As she left the dressing room, her father came bustling toward her. Her shoulders tensed, all the mobility she’d worked on during her warm-up disappeared. She forced them to relax as she attempted to bury the automatic response to his presence. It frustrated her to no end that so many people bowed down to his illustrious past and granted him access to places that no other non-company person could go. She wanted the ballet to be hers and hers alone, but it was hard to do that growing up in the shadow of the legendary Alexei Artemov.
“I’m here,” he announced in English that was heavily accented with Russian. It seemed impossible that such a slight man could harbor so much anger and frustration deep inside. He’d had it all once. As a boy, he’d grown up in Krasnogorsk, had been enrolled in the Vaganova Academy in Leningrad at the age of nine, and had rapidly made his way up to First Soloist with the Kirov Ballet, now known as the Mariinsky Ballet. Only he’d thrown it all away, yet blamed the world for his troubles. “Why are you only just dressed?”
“Don’t worry, I’m warmed up and ready,” she replied smoothly. Unlike her unconscious clenching earlier, her face and voice never betrayed just how much her father could get under her skin. Lexi had made sure of that years ago.
“Da, da, da. I’m more concerned about your entrance. When James Kudelka choreographed this twenty years ago, he did not envision a lifeless and dispassionate performance like the one you put on last night. We will work on this, now, yes?”
Lexi felt a familiar wave of nausea. There were two hundred and fourteen performers in the show, and right now it felt like all of them were watching her interaction with her father.
“Please don’t embarrass me,” she whispered, smoothing her hands over the skirt of her tutu. “We worked on this all afternoon, and I am ready to go on.” It was part of the reason her ankle throbbed like a bitch. No amount of ice baths had helped. She made eye contact with a member of the corps, but the young woman looked away quickly.
“You embarrassed yourself and your company. You are too sluggish, that costume too tight. Your shame should have no place in this,” her father said.
Lexi smoothed her hands along the bodice of the tutu she loved. “There was nothing wrong with my performance last night. In fact, I think it was one of my better ones,” she said, trying to muster courage she wasn’t feeling.
“Nothing wrong? I think that all depends on your definition. If you were lighter, you may have better elevation, but there is nothing we can do about those extra pounds you carry right now. When Mikhail and I . . .”
Lexi zoned out. All her life she’d heard stories of her father and Mikhail Baryshnikov’s years of friendship, though they had grown apart after the two of them had defected during their world tour of Canada in the seventies. As a much-coveted principal male dancer, Baryshnikov had immediately landed on his feet by joining the Royal Winnipeg Ballet, willing to dance for a lesser ballet company than he was used to while his future was decided. Her father, on the other hand, had been too proud to consider dancing anywhere but the National Ballet, but he’d been unable to secure a place there. His new life in Toronto, where he’d requested political asylum, had been far more of a struggle than he’d expected. Learning English had been difficult for him, and his French had been mediocre. Only a year after his arrival, a fall on some ice outside his home had killed his future plans of dancing.
Thankfully, François Moreau and Jonathan Davis, her two partners for the waltz, were headed toward her. They looked at her sympathetically, knowing exactly how overbearing her father could be.
“Lexi, sorry to interrupt,” Jonathan said in his crisp British accent, “but we wanted to run through the lift we had challenges with last night.”
“I take Lexi for practice now,” her father said loudly.
“Non, I’m sorry, but that cannot ’appen.” Guillaume was a guest from the Paris Ballet, part of a dancer exchange. “I misplaced my fingers yesterday, causing Lexi to slip. We must review it before we go on stage again this evening.”
Though her father knew he couldn’t stop her, the way the side of his jaw pulsed and his eyes narrowed showed he wasn’t happy about it.
Lexi allowed herself to be pulled away without another word, knowing full well that she would pay for it later.
* * *
“Okay. So I have an announcement,” Dred said, pushing his plate away, and bouncing a drooling Petal on his lap.
