Alaskan Homecoming. Teri Wilson
The lines around her mother’s face deepened.
“Mom, admit it. Please.”
Her mom took a deep breath, and she seemed to wilt a little on the exhalation. “That’s part of it, yes. But try to understand. Other than the handful of times we’ve been to California to watch you dance, your father and I haven’t seen you in seven years.”
“Six,” Posy began to whisper, but the word died on her tongue.
“After what happened last time, we wanted you here. At home, where you belong.”
Is this where I belong, God?
She didn’t bother waiting for an answer.
This was her home, but no, it wasn’t where she belonged. Not really. She was just here because she was hurt. She belonged onstage. Her foot belonged in a ballet shoe, not the ugly plaster where it currently resided.
“It’s not like the last time, Mom. I promise.”
Her mother nodded. She didn’t believe her. She might want to, but she didn’t. That much was obvious. And Posy wasn’t altogether sure she blamed her.
God, why is this all so hard?
Posy glanced up at the ceiling. But instead of finding God, all she could imagine were the snow-laden boughs of the giant blue evergreen spread over the town like angels’ wings.
The next afternoon at the church, Posy scrolled through the playlists on her iPod, checking one last time to make sure she had the music she needed for barre work. Classical, of course.
For as long as she could remember, her barre exercises had been performed to classical piano. Sharp, staccato notes, perfect for the seemingly endless repetition of pliés, elevés, tendus and battements.
When she’d been a little girl in Madame Sylvie’s ballet school, the one and only in Aurora, the music had drifted from an ancient turntable—blue, the kind that could be closed like a suitcase. On it spun scratchy vinyl record albums with cardboard covers on the verge of deterioration that had been used by generations of dancers.
Posy turned the iPod over in her hand, wondering what had become of that turntable and those albums. Madame Sylvie had suffered a sudden heart attack only three months after Posy had moved to San Francisco. In a single, tragic episode, both the ballet teacher and the school itself ceased to exist.
Posy had missed the funeral. She’d been dancing in her first real performance with the corps. Swan Lake, notorious for being the toughest ballet for corps dancers. It was the marathon of ballets. So while the woman who’d first taught her how to point her feet had been laid to rest, Posy had been fluttering across the stage in white feathers for three solid hours. By the end of the matinee that Saturday, her feet had hurt nearly as much as her heart.
Of all the things she’d missed in Aurora, Madame Sylvie’s funeral was the one Posy had been the most conflicted about. Ultimately, she’d stayed in California because it was what her teacher would have wanted. Dancing that afternoon was the best way to honor Madame Sylvie’s memory.
Posy had stitched a tiny black satin ribbon on the inside of her right pointe shoe in remembrance. And she’d danced until she no longer felt like crying.
A bittersweet smile came to Posy’s lips as she clicked the iPod in place in the docking station. She hadn’t thought about Madame Sylvie in a long time. Years maybe. This town was so full of memories, she was beginning to wonder if her heart had room for all of them.
And of course, just as she was feeling particularly wistful, the biggest memory of them all walked into the room.
“How’s it going in here? Do you need any help?” Liam stood with his hands on his hips and looked around at the metal folding chairs lined up in neat rows up and down the length of the fellowship hall. “What are all the chairs for? I thought the girls were going to be dancing.”
“The chairs are makeshift barres, for balance.” Posy would have loved some full-length mirrors, like every actual ballet school had. But this wasn’t a ballet school. It was a church. And anyway, this situation was temporary.
“Oh,” Liam said, crossing his arms and scowling, clearly disappointed. As if she’d given up on teaching the girls ballet before they’d even started. “Well, do you need anything else?”
He glanced at the iPod in her hand, at the dance bag overflowing with tattered pointe shoes sitting at her feet and then at the chairs again. Was it Posy’s imagination, or was he looking everywhere but at her injured foot?
It was the big, plaster-clad elephant in the room. She should have been relieved not to have to talk about it. But instead it irritated her that he was so painstakingly avoiding the topic. Then the fact that it irritated her just irritated her further.
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