“Congratulations, Carmen,” Kyle says, patting me on the shoulder. “You blew them away!”
I can't suppress my smile. I'm exhausted, sweating my make-up off, but I couldn't be happier. I slide off my pumps and walk lightly up the iron steps to the upper level, to my dressing room.
Lifting the veil off my eyes, I pull a few itchy bobby pins from my hair and take the doorknob in my hand. Before I can turn it, I notice a small white note taped to the door. I grab it before letting myself into the dressing room.
What is this?
I brace my back against the door and flip open the note.
'I'm sitting all the way over here in the corner at table fifteen. I couldn't even finish the show without telling you how amazing you were tonight. I could watch you sing every night and I probably will come back as often as I can. You moved me just as much, if not more, than Ms. Mabel ever did. Never stop.
—J.'
I grin. Wow. My second night singing and I already have an admirer. I can't believe it.
I wonder who J is...
Whoever he is, I suppose he deserves an answer to his note. During my study of singing and music, I've kept a notebook. I keep it tucked away in my gym bag when I'm not using it. I pull it out and remove piece of paper, sliding my pen from the metal spiral.
'Dear J,
Thanks for your kind note. I will continue to sing as long as'—I stop. As long as what?—'the music possesses me. I hope that you do come back to hear me sing. I can never fill Ms. Mabel's shoes, but I hope to one day be able to stand beside such a tall, amazing talent with my own comparable stature.' I marvel at how poetic that sounds.
'Yours truly,
Roxanne Holiday'
I fold the paper several times, feeling like I'm in high school all over again. On the outside, I write, “J, Table 15.” I chuckle as I change into my street clothes. I bet J wouldn't even recognize me when I'm dressed down. My hair is tied back, my make-up is gone. My face is a blank canvas.
In the lounge, the orchestra is playing a rich instrumental song. I isolate Kyle and hand him the note.
“What's this?” he asks. I point to the outside inscription. “Oh, okay. Guess I'm an errand boy, now.” He punctuates the sentence with a laugh.
The jokes between us have increased in frequency. We've become a lot like brother and sister. In between all the stage staff, the musicians and me, there's a warm camaraderie. In dance companies, everyone can be so segregated. The corps can often be treated differently than the principals and your director is most definitely not your friend, though things can be jovial when there isn't something to be practiced. I am enjoying the life of a singer much more than I expected. It isn't all about constant drilling, with music there's more room to breathe, more room to improvise.
There's a struggle inside me, one that mandates that I choose between being a dancer who's trying to dance with her voice versus being a singer who sings with her heart. While the expressions I can do with my body are so different from the ones I can do with my voice, one being refined while the other is raw, I can't help but feel their similarities, too.
By the time I get home, I decide not to let them argue anymore. Rather, I send them to separate corners of my mind. Tonight's round is over. I get into my pajamas and do some basic stretches. My muscles ache. I still run. I've reverted back to my diet. I haven't entirely let go of my old self. The dancer is still in there, she's just sitting in her yellow tutu and leotard... waiting for her cue.
Singing is a nice distraction while she waits in the wings.
My days are empty besides my weekly therapy sessions. Coincidentally, session day is one of the two days I have off from The Royale.
Dr. Weller still reads to me. I've even begun to look forward to the new sections of Jane Eyre's story each session. His voice has become medicinal. It calms me down, helps me let go of stress. There's something pleasant about watching him read. He's so into the story and I've grown fond of watching his lips move. Sometimes, I've even wondered how he might kiss someone with that mouth.
Not me... of course; never me. I wouldn't date my therapist and I can tell just by the way he treats me, that he would never cross that boundary. Even if he did, I'm not exactly communicative. No, if anything, I'm little more than a science project for him.
I'll be damned if he's not being effective. More than once, I've had questions about the book, ones I've thought of asking. It's the occurrence of the urge that's unique. Dr. Fishel never came anywhere near inspiring me with the drive to communicate, but, while the urge has been strong, I have not relented. Speaking is a step toward permanence and I don't intend to go back to that life.
Things were so different when I spoke. I never realized just how much words get in the way of living. So often, people misinterpret what someone says. People twist each others' words. Sometimes, they willfully misunderstand. The incident created a unique opportunity for me. It served as proof that I didn't need to speak to live. I don't need them to get by and they don't need me. The spoken word will survive well enough without Carmen Mae Andrews wasting breath on it.
I wake up on Monday and stretch again, my joints popping as I stand. I touch my toes, do my splits and head for the closet to pick out some running clothes. I haven't danced in two weeks and I have to admit that I miss it.
As I run my five miles, I think about what Finale is doing, whether they've begun Nutcracker rehearsals. I wonder how that old skank will do as Clara. They'll have to really pile on the make-up to make her look young enough to play the part. Hopefully, they'll soften her shoes for her, so she's not clunking around everywhere. Fat chance of that, since she's clumsy. It's so wrong for me to be thinking badly of her. I'm sure that underneath her sluttiness, she really does want to be a good dancer.
But why am I thinking about dancing? Isn't that part of my life over? If I were to start again, where would I go? How would that affect my new singing career? Is it even a singing career?
