta adores you.”
“Tweens,” I said. “That’s my favorite age—so worldly and yet so innocent at the same time. I’m sorry about her mom—your wife, I mean.”
“Thanks,” he said. “The other driver was drunk—he walked away. Thank God, Greta made it out.”
“Greta was in the car?” I asked.
“She was asleep in the back seat,” he said. “That’s probably what saved her. She was pretty banged up but nothing broken. It was a miracle.” He looked off over my shoulder and was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “Hey, I don’t mean to keep you—you must have stuff to do?”
Nothing more important than talking to you, I thought to myself.
Just then, Greta came bounding out and lunged at her dad.
“Bye, you guys,” I said.
On Wednesday, Tadge showed up again, a few minutes before six. Again, he stood in the corner near the door and watched the class.
I dismissed the girls and walked over to him.
“Tadge, I have a question,” I said. This brilliant idea had come to me during the last five minutes of class. “We are putting together a fund-raiser and I was hoping that Greta could perform. It would mean extra rehearsals on Friday evenings and Saturday afternoons for a few weeks. Is that alright with you?”
“Is there a cost?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “But, we will need help selling tickets. Maybe you can sell some tickets at your office?”
“I work for the city,” he said. “So that’s a little complicated. But I can hit up my running club.”
“You’re a runner?” I asked. That explains your physique, I thought.
“I was a gymnast in college, actually,” Tadge said. “These days I stick to running.” He pulled out his phone and opened his calendar. “When will rehearsals start? This Friday?”
“Not this week,” I said. “I need to talk to the other parents. I’ll email you. Do I have your email?” Tadge followed me into the office. I dug my phone out of my purse and typed in his name. He spelled out his email address.
“So you’re a non-profit?” he asked.
“The fund-raiser isn’t for us—we’re doing it for the Children’s Hospital,” I said. “But it’s great experience for the girls and the school gets some publicity out of it.”
“Very nice,” he said. “Hey, would you like to grab coffee sometime?” he asked. “I mean if you’re not seeing anyone.” He blushed. “I’m sorry. I don’t have a lot of experience at this.”
“No . . . yes,” I said. “No, I’m not seeing anyone, and yes, I’d love to grab coffee.” Claudia was right. This was easier than I had expected.
“Great!” he said. “Saturday morning? Do you have a favorite spot?”
“Warehouse Café is nice,” I said.
“Meet you there at nine-thirty?” Tadge asked.
“Sure,” I said.
I tried hard but I couldn’t remember the last time I had been out on a date. There was that guy Joey, freshman year, but he just wanted to hook up and I wasn’t that into him. This was like grown-up dating.
TWENTY
“I FEEL LIKE I CAN TALK TO YOU.” TADGE HAD FOUND A table on the sidewalk outside the café. “People act so weird around me,” he continued. “Yes, my wife died in a tragic accident. But life has to go on—for Greta, for me, right? Am I right?”
“I think people mean well,” I said. “They just don’t know what to say.”
“You seem different, though,” Tadge said. “Have you experienced loss?”
Wow! Is this the kind of topic you bring up on a first date? Where was Claudia when I needed her? Advice, please!
“You’re not a small-talk kind of guy, I take it?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound flippant. To my relief, he laughed. I really liked his laugh.
“This is what I mean,” he said. “You make me laugh. Greta makes me laugh. But there aren’t enough people out there who know how to laugh. You are really special. Greta thinks the world of you.”
“The admiration is mutual,” I said. “Greta reminds me of myself at that age. She’s got talent, and more importantly, she has drive.”
“Were you on Broadway?” Tadge asked. “No, wait, your bio on the website says something about Las Vegas.”
“You checked out my bio?” I asked.
Tadge blushed and his entire neck and face turned beet-red. Oh my God, this guy was adorable!
“Well, of course you wanted to check out the background of your daughter’s dance teacher,” I said. “That just makes sense. Yes, I was a Vegas showgirl.”
“Was?” he asked. “You’re retired? You’re so young.”
