“We'll be having them next month,” he says. “We did a little of the opening routine tonight. Your form is improving.”
“Thanks. I've been practicing like crazy. I can't wait to try out for Aurora!” she exclaims excitedly.
I can't wait either.
“Unfortunately, that part has already been filled,” he says.
I narrow my eyes in confusion, coming to a stop and pretending to mess with my pointes.
“Already filled?” she asks. “I don't understand.”
“Someone else has already auditioned for the part and won it,” he says. He sounds nervous about answering, and that if prodded for a name, he might buckle easily under the pressure.
“Oh...” Lily sounds as baffled as I feel.
“Anyway, I will see you tomorrow. Good job tonight!” he says, leaving the studio faster than I can say “plie”.
Lily looks wounded. Like her, I can't believe Frederico has allowed someone to audition early without telling the group.
As I head to the locker room, I can't stop thinking of who it could be. Certainly it couldn't be Mary, not after her colossal failure with Ondine. While I strip down, I pass silent judgment on each dancer. I like them all, and they're all sturdy dancers, each dedicated to their work, but none of them could meet the prima standard without a substantial amount of practice.
I slip my towel off and step into the shower stall. As I devote more mental energy into figuring out who it is, I neglect my shower. How have things changed so drastically in the short time I've been gone? How could Frederico have let his judgment slip? None of the things he's doing make any sense. Every excuse I try to make for him leads me back to the same conclusion. I'm pissed off! Damn pissed off! This is stupid! He owes me an explanation. He owes us all one.
I turn off the water, dry off as quick as I can, and throw on my street clothes. While the others filter out into the parking lot, I march down the hall to his office. I knock but hear nothing. I knock a little louder, nothing. I turn the knob and let myself in. BIG mistake.
Bent over his mahogany desk is Mary, naked from the waist down. From the door, I get a nice clear view of Frederico's flexed ass-cheeks. I apparently interrupted him mid-stroke, because he stumbles back away from her, struggling to pull his tights up from around his ankles. Mary stands up, yanks the brim of her shirt down over her bits and turns beet red as she realizes exactly who has caught them in the act.
Wow. I'm completely baffled, but this does... explain a lot.
I about-face and close the door behind me.
“No! No! Wait!” Frederico cries. I hear some shuffling as I briskly walk away from the office. The door opens behind me. “Wait!” he begs. I stop and turn.
“Carmen... this is not... I mean... this is complicated,” he stammers.
Complicated? It looks pretty cut and dry to me.
“Please don't tell the company,” he says. He knows—he knows damn well that what he's done is wrong.
I frown, looking him dead in the eye. If I won't speak for doctors, family, therapists, and psychologists, what makes him think that his stupidity is the one thing that will break my silence? If anything, I'm done with him. I'm done with his bias and the company he will run into the ground if he continues to exercise it. I'm done with busting my ass, while Mary gets to play Aurora. He'll continue fucking her and nobody else will get a fair chance.
No Frederico, your mistake is not worth my time.
I walk away from him without saying a word. I'm so angry that I can't think straight. All I want to do is go home and find a way to move on.
In a startlingly short amount of time, I have driven home, stormed in the front door, thrown my bag into the hall closet and braced myself against the foyer wall. From there, I can see my living room. Hanging on the wall is a picture my mother took of me at my first recital. I'm wearing a yellow tutu, tights and leotard. I have a headband with yellow feathers glued onto it. We were all parakeets. Things seemed so much simpler all those years ago.
If I had known that I'd walk in on my director having sex with a disgusting, sleazy whore, I might have never joined Finale. Unfortunately, I cannot un-see what I witnessed.
I can't help but run the math in my head, of the statistical likelihood of this happening in any other company. Did I quit Finale today? Or did I quit dancing altogether? Did I quit the business the way it is, or did I quit a bad example of how it should work? Certainly larger companies don't function like this, right?