Everybody quieted down and looked in Dred’s direction. At Pixie’s insistence, they’d all sat down for Christmas dinner at the mostly unused dining room table, eating from china plates Jordan had never seen before.
“Right,” Dred said, and huffed out a breath quickly. “Shit. Never thought I’d be this nervous.”
Jordan realized what was about to happen when he caught a flash of something sparkle in Petal’s hand.
“Pix,” he said as he pushed his chair away from the table, dropping down in front of Pixie on one knee and placing Petal on his thigh. In her tiny hand was a stunning purple colored stone surrounded by diamonds.
Jordan looked over to Pixie, who had her hands on her face as tears filled her eyes.
“Don’t start crying yet, or I won’t be able to get this out.” Though Dred’s voice was rough, it was impossible to ignore the love between them.
Nikan hollered. Jordan’s heart cracked. Dred was getting his own family at the cost of Jordan’s own, and it was impossible to reconcile the incredible joy and the searing pain he felt simultaneously.
“As I said in the song I wrote for you, I can’t imagine how my life would go on without you. I love who you are, I love who we are, and I love the possibility of what our family could become. I can’t explain, I never could. But me and Petal, well, we know you are it for us. So marry us, Pix? Please.”
Pixie squealed, “Yes!” then slid off her chair to join them on the ground. They kissed each other, with their little girl between them, as it should be. Petal wailed when Dred took the ring out of her hand to place it on Pixie’s finger.
“I’ll buy you your own when you are old enough,” he said to her as everybody laughed.
Except Jordan.
He watched as they were helped off the floor by Elliott and Lennon. Swallowing the fear that his family had just been irrevocably split in half, Jordan stood and went to congratulate Dred. “I’m happy for you,” he said, meaning every word though it killed him. “You got your happy ending.”
Dred looked over to Pixie. “You are still my family, Jordan,” he said. “Our family just got a bit bigger is all.”
Our family just got a bit bigger is all. Jordan was still trying to think through what Dred’s engagement would mean hours later, when the dishes were done and all the leftovers boxed up. He stood leaning against the wall of the den as the battle happened in front of him.
“Get the fuck out of my way, you asshole.”
Jordan took a sip of his beer, and smiled at the way Elliott was cursing. Miniature cars went flying by his feet. An ex-girlfriend of Nikan’s had bought him the racetrack one year in a misguided attempt to give him “all the Christmases he’d missed as a child.” The track had survived—they rebuilt it every Christmas—but the relationship hadn’t, mostly because Nikan hadn’t been able to keep his dick in his pants.
The setup took over most of the den. Every year they added more track and new cars, but the giant scoreboard of all possible race partner combinations was exactly the same, still written in Lennon’s childish handwriting. The tight curve they’d built around the Christmas tree was a tricky son of a bitch to navigate, and his own car had already flown off there twice this evening.
Lennon’s black and yellow car raced across the line first. “Eat my dust, motherfucker.”
Dred walked back into the room. “What did I miss?” he asked, grabbing a beer.
“Elliott just kissed my ass,” Lennon said, knocking the neck of his bottle against Dred’s. “Cheers.”
“Nice. Cheers. Okay, so who am I up agai
nst?” He looked over toward the chart. “Nikan. Bring it, fucker.”
Loud cries echoed from the living room. “Goddammit,” Dred said, exasperated. “Teething blows.”
They’d been trying to get Dred’s daughter, Petal, to settle down most of the afternoon. Pixie had just given up attempting to watch It’s a Wonderful Life and had taken over for Dred.
“Let me take her for a walk,” Jordan said. “I’ve got plenty of time to kick your ass before this track gets put away.” He needed some air, some time away from all the happy that was suffocating him.
“Thanks, man,” Dred said. “We’re both getting close to the end of our rope with her today, and it so isn’t her fault.”
Jordan walked into the living room where Pixie was pacing with the baby in her arms, whispering sweet words of comfort. Petal was screaming, a piercing shrill sound. Her cheeks were all red, and drool was streaming down her face as she tried to stuff her tight fist into her mouth. Pixie took it all in her stride, kissing her forehead, removing her fist, and humming.
