I roll my eyes at Grandpa.
He shrugs.
“Inside, Clare,” she says,
putting an arm around me
and pulling me up.
Life with Mom
is back.
She stares at the snarls
in my hair.
“This is a rat’s nest.”
“I know.” I flinch.
“I’m sorry. It’s going to hurt, honey.”
“That’s okay.”
I watch her in the dresser mirror.
She’s biting her lip,
and her forehead is bunched
into tight little lines
between her eyebrows.
She tugs the brush
through my hair.
“Your grandpa told us
about the audition.”
I close my eyes.
She brushes some more.
“I’m sorry, Clare.
Let’s talk about it.
Get it out into the open.”
“No,” I whisper.
She hits a huge knot.
I squeeze the tears in.
She’s not touching me.
I look.
Mom’s staring at my dance bag
peeking out from under the dresser.
A ribbon is under my foot.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
She puts her cheek
on the top of my head
and cries.
“We tried so hard,” she says.
“Mom, can we talk about it later?
I need to rest.”
“But don’t you want to discuss
exactly what happened?
Who did what,
and how it felt to audition?
What everyone else said and did?
Your time in the hospital?”
I lift an eyebrow.
“All right, I can wait.
We have time.
And you are regaining your strength.”
She sets the brush down
and wipes her eyes
on the back of her hand.
“We can talk later. Plenty of time.
Plenty.” She tries to smile.
I climb back into my unmade bed.
She pulls the covers up.
“There. You rest now.
Get some deep relaxing rest.”
“Okay.”
She drops the blinds.
“Hear that rain?
I knew it was going to blow in.
That air was very cool—”
She shuts the door and cuts herself off.
“What will we do now?”
my mom asks.
“There’s not anything for us
to do, Martha.”
Dad’s voice is a little harsh.
I lean against the bathroom door
and listen to them talk
in the living room.
“It’s just that we’ve worked so long.
So hard.
So many lessons.
The hours and hours we’ve invested.
Clare has such potential, Dwight.”
“And Clare has potential
for other areas.
Give it a rest, Martha.
For once in her life.”
I flush the toilet
and go back to my room.
I work on my hair.
Slowly
I untangle every single knot.
By myself.
The brush runs smoothly
from the roots
to the ends.
I weave a clean, tight braid
and toss it over my shoulder.
After Grandpa gets back from church,
we sit down to dinner.
He helps himself to more bratwurst.
“This meal is lovely, Martha.”
“Thank you, Dad. I’m glad you like it.”
“I do too, dear,” my dad says.
Mom smiles
but picks at her sauerkraut.
I actually
don’t have to think about calories
or fat.
I can smash my face
into the bowl of mashed potatoes
if I want
and suck up the whole thing.
“Have you heard from Rosella, Clare?”
Mom asks.
I chew my bouncy bratwurst
longer than I need to.
“Um. No. I think she’s probably busy
and stuff.”
“What do you mean?
You’ve always been such good friends.
Didn’t you call and tell her about
your trip to the hospital?”
“No.” I scoop a big bite of sauerkraut.
It shocks my mouth,
and I squint.
“But I don’t understand, Clare.”
Mom sets down her fork.
I swallow the sour lump.
“Mom, she made it into the company.
She’s not going to want to be friends
since I didn’t.”
“Oh, Rosella wouldn’t act like that.
She’s a dear.
You’ve known each other since preschool.
Maybe you are the one
who needs a little time
to deal with everything.”
“Let’s all take a little time,” says Dad.
A picture of Dia comes to mind.
And I hear Rosella’s voice saying, “Pathetic.”
I don’t need time.
It’s not me who has the issue.
I curl up on the couch.
“Want any popcorn, Clare?”
Grandpa holds the bowl out to me.
“No, thanks.” I rub my stomach.
“Dinner still doesn’t feel so great.”
“That was a rough menu
when you haven’t eaten much
for a bit.”
“Yeah.” My belly rumbles.
“But it’s the only thing that I thought of
when Mom asked what I wanted.”
Grandpa flicks on the TV.
“They sure went to bed early,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
“Grandpa?”
He stares at the TV, but his eyes seem focused
above the picture.
“Grandpa?”
“Yes?” He looks at me.
