On Pointe (11 page)

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 lamb'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.

“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

it.

Yeah, you paid for it all.

But

I

sacrificed

myself.

And now we find out

I

did it

for

nothing.

But

it was

me.”

Knock, knock.

“Not now,” Mom and I yell together.

“Clare? Martha?” It's Dad.

I gulp.

“It's okay, Dad.”