Their little family never ceased to amaze Jordan. Dred and Pixie’s relationship had just begun when Dred found out that a woman he’d slept with once had tricked him into getting her pregnant. But Pixie had just rolled with it and now looked after Petal—whose mother had overdosed—as if she were her own. Seeing Pixie and Dred together always ripped him to pieces. The way Pixie looked at Dred with adoration, the way Dred would die for her, the way they both would do anything for the little girl they were raising, giving her everything they hadn’t had as children. Pixie was perfect for Dred, their strengths of character both incredible.
Now their family was getting a little more official.
“If it’s okay with you, I’m gonna take her for a walk,” he said as Petal fought Pixie’s hold.
“Hey, Uncle Jordan,” Pixie said gently, “you sure you want to go walking in the cold? On Christmas?”
Yeah, it probably did seem weird. But he walked a lot. Most nights. When the darkness of the house matched the darkest corners of his mind so seamlessly that they blended into one. Insomnia was his friend because sleep led to dreams. And dreams led to reliving shit he couldn’t change. Having Petal with him would stop the dark thoughts from closing in as he walked. One look at her face and he felt there was hope for him, even if it was just out of reach.
“Just bundle her up. We’ll be fine.”
“Okay,” Pixie said, reaching a hand out to his cheek. “Give us girls a moment.”
When she’d disappeared from sight, he rubbed his hand over his skin where she’d touched him. She was one of the few people who touched him, and it was still a strange sensation.
Within what felt like moments, Pixie returned with Petal dressed warmly, zipped up in a snowsuit and bundled in a thick and toasty blanket in her stroller.
“Here,” Pixie said, thrusting her phone at him. “I know you hate them, but take this.”
He took her phone to keep her happy and tucked it in his pocket. Phones were stupid, and it wasn’t like he had a long list of people he needed to speak to. Jordan pulled on his leather jacket and stepped out of the house.
Snow drifted gently down. It was laughably romantic, and he was truly out of appreciation for romantic gestures today. The engagement was everything he’d wanted for his friend, and the absolute opposite of what he wanted for himself. With Dred happy in a new relationship and working toward readying his new home for his new family to move into, it would be only a matter of time before the rest of the band followed suit. Jordan tried to quell the feelings of anxiety rising up from deep within him, but found it impossible.
He hurried down Parliament Street, past the run-down concrete buildings and deserted park. Banks of snow from the ploughs made crossing Queen Street a pain in the ass. Jordan gave up and lifted the pram into the air to avoid the piles of dirtied snow. As he neared the distillery district, the crowds picked up, as did his speed as he tried to outpace his thoughts. Mindlessly, he headed toward Queens Quay and the waterfront of Lake Ontario.
As they passed under the busy expressway, the roar of traffic became louder. It squeezed at his temples and roused his sleeping passenger who woke with a cry.
“Shh, Ettie,” he said, a nickname he only used for Petal when it was just the two of them. He’d read somewhere that the name meant “star” in its Persian-Iranian origins. And that’s what she was to him. His little star. One day, when she was old enough, he’d explain it to her, why having a strong name mattered to him. “It’ll pass. Everything always does.”
His parents had never called him anything. Just “boy.” It was Maisey who picked the name Jordan for him, and he’d always considered it to be the first, and most precious, gift he’d ever received. As he looked down at Petal’s perfect cheeks and wide eyes wet with tears, he wanted more for her than a name picked for undetermined reasons by a junkie mom. He wanted her to feel her name’s meaning. If he ever had children, which was about as likely as his being picked for the space program, he’d name the shit out of them. He’d find names so strong and meaningful that his kids would get up in a morning and know exactly who they were.
The snow eased up as he walked along the Waterfront, but his breath still swirled in a white mist as it left his nose. Sights of Lake Ontario were periodically blocked by the Redpath Sugar Museum and the Westin Hotel. Somewhere close to the Harbourfront Centre, Petal finally fell asleep. Jordan took out Pixie’s phone, snapped a picture of the sleeping baby, and attached it to a message to Dred once he found Dred’s cell number in Pixie’s contacts.