“They went to bed early, didn’t they?”
“Oh, yes. Your dad’s tired after the drive.”
“Right.”
He eats some popcorn.
“And he dragged your mother
with him. I’m guessing he’s making sure
you have some space.”
“Oh.”
“I promised Martha you’d drink water,
and I’d tuck you in.” He sighs.
“She’s my girl,
but even I have to say
your mother beats the horse dead,
buries it,
digs it up,
and beats it again.
Like her mother used to.”
I giggle.
“She’s going to want to dissect
every inch of your experience, love.”
“You’re right.”
I tuck my arm under my head.
Thanks, Dad.
I slide my hand over the phone.
It would be great to talk to Rosella.
If she wasn’t in the company either,
we’d be bellyaching.
Digging into a tub of ice cream.
Making plans of what to do now.
Together.
Maybe she’ll call.
Rosella?
No way.
In the morning
I wander through Grandpa’s garden
and bend down to see the pansies.
When I stand up,
I’m not dizzy at all.
I’m definitely stronger today.
I rub the la
mb’s ear leaves
between my fingers.
The fuzzy softness
is comforting,
like petting Mija.
Dad’s whistling
floats out of the house,
and my feet shift,
until my mind remembers
and cuts the glissade off
before one foot leaves the soil.
I’m not a dancer.
I go inside the house.
Mom gathers her purse and briefcase.
“I’ll wait in the car for you, Martha,” says Dad.
He gives me a kiss on the forehead.
“You call if you need anything.
Anything, Clare,” he whispers.
I give him a hug.
My face brushes his rough cheek.
“You didn’t shave,” I say.
“I’m on it.” He whips out his electric razor
from the overflowing book bag
he carries everywhere
and heads outside.
Mom turns to Grandpa. “So,
we’ve decided to stay with you
the rest of the week,
and then we’ll leave on Saturday morning.
Dwight and I have our luggage
from the convention.
Clare will have time
to pack all of her things.
And well,
you know,
I can help out
around here a bit.
Cooking and such.
Then the three of us will head home.
Not that it’s far.
It’s just nice to be with each other for a few days.
While we all adjust.
A little vacation.
Don’t you think?”
He stares at Mom and doesn’t answer.
“Dad?”
“Oh, yes. Yes. Saturday, then.”
“Clare, I’ve got to get going.
Your father is waiting.
Be sure to drink water,
have a healthy lunch,
and take it easy.
Remember,
you still owe me that chat.
There’s so much to talk about.”
“Uh huh.”
“Okay. We’ll be done with work around five.”
“Fine. Fine.” Grandpa walks her to the door.
Wow. Home on Saturday.
I didn’t expect to go home.
I didn’t expect not to make the company.
I didn’t expect not to live with Grandpa.
I hate the unexpected.
“Here. Don’t get up.” Grandpa
moves the wheelbarrow closer.
“Thanks.” I drop the dandelions in.
He bends down next to me
and tugs at a huge weed.
“There is an alternative
to you going home Saturday, Clare.
You have a choice.”
“What?”
The weed gives, and Grandpa shakes the dirt
out of its roots. “You could stay here
and take the adult class the rest of the summer.”
“Grandpa.”
I yank some chickweed.
“I would never do that.”
“Why?”
“That class is so lame.”
He stares at me.
I go on. “You know.
None of them are ever going to be professionals.
They don’t even work on pointe.
What is
the point?”
“Well.” He tosses the weed into the barrow.
“Maybe
they like to dance.
Maybe
they are dancers.”
I wipe my sniffle on my shoulder
and rip out some clover.
The weak leaves tear so easily
I almost fall backward.
Grandpa leans against me
till I get my balance.
“Take it easy, love.”
I crawl away
and yank
more weeds.
“I’m going to grab a quick shower,” says Dad.
“I was in the dusty storeroom all day.”
“Okay, dear.” Mom watches him
leave the table.
As soon as the bedroom door closes,
she turns to me.
“Clare, why don’t we go for a walk
before it gets dark?”
Grandpa stands up.
“I’ll do the dishes, but only if Clare
really wants to go.”
I shrug. “Okay.” Might as well get this over with.
Mom gets a sweater.