One thing is for sure, I can't work under those conditions. How could I ever face him again, knowing what's going on behind closed doors? How could I continue bending over backward, just to be told that I'll always be second best, no matter how hard I work?
I close my eyes and lean my head against the wall. I try to force the event from my mind, and realize that something is off about the house. Why is it so cold?
Systematically, I check to see if I left any windows or doors open, starting in the living room and moving to the kitchen. Nothing seems amiss. I don't have central air, so the cold couldn't be caused by having left that on. I go into my bedroom, and before I can catch myself, I step on a patch of broken glass.
What the hell?
On the floor in front of my vanity, is another picture of me with my mother after I got into dance school. The picture looks like it has been deliberately broken. I can't help but remember the feeling I had a month ago, that distinct feeling of being watched. The same terror fills me. What if I was being watched? What if whoever was watching me came here tonight? What if whoever it was, is still here? I freeze, unsure of whether to go back to the foyer for my phone, or whether I should investigate the room. Already I'm having trouble breathing. It's better to get out and avoid taking the risk. I drop the picture and bolt down the hallway. I grab my bag from the foyer and run out the front door.
My elderly upstairs neighbor, Mrs. Watkins, is just arriving home from work. I've known her for a few years, and we haven't exchanged a whole lot of dialogue, but we both know the other's situation. She lives alone. Her son lives in Minneapolis. I live alone and have nobody for thousands of miles. In a way, we've always sort of watched out for each other.
“Is that you, Carmen?” she asks. I'm too afraid to answer. I drop to the grass, hugging my gym bag. Every part of me is tight with anxiety. My entire focus remains on trying to fill my lungs with air. She rushes down and checks my vitals. I can't stop staring at my door, which is wide open and flapping in the wind.
“What's happened?” she asks. “Come on. Let's take you inside.”
Naturally, I resist at first. It takes her a few minutes to convince me, but soon she's leading me back inside. I must look like a whack job.
“Did something happen?” she asks, taking my hand in hers. I can't help but tremble. If someone did break into my house, the last security I've known on Earth is gone. “Let's just put this down,” she says softly, taking the gym bag from my arm. “We'll look together.”
She leads me down the hall to the bedroom. She comes across the glass just like I had.
“Oh, goodness,” she says, picking up the picture I'd dropped. She sets it back on the vanity. She flips on the light. “It happens.”
Then, we notice a small stone on the carpet.
“Odd,” she says, walking toward the window. The lower left pane is broken. “It looks like the wind kicked up a rock and threw it through your window.” She picks the stone up and turns it in her hand. “It should be all right.”
She smiles. “We'll get the landlord in here tomorrow to fix it. How does that sound?”
I nod, ashamed of my previous display. She's totally right. I had overreacted. I heave a sigh of relief.
“You get some rest. I'll check back in on you in a few days. I'm making pumpkin bread, and I bet you'd like some.” She winks at me, putting the stone in my hand. “You take care, honey.”
She leaves me to my own devices.
I spend a few minutes vacuuming up the
glass. I throw away the broken frame and put duct-tape over the hole in my bedroom window. After that's done, it feels like nothing was ever wrong at all. By the time I finish a cup of tea, I've calmed down. I wonder why I freaked out so bad in the first place. With my history, though, I could cut myself some slack.
I clutch my pillow and stare at the stone as it sits on my sidetable. Maybe I'll always feel this way, afraid that every little thing that's out of place was caused by someone who's out to hurt me. I really hope not. One day, I want to find peace again.
(Jacob)
I'm just going to be honest about it. I do not feel like doing anything today. There's something about having too much to do that puts me in that mood. On one side of my desk, is a stack of resumes. On the other is a pile of mail that has yet to be sorted. In the middle¸ right in front of me, are my patients' files. I've spent the majority of my time today attempting to get all the notes categorized and up-to-date. I feel like I'm never going to get to the bottom of any of my piles.
