Finding Center (9 page)

I want to drown in her. And tonight, she lets me.

Aly

Panic continues to wake me up in the morning in a cold sweat, my heart pounding and my hands clutching at my stomach. Multiple doctors’ visits chalk it up to psychological grief but I’m already on medication for anxiety. Despite the risks, they decide not to take me off those medicines but can’t prescribe anything else. They suggest I go to yoga and meditate. They assure me that the panic attacks will fade, just like Ham thought they would.

Useless suggestions and reassurances. If I can’t get out of bed, how do I get to yoga? How I’ll feel in three weeks doesn’t change the pain and anxiety that’s clawing at me right now. A trash can full of positive pregnancy tests, a handful of doctors’ visits, a stressed-out boyfriend and an overused therapist. I’m too busy trying to breathe to be happy. The joy in this has been pushed into the margins.

This morning, Zed’s hand runs from my head down my bare shoulders, down my back, all the way down to my ass, and then back up my body. I clutch the blankets up to my throat and shake my head again.

He says with false cheeriness, “Just think, only thirty-three more weeks to go.”

“Not helping,” I mutter into the pillow.

He sinks back onto the bed and kisses my bare shoulder. “I know. I’m sorry.”

I wish I could remember what seven weeks felt like last time. I wish I had anything to compare this to but my memory blips out when I try to remember anything from the first pregnancy. I remember telling Zed, and I remember losing it. I lost everything else.

“If you’re not going in, you should call Jonathan,” Zed whispers against the back of my neck. “You don’t have to go, Aly, but you should probably think about telling him. Give him a chance to be understanding.”

“I just want to stay here,” I say, flushing at the smallness of my own voice. I roll over at last, releasing the covers from my chest. Zed gives me a wary smile, the kind where his mouth moves a little bit, but his eyes remain dark with worry, crinkled in the corners and heavy with sleep still. I reach up and rub his stubble with my knuckles.

He catches my wrist and turns my hand to press a kiss to the center of my palm. It’s a lightning bolt to my heart. The pulse steadies into a rhythm. “I know.”

He disappears and I hear him in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher noisily. I reach out, finding my phone.

I text
Sofia. I hate Madison. And I hate early mornings. And I’m cranky.

She texts me back almost right away.
Madison’s a bitch. But she’ll be worse if you don’t come to work. Get out of bed. I’ll have coffee for you at the studio. Tell Zed hi from me.

She’s right. I’ve missed a class or two, and Jonathan’s already giving me the side-eye for that. If Madison started in on me too, I would lose my temper. And if I don’t get out of bed, Sofia will probably come over here and drag me out of bed with Zed’s help.

Just as Zed walks back into the bedroom, I sit up, deliberately letting the sheets and blankets fall from my body. Zed pulls back a little, shaking his head at me and my nakedness. Experience has taught us if he reaches or touches me, neither of us get to work on time. The first class at the company isn’t mandatory for me, though I find it enormously beneficial. It’s his last week of theater camp. His classes are definitely mandatory.

“You’re trouble,” he tells me as I turn away, finding a shirt on the ground to pull over my head. I laugh a little bit, despite myself. It’s easier when I’m teasing him. The bed shifts as he sits down, his prosthetic foot sounding hollow when it bumps the floor. “You think I’m joking, but I’m not.”

“Trust me,” I say, heading to the bathroom. “I know I’m trouble. I’ll be ready in five.”

“So fifteen,” he deadpans, letting me pass him. “Don’t make me late.”

“Leave early if you want to,” I call through the door. “I know my way to the Metro.”

“If I leave early, you won’t leave the apartment!” he yells after me.

He’s probably wrong, but I don’t think he’d leave me anyway. I manage to get out the door before another wave of nausea hits but this one I swallow back, grimace and keep walking, my hand tucked into Zed’s pocket, our fingers laced together.

Then quietly, like he planned it for a train full of commuters, he whispers into my ear, “I know that the people in your life set a shitty example of marriage, just like mine set a shitty example of religion.”

We haven’t talked about the failed proposal and I had almost hoped we wouldn’t. We’re good at ignoring things we shouldn’t. And at least ignoring it means we wouldn’t be having this conversation here, of all places. I shoot him a glare, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I shake my head. I still don’t know why it’s so hard to say this to him when I said it easily to Ham. Zed’s seen my darker moments. He’d understand if I could make the words come out of my mouth.

But I can’t. I settle for saying, “I don’t want us to be trapped by something we don’t need.”

“Giving a relationship a name isn’t like putting shackles on us. We’re still us,” he says.

I don’t know what else to say so I don’t say anything at all. I don’t know if he’s right. Maybe he is. Maybe it’s not that there’s no more room in my head and I can’t handle any of this, can’t untangle the fears and anxieties in my head right now. Maybe it is that a lot of shitty versions of marriage around me have colored my view. Maybe I’m terrified. But I don’t think so. I think it’s that I’m too tired to sort through the web of emotions and lies and truths in my head.