57 minutes. She has pipes like you. And is only good to perform for an hour.
Jordan waited for a moment.
Fuck you, asshole. On your way back?
No. Just turning around now. Home by midnight.
In that case, I’m gonna show Pix how good I can perform for an hour.
That’s just fucking wrong.
I like to think it’s fucking right!! Thanks for the help with Petal.
You’re welcome, douchebag.
He put Pixie’s phone away and wiggled his chilled fingers. It might have stopped snowing, but it was still cold enough to freeze his balls off. Exactly what Jordan needed. He walked so much now because he needed to be outside, he needed the freedom of space and air and a place without walls, pushing his limbs as hard as he could to remind himself he was no longer a captive.
The packet of cigarettes in his pocket was calling his name. What he wouldn’t give for one, but he’d promised himself that he would never smoke around Petal. He would never do anything to put that sweet little girl’s life in danger. Unlike his parents. Jordan breathed in the cold night air and tried to break free from the swirl of emotions that had been building in him since Dred had proposed to Pixie and were now threating to drag him down. The memories of locked doors and walls caging him in. His fingers subconsciously reached for the cigarette pack again before he pulled his hand away.
Deep breath in, deep exhale out.
In for four footsteps, and out for the same count.
One foot after the other, they walked the still bustling streets of Toronto, past the complex that housed the National Ballet of Canada. The motion soothed both Petal and him, but it was time to start heading home, and he looped back on himself to walk around the rear of the building. Lights blazed in one of the rehearsal studios even though it was after eleven o’clock. A dancer came into view, her back to him, and she took his breath away even though he couldn’t see her face. As her sheer white skirt floated away from her legs revealing crazy leg warmers decorated in green and red Christmas designs, he stopped walking. His toes curled up in his boots as he took in the pointed ballet shoes on her feet.
He couldn’t hear the music, if any played, but that didn’t matter because he could imagine it as he watched her dance. Like a fucking contortionist, she raised up onto her toes, which, fuck, had to be painful, and lifted her other leg to ninety degrees before bending it behind herself, on
e arm pointing upward and one arm pointing out. She turned slowly, making it look so effortless. It reminded him of the doll in the jewelry box that Lennon had given Petal for Christmas.
The gauzy curtain obscured her face a little, but he could see that she had blonde hair tied up neatly into a bun. Words used to describe beauty had never been part of his vocabulary and he strained to find one that would fit her, but couldn’t. The graceful length of her neck and the gentle curve in her arms were breathtaking. She was strong and powerful, yet fragile. It was as if the wind alone lifted her gently airborne as she executed the steps.
Her hand reached in his direction, just as the light caught her features. They were delicate. Perfect pink lips, wide eyes that were impossible to describe.
The movement then changed into a series of spins, all executed on her toes, going faster and faster. The dance became frenetic, less structured.
Jordan wanted to get closer, to somehow feel the energy around her, to touch her. Her skin would be soft, he knew it. Which was all kinds of fucked up. He envied the freedom, the absolute commitment of expression she had. On days when he was composing, he chased that, had to dig deep to find that kind of authenticity, and he wanted her to teach him, to show him how to achieve it. He should go before he had any stupid ideas, like knocking on the glass window to get her attention.
She came to an abrupt halt and doubled forward, holding onto her stomach and rubbing her eyes with her hand as if wiping away tears. He stepped forward, the crunch of snow alerting him to his sudden movement, and he hesitated. There had to be some explanation of the pull he felt standing there watching her. He yearned to help her, to hold her, hell, to see her face more clearly.
He knew he should move, that it was wrong to intrude on what was obviously a private moment. But it felt imperative he knew that she was okay. Because the sense of calm she instilled in him as she danced was a quiet that he wasn’t used to. She was his light.
Jordan Reclaimed Page 2