On top of the mail pile is an orange mailer. I pick it up, cut it open and slip out the prized contents, a DVD I've been waiting two weeks for. Written in sharpie across the front is, “Swan Lake – Finale Company – August 2012”. I've been searching for one of Ms. Andrews' performances for a while, but they are so seldom taped, that I really had to dig for one. My plan is to take a break from reading and watch it with her, in order to document her responses. I hope to make progress by observing her while she views something she loves and does for a living.
I slide the jewel-case into her file and set the client stack aside. I huff at the resumes. I still need to hire a secretary, and there is a wealth of candidates in Beaverton. I pick up the top one and read off the name along with his credentials–mildly impressive. I turn it over off to the side, starting a new pile for reviewed resumes. While the rest of the applications are printed on thick card-stock in bold black fonts and have arrived in tall orange envelopes, the next document is completely different.
It's letter-folded and on ordinary notebook paper. It doesn't have an envelope. In fact, I don't remember putting it on the stack at all. I open it and it appears to be a quote or poem of some kind.
'My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patient back again is swerving.'
That sounds familiar. Is that from Hamlet? I used to be a huge Shakespeare fan in high school. Janelle once gave me an anthology of all of Shakespeare's works. I used to circle my favorite parts in the huge tome. I also played Romeo in the school production of Romeo and Juliet. Ah, those were the days. I'd love to look through that book again. I go to my bookshelf and look everywhere, but I can't find it. I don't remember throwing it out. How odd.
I go back to my desk and sit down with the sonnet, turning the page in my hands. There are no identifying marks. I check the next document in the stack. It's a woman's resume and the college graduation date is 1998. Maybe if she has a teenager, their homework somehow got attached to her resume? That seems to be the likeliest of explanations. I smile at the hand-written fragment and tuck it in with the lady's application.
I check the clock on the wall. Ms. Andrews will arrive in approximately fifteen minutes. I grab her file, attach fresh paper to my clipboard and slip my favorite pen behind the clamp. When I hear her familiar knock, I'm queuing up the DVD. She seems a bit frazzled with dark circles under her eyes.
I know better than to ask her why she looks out of sorts. I'd be asking to get slapped. She takes her customary seat, within view of the TV.
“Today we're going to watch a video,” I say over my shoulder. “It's a performance by your company.” I get it set up and go back to my desk with the remote in my hand. “Go ahead and watch it just like before and I'll take down some observation. If you have anything to say, feel free to get my attention at any point.” That addendum seems stupid and pointless. I know she knows she can speak whenever she feels like it, but I postulate that remaining honest and communicating that I want her to speak will help move her along.
She doesn't seem to object to the viewing and settles back on the chaise.
“Okay, here we go.” I press play.
The music begins. I'm trying to remember if I've ever seen Swan Lake. I don't think I have. The dancers file out and I catch myself watching the production instead of my patient. When I turn my attention to her, she looks so incredibly focused. Her hand is over her mouth. She doesn't even blink. Her brows are furrowed. It's the most emotion I've seen her exhibit so far. I never expected such a strong response.
A waltz starts playing, with its smooth and swaying notes. As time goes on, she doesn't seem to be moving. Part of me wants to wave a hand in front of her face, but I keep watching, comparing the changes in the ballet to the changes in her face. No matter how the dancers move, or where the music leads, she remains still as stone.
Twenty-seven minutes into the recording, a song begins that I recognize. This must be the Swan Lake theme that everyone knows so well. The scene has changed to depict a beautiful lake. Swan statues are passed over a glassy background under a blue glowing light. The hero dances alone, then disappears briefly. In his absence, a male dancer in black skates across the stage in big, bold jumps. He has wings sewn onto his costume. When he leaps off the stage, the hero reappears with a crossbow in his hand. There's one lone swan on the lake and he steadies his bow for the kill. The statue glides off-stage and from behind the curtain tip-toes a gorgeous, long-legged ballerina dressed all in white. I'm momentarily distracted by her, absorbed in the way she moves.