He presses a kiss against my temple. “Think about it. I won’t ask you again until you say you’re ready. I promise you that. But we won’t lose ourselves, Aly. I know that.”

I don’t know what to say, so I lean against him and let him wrap an arm around me. We don’t say anything more for the rest of the commute, even as we transfer and wait for the next train’s arrival.

My stop comes first. I rise on my toes, feeling the tautness of my calves and already knowing that warming up will be a long process this morning. Zed’s arm holds me against him as I kiss him goodbye quickly as the train rattles into the stop, lights flashing by the windows.

“See you tonight?” Like there’s ever a night when I don’t see him. I need the reassurance right now.

“Tonight,” he says like a promise. He kisses me again, and whispers, a sly smile turning up his mouth, “That one’s for the poppy seed.”

The baby’s bigger than a poppy seed now but the nickname’s stuck. When I step onto the platform, I look over my shoulder, just to see the love in his eyes one last time and hope it holds me through the day. We didn’t scrape off all our rust and we didn’t really talk about what happened. We haven’t faced what’s coming for us, but if we can get through today, then we can get through tomorrow. And then we can get through the day after that.

One foot in front of the other. As Sofia likes to say with a wicked gleam in her eye, “It’s all about your
attitude
.”

When I walk in the doors of the classroom and drop my bags by the front door, I tell myself to let go of everything in the outside world. Pulling socks over my feet, I begin a litany of all the things I need to leave behind.

Zed.

Baby.

Madison.

It’s harder when one of those things is inside of you and another one will be right next to you for the next hour, her spandex-covered butt in your face.

So really, I only leave Zed out of the studio. And I can feel both the secret of my pregnancy and Madison getting right under my skin. On my day off yesterday, I spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the full-length mirrors by the barre in our living room. And I decided, even at seven weeks pregnant, I definitely looked bigger. Because of this, I’m wearing cutoff sweatpants and a warm-up sweater over my tights and leotard.

Given that I don’t normally cover up my body, I’ve attracted attention for it. Sofia tilts her head when she starts to warm up next to me but doesn’t say anything. Then Madison walks into the room, a few minutes late like she always is. She glances at me, then does a double take.

A sliver of a smile turns up the corners of her mouth. “Cold, Alyona?”

Yevgeny slides his body between us at the barre, winking at me over his shoulder. I have to summon the strength to smirk back at him as Lila sweeps into the room, her graying hair pulled up magnificently and
dancer
still written in her movements.

Cold. Fat. Interchangeable, really. I don’t care what she calls me as long as I keep this pregnancy a secret as long as I can. I can’t handle the thought of losing it, or my job, and both of those possibilities feel like inevitabilities right now.

The door bumps open and Jonathan crosses the room with two coffees in his hands. He’s been coming into our morning class as well as rehearsals. Casting for
Jewels
and its three parts:
Emeralds
,
Rubies
, and
Diamonds
, and the Dawson ballet
A
Million Kisses to My Skin
should be posted today or tomorrow and I feel sick from the pressure. I’ve never doubted my ability to get a role like I do right now.
You aren’t dancing like you can.
You’re gaining weight.
He’s going to notice.
He’ll know before everyone else that something’s up with me. He has a creepy good sense of when I’m off, just like Zed does. And he’s known me longer than anyone else in this room.

He gives one of the coffees to Lila and takes a long drag from his own. Our eyes meet in the mirror and he nods to me just before I snap my attention back to Sofia’s bun in front of me.

As we move from barre exercises into center work, I can’t tear my eyes off my reflection. Usually I only check myself in the mirror if I’m told to look at myself in the mirror. Mirrors tend to bring too much baggage with them, especially for me. Mirrors make me a technical perfectionist, at the expense of artistry or any sign of me. I’d rather be a dancer than a robot.

But today, I keep checking myself, as I imagine a small tiny human inside of me, turning and twirling and stretching as I do. My hands want to touch my stomach and my balance feels off and I can’t tell if it’s my body or my mind, whether nausea is real or psychosomatic. As we leap into the air, I can see in the mirrors that technically my jumps haven’t changed. They just feel different. I’m not getting the height or extension I can normally get.

Jonathan remains in the corner of the room, watching, and my skin crawls. He is going to replace me with Madison. She’s going to get all the roles I would normally get. I’m going to lose everything I’ve worked so hard for. And the icing on the shitty cake is Madison’s clearly having one of her better days. She’s not pregnant. She put her career first.

I trip out of a line, stumbling and catching myself just in time to plaster on my stage smile and finish strong. But when I hold the last pose, my arms and knees shake. Lila stares at me, her arms crossed.