The questions plague me as I head back toward home. My brain is trained on them. Before I know it, I'm standing in front of my apartment building. I stop on the sidewalk to read my pulse. As I check it, my eyes fall on a black SUV parked on the street. There's someone in the driver's seat.
Why does it make me feel uneasy? Have I seen it before? The SUV starts up and drives off. I chuckle. There I go, getting worked up over nothing again. My pulse is strong, so I head back in for a shower.
I wonder what's making me want to choose between dancing and singing. Why can't I have both? What do I do now? Try out for a different company?
Sure, why not?
I rinse off, not bothering to get all lathered up or wash my hair. I'll go back to the studio and work through some routines, and maybe next week I'll look into trying out for some other companies. Dancing is demanding, though. I wonder if I can handle both schedules successfully.
I drive out to the studio, bringing a fresh change of clothes with me for afterward. I'm glad that, even though the building is falling apart, there are decent showers there. The best part about this studio is that it's just down the street from Dr. Weller's offices. If I wanted to walk, it would only take five minutes.
Just like two months ago, I feel like I'm starting all over. It's a good thing I've been running and eating well, otherwise I'd be a complete wreck. I stretch again to warm up. One can never be too flexible. On a whim, I decide to dance to some music today. Usually, I practice in complete silence, with nothing but the buzz of the lights above me in the background. The music starts in my ear-buds. Tchaikovsky echoes against my eardrums and sets a rhythm and tone for my practice. I begin my old routines: each position, each attitude, and each arabesque. It feels good to do it all again, to run through the old, ingrained parts of my life.
An hour passes, and then two. My cell-phone alarm goes off, telling me it's time to shower before therapy. I feel the blood pumping in my veins and the breath inflating my lungs. I can definitely sense a difference between dancing and
singing, now that I've reverted back to the former. The feeling of control is much more poignant than before.
I turn off the alarm and the music and go for the door. I push... and nothing happens.
I push again. The door won't budge.
What the hell?
I push again and again, this time forcing it with my entire body's weight.
Fuck! What now?
Now, I'm kicking. I'm making a tremendous racket. Someone has got to hear me!
Finally, I hear footsteps coming down the hall.
“What the hell is all this?” says a young man's voice. “Hey, John! What's this all about?”
I hear a second set of footsteps approach.
“Someone's moved a bunch of junk in front of studio C,” says the first voice.
“That's totally weird. Here, help me move it,” says John. I hear grunting and struggling.
“It's like it's bolted together. Guess we'll have to call somebody.”
I bang on the door.
“Is somebody in there?” John asks.
I bang again.
“Somebody's in there. Maybe they're hurt,” says the first voice.
“We're getting help!” John calls out.
God, what do I do? I can't get out.
My heart beats fast. Already it feels like the walls are closing in. I remember I have my phone.
I pick it up. Who do I call? I don't know anybody who would come all the way out here to help me! Kyle maybe?
I look through my contact list and find his name.
Stuck in a studio. Freaking out! I type.
It suddenly occurs to me that someone did this on purpose. Someone wants me in here. But why? To hurt me? To keep me locked up?
I keep refreshing my text message feed, but Kyle isn't answering. Fuck! I'm trapped.
My lungs seize up again. I drop to my knees. I'm trapped and I can't breathe!
The next five minutes feel like five hours. I tuck my knees into my chest and try to keep myself together, though it's proving impossible. I keep checking my phone, nothing's happening.
After ten minutes, I'm feeling faint. I hear a noise outside and I scoot away from the door. There's a soft metal clink, but it disappears into dead quiet. My pulse races. Someone's coming for me, I just know it.
I almost suffer a heart attack when I hear firetruck sirens.
Please, God! I'm in here! Please, help me!
Whoever, or whatever, it is on the other side of the door, doesn't make noise again.
Suddenly, I hear shouts coming from down the hall. They get closer.
“Bring those tools, Chris!” calls one man away from the door. “Whoever you are, we're coming in to get you,” the person says through the door. I hear tools working on metal.
“What... what is this?” asks a familiar voice.
I stand up; ready to jump through the doors. I'm overjoyed to hear Dr. Weller's soothing baritone voice coming through.
“Sir, stand back. Someone is trapped inside the studio,” says the firefighter above the sound of metal on metal.
“Who's in there?” asks the doctor.
“Whoever it is won't say if they're okay or not,” answers the man from earlier, “John”. “Who are you?”
“I'm a doctor. I have my offices just up the street. I heard the sirens and came down to see if there was an emergency,” Weller answers. “Did you just say that the person in there isn't saying anything? Are they giving any response at all?”
“They were banging their fists on the door, earlier.”
“Ms. Andrews, is that you?” the doctor asks.
I pound on the door furiously, like my life depends on it. I'm so relieved it's him, someone I know, someone I feel I can trust.
It takes them almost half an hour to remove whatever blockade is on the door. By the time they open the doors, I am sucking in fresh lungs of air. There was no shortage of it in the room, but somehow knowing I was stuck in there, made it all the more difficult to breathe.