She's noticeably more graceful than the other female dancers have been thus far. I'd keep watching her if not for the sob that tears my attention away from the screen.
Her eyes are sparkling as she weeps. Behind her hand, she's choking. Her whole body is trembling.
“Whoa! Whoa!” I hit pause and almost jump over my desk to get to her. She's staring wide-eyed at the screen, shaking like a leaf. Tears are streaming from her eyes. “Ms. Andrews,” I say, stepping in front of her. It appears that she's in shock. “Ms. Andrews!” I take her shoulders in my hands. She starts to hyperventilate. “Carmen! It's me, Dr. Weller. Are you all right?”
Her hands go to her ears, her eyes squeezing shut. She's crying uncontrollably now, producing sounds I hoped I'd never hear from her.
“It's okay. It's okay. Take deep breaths. You're not in any danger. Nobody's going to hurt you.” I obey my natural instinct, wrapping her protectively in my arms. “You're okay. Just breathe.” I desperately want her to relax. As she cries, her body continues to shake. “Just breathe,” I keep repeating. “You can do it. I'm here.”
For the first time during our sessions, I feel like I may have signed up for too much. I never realized just how extensive the damage to her psyche is. I'll be damned if I don't feel like the biggest jackass in the world for bringing this on.
It takes a while, but soon she's breathing more steadily, though I can still feel her tears soaking into my shirt. Her arms, which had been folded to her chest, steadily relax and go slack. I lay her back against the chaise. She looks up at the ceiling, every ounce of moisture evacuating her red eyes.
I rake my fingers through my hair, exasperated, helpless. I go to the desk and come back with a box of tissues. I put the box in her hand and she buries her face in fists full of tissues. I sit by her side on the couch, not wanting to leave her. This whole ordeal has aroused a paternal instinct in me, one I've never experienced before and can't ignore.
She looks so miserable, with the tear stains on her swollen, red face. It makes my heart ache.
“I'm so sorry.” The words come out before I can stop them. It was a mistake made in earnest, one made within the confines of a professional environment, in an attempt to treat her. In the end, I probably should have tried to defen
d my choice, but how could I defend something which has obviously opened up a deep wound in her? Apologizing feels like the correct thing to do, even though I'm not exactly sure what I'm apologizing for. All I know is that this is my fault. I showed her the film. It was my idea.
When she calms down, she takes her purse and goes. It's her coldest departure, ever. I can't help but wonder if she'll ever come back.
I can't say I'd blame her if she didn't.
A quick phone call to her psychiatrist reveals the reason for her strong reaction.
At the expense of her happiness, I'd definitely made my observations. The results of this session may even help to cure her, but I can't justify the cost. It's no wonder she'd been so destroyed by watching the video.
The performance I'd shown her was the one after which she'd been abducted.
(Carmen)
I heave and the contents of my stomach spill out into the toilet. I spit. Spit again. Fuck. I heave again. It just seems to keep coming. When I eventually stop coughing, I lay down on the cool bathroom floor.
I can't sleep. I can't eat. I can't do anything.
It's back to square one, all because of a stupid video. That damned doctor. What the hell was he thinking!? How could he do that to me?
It's been a week and all I hear is his apology echoing in my head.
The part that makes me sick is that, in reality, I know it's not his fault. It's the fault of the sick person who abducted me, the one who sits rotting in jail. In reality, I'm disappointed and upset with myself for not being able to get over the pain. I keep telling myself I'm stronger than this, that if I can survive losing my parents, I can survive a year-old torture incident. But survival mode revolved around dancing. Now that I quit Finale, I don't do that either.
I feel so useless, weak and scared. Shouldn't I have recovered? When will I sew myself back up? I can't have fallen apart at the seams permanently. Now, more than ever, I feel like I'm totally and completely lost, that I have nothing to lean on.
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