“You are feeling well today, Alyona?” she asks quietly and my cheeks burn in shame. My history of struggling with health issues will never leave me, but sometimes I wish I could start over fresh where no one knew who I was, or who I was supposed to be.

“Fine,” I say, and then add quickly, “I’ll do it again.”

She nods. This time when I cross the room, I nail the line and I land, breathless and grateful. As I walk back around the corner of the room, hands on my hips, Jonathan mutters, “Come see me when you’re done.”

Madison doesn’t even bother to bite back her grin.

The anxiety builds in my chest for the rest of the hour-long class until I can’t tell if I’m exhausted and sweaty from that or the exercise. I pull on my sweater and grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder to follow Jonathan down to his office.

He shuts the door behind me and I sink into one of his chairs, pulling my feet underneath me. He sits in the chair next to me, not the chair across from me, and my mind screams
danger danger
. Jonathan’s good at what he does and I promised him two years ago that I’d trust his decisions. I won’t argue if he doesn’t cast me in principal roles but God—I don’t know if I can take it.

“What’s going on, Alyona?” he asks quietly, his back to the windows where dancers pass, staring in at us with open curiosity.

“Just an off day,” I lie. I can taste it on my tongue, bitter and sweet.

He looks over at me, his gaze shrewd. It takes concentration not to shift beneath his gaze. “You’ve had a couple of those lately. It’s not like you. I want to know that if I post the casting today as-is, you’re capable of leading these ballets.”

I hold my breath and let it out slowly. “I am.”

“I have to ask,” he says, leaning forward and turning his mouth away from Madison, Sofia, Yana, Yevgeny and the others in the hall. “You’re eating?”

I sag with relief. I don’t have to lie again. “Yes. I’m fine. Really, Jonathan. I’m eating. I’m healthy, I promise. I can do this.”

He presses his lips together and leans back in his chair. “Alright. I’m trusting you. There’s a lot of pressure. The board approved Mrs. MacQueen’s proposal to tie the opening weekend with a gala fundraiser, which makes our jobs harder, not easier. I’m about to go post this list. You’re the principal role in all three parts of
Jewels
and you’re in the Dawson ballet too.”

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He frowns at me. “You shouldn’t be surprised. You earn your roles.”

I
could lose them too
. I swallow and nod, rising up. “I try. I’ll be back at my best tomorrow. I promise.”

“I know you will be,” Jonathan says, standing up and picking up the casting list from his desk. “See you in rehearsals, Alyona.”

Zed

Aly comes home smiling for the first time in weeks, casting decisions in hand. I can’t decide if I wish she had told Jonathan but I understand why she didn’t. She wants to keep her job, our parents still don’t know and well, it’s early. Seven weeks is early. Last time, she miscarried at nine weeks. It happened because of trauma, but that doesn’t mean we’re both not anxious about crossing that line this time.

Aly starts seeing Dr. Ham twice a week again and I think it’s helping. Her nightmares aren’t as intense and she’s stopped taking pregnancy tests.

I almost wish I had a therapist though, just to help me analyze the stupid shit I’m doing. Because honestly, what the hell am I thinking? Aly’s an unreliable anchor right at the moment, and I get it. She’s never been the steady one in this relationship. I can’t ask her to start being that now. But it’s no longer enough to play piano and teach. Meetings don’t help either. It shouldn’t surprise me what does help. I guess I’ve always been circling back to this.

First, I walked up to that barre the day that Aly and I fought over the proposal.

The next night, I walked up to the barre again.

And then this morning, while Aly’s showering, I stand at the barre and do a demi-plié. It feels safe enough. Totally harmless, right?

A demi-plié’s really just a stretch if you think about it and maybe I’m a little stiff. I don’t care how many viral videos people send me, I’m not going to be one of those amputees who dances and everyone finds inspiring.

I’m not inspiring. I’m just me.

So. No. I don’t know what makes me want to do it. It’s not like there was a challenge or a gauntlet thrown into the ring. Except, during a break today, after my demi-plié at the barre this morning, I order new ballet slippers. For me. And then tights. And then I’m looking at our shared calendar on the computer, and finding a time when Aly’s not in the studio.

Finding a time when I can be.

The first time I danced, it was a Billy Elliot type of moment. I was supposed to be at gymnastics. I’d seen the US Men’s Team compete and I had fallen in love with it through the television. My father, for some reason, didn’t consider it effeminate and they let me start gymnastics class after school at the YMCA. Unfortunately for them, I liked the girls’ class better because of the floor exercises. And then worse, I saw a ballet class one afternoon. I was ten. I snuck into there instead of the gymnastics class. The teacher let me stay because I balanced out the male and female numbers so everyone had a partner.