“A young dancer’s dream is to perform,” I said. “But, I’ve found my true calling. Sure, it was exciting, and if they called me tomorrow and offered me a starring role, I probably wouldn’t turn it down. But I find teaching so much more rewarding. It may be hard to understand, but I get a lot more respect as a teacher than I ever did as a dancer.”
“I totally understand that,” Tadge said.
I was feeling really safe with Tadge, so I said, “I didn’t mean to dodge the question. I have experienced loss. I’m going through a terrible loss as we speak. I lost my child. I can’t seem to get over it.”
I shared the story of Orchid, not everything of course. The whole Eddie story could wait for later.
“I don’t like to talk about this,” I said. “I always end up crying. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “You need to talk about it. And I’m glad you picked me.”
“Do you think I did the right thing?” I asked.
“The Martins sound wonderful,” he said. “I’m not sure there is one ‘right’ thing, but you definitely made a good decision.”
“Thank you for understanding,” I said.
“Of course,” he said. “When will you see her again?”
“Her birthday is in September,” I said. “Allison invited me to come.”
“Are you excited?”
“Terrified,” I said.
On Monday, I approached Diane.
“What’s up, Jasmine?” she said.
“I’d like to take a few days off in September,” I said.
“Geez, J,” she said. “That’s our busy month, with classes starting up and all.”
“I know,” I said. “Just three days, the nineteenth through the twenty-second. I’ll be back in time for classes on Tuesday. It’s really important. I have some unfinished business in Las Vegas.”
“Las Vegas?” Diane said. “Actually, this would be a good opportunity to build some awareness for our school. Why don’t you do some networking while you’re out there?”
I arrived in Las Vegas on Saturday afternoon and was met at McCarran Airport by the driver for Hotel32, the boutique hotel on top of the Monte Carlo. Staring out the car window at my old haunts, nothing looked like it had changed, but I didn’t recognize myself. One year before, I was a broke, pregnant teen working at a car wash. I was returning in style, traveling on an expense account.
Diane expected me to network, but I really didn’t know anybody in the business other than Eddie, Geri, Ginger, Katrina—maybe Kent, the assistant director; I think I still had his email.
As soon as I checked in, I went online and bought a ticket to the late show of Bacchanal. Then I sent emails to Eddie, Kent and Geri.
Hi, I’m in town for a few days and I’d love to catch up over a drink. I’m running a dance school in the New York City area. We’re developing young talent for Broadway and I wanted to discuss opportunities to develop a pipeline for shows on the Strip. Let me know if you have some t
ime to meet later this afternoon or tomorrow after five.
Cheers,
Jazz
Wow! That was not the voice of the scared little coed who had bared her breasts for a shot at a gig in a hit show.
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when every single one of them responded—“Great to hear from you. Let’s get together. Where are you staying?”—that sort of thing. But I attributed my success to Diane’s genius. “Pipeline”—everyone needs a pipeline. I imagined opening branches of Broadway Connect in L.A. and Chicago.
I made appointments with Kent and Geri to meet at the pool bar between five and eight. I told Eddie I would meet him after the late show at Bally’s. Then I booked a massage and a mani-pedi.
I slipped into a sleek Kenneth Cole outfit—pencil slacks and flowing sleeveless blouse and the strappy sandals from that fateful night. I knew I looked like a million bucks as I strode confidently toward the pool bar. The maître-d’ escorted me to a poolside table. I ordered glass of Prosecco and toasted to my good luck.
I saw Kent approach and waved him over. I stood to greet him.
“Hi, I’m Jasmine,” I said, extending my hand. “We met once about a year ago?”
“Yes, of course,” Kent said. “I remember. In Eddie’s office.”
“How are things going?” I asked.
“I’m no longer working with Eddie,” Kent said. “It’s a bit of a revolving-door there. I was intrigued by your email. I’m sure you’re aware of our demographic problem—too many blue hairs in the audience, if you know what I mean. We’re putting together a show to attract more millennials to the Strip. We’re going for the Glee audience. I’ve been tasked with finding young talent. Your feeder program sounds perfect. Maybe we could collaborate on the curriculum?”
I was no longer hearing Kent’s words. I was floating on air and dreaming about the possibility of monthly visits to Las Vegas for “business” that would allow me to see Orchid regularly.