“Don’t you need yours, too, Clare?
It’s getting chilly.”
“No. I’m fine.”
“Mm, it’s gorgeous,” she says in the garden.
“It’s that pink glow in the air.”
“Yeah.” I pause to pet Mija,
then we walk out to the sidewalk.
I take big strides,
and she double times it to keep up.
I’m not going to make this easy for her,
since she’s not making it easy for me.
In the park we sit on the swings.
The place is deserted.
Getting dark.
The great old maple trees
look like they are up on their toes.
Their roots coil high out of the ground
rising to their massive trunks.
I used to love walking around the trees
when I was little and we’d visit Grandpa.
Up on their high roots,
I’d grip the spaces and pose
like I was doing a pas de deux.
“Oh, look.
Even Mount Rainier is pink.” Mom points.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I hope you aren’t too chilly,” she says.
“I’m fine.”
“I want to talk
about everything with you, Clare.”
I let out a big sigh.
“Were you frightened in the hospital?”
“It wasn’t that bad.
An IV and stuff.
More embarrassing than anything.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Clare.”
“It wasn’t a big deal, Mom.”
“Well, then … ”
She’s not done.
Here it comes.
I grip the swing chains.
“I’m so sorry
we didn’t make it into the company, Clare.
This has been our dream for so long.
Tell me everything.
What exactly happened?
Then maybe I can fix it for you.”
Is she serious?
Fix it?
Fix the fact that I’m tall
and will never be
a professional ballet dancer?
She gives me a pathetic smile.
“Come on, honey.
Let it flow.
This was our dream.
You and me together.
Like always.”
I’m sitting there
next to my mom,
and I’m hearing her say it:
our dream.
I’m not going to take it
anymore,
ever again.
She’s not Grandpa.
I’m talking back.
She deserves it.
Now.
I rattle the chains with a jerk.
“What are you talking about, Mom?”
“I’m saying we’re both devastated
because this has been our dream
for so long.”
I jump up and shove my feet
into the bark chips in front of her.
I grind my fists into my hips.
“Mom!”
She stops her swing
to keep from bashing into me.
My chest is shaking.
&
nbsp; “Dancing was my dream.
Not yours.
Mine.”
My voice gets louder.
“I’m the one that worked for ten years.
I’m the one who pulled muscles,
whose feet
are disgusting.
I’m the one who didn’t try hard enough.
I’m the one who dreamed.
I’m the one that grew too tall.
I’m the one
devastated.”
I’m yelling now.
“I’m the failure.
This isn’t about you.
This is mine!
Stop saying it’s ours!
It never has been!
And you
can’t fix it!”
I kick bark onto her shoes and run.
I scream
back over my shoulder,
“I’m not we!
I’m me!”
I run faster.
She can’t catch up.
She should have
her own dreams.
She could have
been a dancer.
She’s got the
short body.
But she didn’t
go for it.
So that was
her choice,
and
she didn’t
take it.
But I did.
Me.
Ballet
was
mine.
My sneakers pound the sidewalk,
and my feet sting.
I barrel into Grandpa’s house,
straight to my dark room.
I slam the door,
slide down in the corner,
and pull my knees to my chest.
I’m a separate person
from her.
I failed.
But I did it
alone.
Let me at least
have that.
“Clare? There you are.”
Mom comes in and shuts the door.
Her outline is barely visible.
The bed creaks.
“I … ” She stops. “I don’t understand.”
Her shadow shifts.
“I don’t understand your anger.
The way you were speaking to me.
Anything you said.
I always thought
of dancing as our dream,
Clare,
because I love you so much.
I wanted to work for the dream
with you.”
I turn my face to the wall.
“I thought
driving you to lessons,
paying for them,
the shoes,
the tights,
the skirts,
the costumes,
the tiaras,
the soaking salts,
bandages,
toe caps,
every single bobby pin,
made it my dream too.”
The bed sheets rustle
as she squirms.
“It was my dream, Clare.
Mine for you.
Ours.”
“Shut up!” I whisper. “Just shut up, Mom.”
“Don’t you speak to me that way,
Clare!
You get control right now!
Do you hear me?”
My body trembles reaching
for a calm voice.
“I
did
On Pointe Page 9