I fell in love. I fell in love the same way I fell in love with Aly. She threw me a wicked smile over her shoulder at the auditions for the Lyon School of Ballet and I wanted her to stay in my life forever. That first ballet class was exactly like that. I remember my first attempt at a grand jeté and it didn’t matter how awkward it was. It felt like the whole world threw me a wicked smile. I never wanted to leave.

My parents hadn’t loved it. They fought about it. I fought back. I blackmailed them, argued and defied them. Finally their church leader told them that I’d outgrow it and they should let me dance for now.

I can’t explain it, not really. But when the box arrives, I open it and just stare at the tights, the ballet slippers, the warm-ups I haven’t seen in years. I don’t know why I went back to the café and waited for Aly for days after I accidentally ran into her either. This feels like the same thing. The apartment holds its breath around me.

I sit on the floor of the living room, right by the barre, unpacking the box with shaking fingers. I ordered the same brand of slippers that I used to love. Like Aly’s pointe shoes, these are handmade and, back in the day, I had them stitched a certain way to provide my arches with more support. I had good feet, but my ankles could be weak. At least now I only have to worry about one of my ankles.

The slipper slides easily onto my right foot, but my left foot’s more difficult. The fake foot doesn’t have the give my right foot does. I end up digging into Aly’s drawers for one of her many sets of pointe shoe scissors. We’re all used to this, but it’s been a while since I altered a shoe this drastically. I cut a tiny bit along the arch of my foot and the top of the shoe and carefully stitch in a tiny square of ribbon. A little more breathing space without losing the integrity of the slipper. Hopefully.

I slide it onto my fake foot and blink. For a second, for a heartbeat, I thought I’d feel something, the leather, the warmth, the sensation pulsing up my leg. But nothing. Of course not. A ballet slipper doesn’t change my reality. Ballet’s not going to bring back my leg.

I don’t think I thought it would.

No, that’s wrong. I thought it would. I know it’s illogical, but I did. I guess it never occurred to me how different this would feel. I lie down on my back, staring at the ceiling. I lift my right leg, pointing my toe and stare at my reflection in the mirrors behind the barre. I lower it again and lift my left leg. I try to point my toe. There’s nothing that makes my leg do that. It’s trained to point my toe after pressure’s released from the ball of the foot and my knee is fully extended.

I roll over and get up, holding on to the barre. I rock onto the toes of my right foot. When I try it on my left foot, it triggers the knee to bend. I can’t circumvent the software.

I slam my fist against the barre. So close. I’m so
fucking
close to doing what I want to do. There’s something humming in my blood now. Something I can’t ignore. I have to try this. I can’t not try at this stage.

I flop on the couch and turn my phone over in my hands a few times before finally finding the number I need to call and press the button.

“Dr. Tydal’s office, how can I help you?” The receptionist at my prosthetist is always super cheerful.

I take a deep breath. “Hi, it’s Zed Harrow. I was just in there a few weeks ago getting fitted for a new above-the-knee prosthetic. I need to talk to Dr. Tydal about whether it can be modified.”

“Sure, Zed, I can fit you in here. What do you need to talk to her about? Is it not working out?”

“It’s great,” I say. I swallow. “But I think I need an ankle that can do a little more.”

There’s a pause, and then the receptionist says, “You know, there’s an opening this afternoon. Do you want to come in?”

If I don’t go in now, I’ll chicken out. “Yes.”

Prosthetists are part doctors, part physical therapists and part psychologists. Which explains why Dr. Tydal says, “So do you need tissues now or later?” when I first walk into the office.

I laugh and kick my left leg out a little bit. “Hopefully not.” I touch the slippers I brought with me. “I want to dance again.”

Tydal pushes her glasses on top of her head and studies me. I’ve seen her more in the past few months as I test-walked different prosthetic legs than I saw her for the previous three years I’ve been in DC. But she’s never looked at me quite like this. She sits back and puts her clipboard to the side.

“Is that the first time you’ve said that aloud since the accident?”

I blink and then take a deep breath. “Yeah. It is.”

She nods. “Okay. I haven’t worked with other dancers, to be honest. Skiers and runners, sure. But not dancers. I’ll have to ask around. But this is what we can do for now.”

She shows me a hydraulic ankle and how it works with my current prosthetic knee. It’s a different lower leg, and the ankle’s clunkier, but it should make a huge difference to my range of motion. Tydal takes me out to the ramp they use to practice walking and I stand there, using it like a barre, sweeping my feet out to the side.

It’s not the same, I’m figuring that out. And it hurts. Not stings like a bee, but the deep ache in me that’s been throbbing for years, a dull roar in the back of my head, burns today like someone’s peeled off the scab and pressed salt right into the wound. It burns and my throat’s thick but I don’t stop moving.

I can’t stop moving.