“Who could have done this?” Dr. Weller asks, looking at the strange contraption.
It's a series of clamps, the exact width of the door, messily welded. Braces hold it together vertically and are bolted down onto the structure.
“It looks like it might have been a prank.” John, the disembodied voice from before gains a handsome face.
“It's a little elaborate to be a prank, don't you think?” asks Dr. Weller, stepping forward and tapping his finger on the metal.
“Maybe. Whoever did it really wanted to freak her out,” says the second fireman, “Chris”. “It looks like they were successful,” he says in my direction.
He's right. I am terrified. I don't want to go home. I sure as hell am never coming back to the studio.
I'm startled by my phone chiming. I check the new text message.
You okay? I was in the dentist's office, Kyle answers, finally.
Not quite. Meet me at my house in half an hour. I can't go alone. I need to get my stuff and stay in a hotel, I type.
Kyle replies, It‘ll be about an hour before I can get out there, but as soon as I can, I will be there.
I tap on my smart-phone screen, OK.
“Let's go back to my office,” Weller says, ushering me away from the scene with his strong arm. I drop into the locker room and grab my bag, hurrying back out to join him. I'm sure I smell like bad cheese, but he doesn't seem to mind. We walk out into the sunshine and he leads me up the street, never letting me go; instead keeping his hand firmly planted at my shoulder.
When we reach the office, I drop onto the chaise. I brace my elbows on my knees, burying my face in my hands. I'm exhausted. I'm still shaking, my nerves thoroughly worn. The familiar leather couch is a comfort, but still I can't seem to stay still.
The doctor goes to the sink and brings back a glass of water. He sits beside me and hands it to me. I feel his warm body next to me, a proximity I'm not used to, but one I welcome. I need to feel a sturdy presence, to know there is at least one person that won't hurt me.
I sip from the glass.
“Why don't you lie down,” he suggests, taking the empty glass and moving, so I have enough room to stretch out.
“Just relax.” His voice is so soothing. I'm exhausted. “Just rest.” I close my eyes, my brain still on full alert. The more he shushes me, the more I feel the stress flow out of me until the tremors stop, my senses dull and I'm lost in sleep.
(Jacob)
I can't believe someone would want to hurt her. I sit by her feet on the chaise, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. I reach out to brush a lock of hair out of her eyes. She looks so helpless, so small up against the rest of the world.
Like a little boat on an ocean with a one-man crew, she has drifted alone for a year, navigated treacherous waters, weathering the typhoons. I find myself minimized by her bravery. Above everything else I want to know about her, I wish she would tell me how she does it. I wish I could know what it's like to be truly strong.
Her phone chimes and her eyes twitch. I snap the phone up, silencing it.
On the screen, there is a message from someone named Kyle. I'll be leaving soon. Give me the address.
Should I answer? Should I wake her up? She looks like she's sleeping so soundly. I know I shouldn't, but I swipe through the text history.
I'm her doctor. She's currently sleeping in my office. If you would like, I'll send you the address. I answer.
Yes, send it.
I type out the address and send it. I set the phone on the sidetable. I'm hesitant to leave her side. I'm afraid if I move, she'll wake up.
Her eyes squint, her mouth twists into a frown and she groans. Her right hand grips at the couch, her left taking hold of her sweatshirt. I instinctively reach out and take her couch-gripping hand and she relaxes. Her eyelids smooth again, her lashes settling on her cheek. Once in a while, she grips my hand. I rub my thumb over her knuckles.
Besides Janelle, I've never felt the need
to protect anyone, but it is coming back to me. The difference between the two women is that one is alive and the other is gone. She squeezes my hand and it takes me back to my dream last night. I feel my heart twinge with guilt, as if somehow, I'm betraying Janelle by merely holding another woman's hand. I disengage my hand and pull it away.
Her eyes slide open slowly.
“Your friend will be here in around half an hour. Do you want me to read to you before he gets here?” I ask.
She nods and sits up. Picking up her drink, she takes a long swig from it.
I shift back into my own seat, grab up the waiting volume and open it. I hardly remember where we left off, but I find the marked page.
“'“It is, to be sure; and when you get to Bitternutt Lodge, Connaught, Ireland, I shall never see you again, Jane; that's morally certain. I never go over to Ireland, not having myself much of a fancy for the country. We have been good friends, Jane, have we not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And when friends are on the eve of separation, they like to spend the little time that remains to them close to each other. Come—we'll talk over the voyage and the parting quietly, half an hour or so, while the stars enter into their shining life up in heaven yonder. Here is the chestnut-tree; here is the bench at its old roots. Come, we will sit there in peace to-night, though we should never more be destined to sit there together." He seated me and himself.
"It is a long way to Ireland, Jane, and I am sorry to send my little friend on such weary travels; but if I can't do better, how is it to be helped? Are you anything akin to me, do you think, Jane?"
I could risk no sort of answer by this time; my heart was full.'"
I glance at Ms. Andrews, who is looking past me at the windows behind. She might not even be hearing me. I wish she would hear me, understand how much I want to help her. I’d like to stop reading, but I go on.
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