Chapter 8
Sitting across from my parents at their tall kitchen table, I waited for them to digest my explanation of the Peter situation before dropping the bomb about Germany.
Mom’s new lavender tablecloth bunched near her little ivy pot as I pushed the saltshaker around the table, but she didn’t rush to fix it. Didn’t even seem to notice.
She must be taking the Peter news hard—it wasn’t like her not to try to fix everything within her reach. I put the shaker back on the silver holder, next to the pepper, and smoothed the cloth before picking up my coffee mug.
The Brazilian-style flan she’d made for me remained untouched at the center of the table. Studying her face, I noticed some redness on her nose and upper lip. Was she going to cry?
Outside their cottage window, daylight was fading away as I watched the chickadees and warblers fight for a spot on the old bird feeder.
My parents lived in the Longleaf residential area of Callaway Gardens. Their yard could have been bigger, but I liked the cottage—a three-bedroom modern home with large windows. It had a room for me and a room for my brother, Michael, who was studying pre-med at the University of Alabama and still came home when he ran out of clean clothes.
Dad finally broke the silence. “Honey, let me go talk to Peter.” He reached for my hand.
“No, Dad.” I smiled at his suggestion. “I appreciate the offer, though.”
Just say it. Tell them you have a plan.
“You should have come to us sooner, Ana.” Mom blew her nose. “And how about Lorie? At my age, I shouldn’t be surprised by the things people do out of envy, but for crying out loud, you guys were best friends.” She grabbed another tissue. “And wasn’t she seeing someone?”
“She’d been dating a guy from the symphony, a handsome violinist from someplace in Eastern Europe. It seemed serious, but I haven’t seen them together lately.” I tried to remember who’d told me they were talking about getting married. Brian?
“Maybe something happened there,” Dad said.
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “Obviously, they’re no longer together, as she seems to be with Peter now.” I shook my head at the absurdity of that statement. “I think she’s lost it—literally. The part about loving my men was pretty ridiculous, but to say that God is dead? Who says stuff like that?”
“God forbid.” Mom made the sign of the cross.
“I don’t remember the last time I heard you talk about God.” Dad looked at me as though he were examining a lab rat, wondering what strange thing it would do next.
“I know, Dad. I just don’t understand people who read the Bible all the time, and think it’s some magical book with all the answers to life.” I folded my napkin and hoped they wouldn’t ask me when I had last read from its pages. “It’s a book—a very old book with very old ideas.” I put the napkin down and looked at my parents. “And I can’t understand God either. I don’t even know Him. But I can’t let go of the notion either.”
“The notion?” Dad rested his chin on his hand, still studying me.
“Yeah, the notion. I mean, when something is really important, I do pray.”
“To someone you don’t understand or know?”
“Well, Dad, when you put it that way, I feel pretty stupid.”
“I’m just curious.”
I remembered the way I’d felt at the chapel—sad and confused, but not alone. “There is something to it.” I looked at my parents. They didn’t go to church often, but they did read the Bible sometimes. Mom liked Psalms. “God’s there. He loves me. I’m just not ready to explore the idea any further, I guess.”
They nodded silently, wearing matching expressions and polo shirts. Did they realize they were matching? It was sweet, on purpose or otherwise. Were they going to drop the God subject now? Maybe it was a good time to bring up the future and Claus’s invitation.
Mom spoke before I could insert Germany into the conversation. “And you said Lorie was watching Maya Plisetskaya in Carmen Suite?”
“Yep.” At least the spotlight was on Lorie again. I picked up a spoon and started eating the flan from the main bowl.
“The Carmen from the Bizet opera?” Dad cocked his head. “Is it a ballet too?”
“It is, but the story of Carmen in the ballet is somewhat different from the story of Carmen in the opera.” Mom got up and started a fresh pot of coffee. “In the ballet she is the same free-spirited woman, but the sole focus is the love triangle. The set for the whole thing is a bullring, and you have a judge and spectators representing society’s disapproval of her unconventional behavior. In the end, when Don José stabs her to death, she’d been dancing alternatively with him and Escamillo. And with Fate.”
“Fate?” Dad scrunched up his face. “Who’s Fate? And isn’t Escamillo bullfighting when Carmen dies?”
“Well, in the ballet they are all dancing together.” Mom sat with us again as the coffeemaker snorted behind her. “Remember the fortune-teller in the opera?”
“Yeah.”
“In the ballet the fortune-teller is Fate, Carmen’s alter ego, and she shows up as a bull in the closing scene. She dies too.”
“Lovely.” Dad chuckled. “Doesn’t sound like the kind of ballet a sweet Christian girl would be interested in.”
“Well, we are not talking about a sweet Christian girl anymore, are we?” Mom started picking at the flan too.
“She said she was done being good.” I reached for my purse on the china cabinet to get a mint. What was that psalm she’d told me to look up? Mom would probably know it. It was best not to say anything about a psalm, though, or we would end up discussing religion all over again. “Lorie was probably watching Carmen Suite to learn how to be different. I don’t know. That girl is a mess right now. Maybe something happened with the violin guy, like Dad said, and it’s made her crazy.” I stretched my mug toward Mom and hoped she would refill it.
Instead, Mom just studied me.
“Can I have more coffee?” She was still staring. “Please?”
She reached for the mug, her cold hand lingering on mine before she turned to pour the coffee. Dad already had the pot and helped.
“I can’t help but wonder if Claus was somehow involved in Lorie’s plot.” Mom slid the sugar and creamer my way. “How else would she have known something was going to happen between you two on stage that night?”
“Mom, no. Come on.” Of course he wasn’t involved. “Claus loves me. He would never do that.” Was she serious? “Lorie and I were best friends when Claus and I met. Maybe she went to him that day and told him I wanted to talk. He would have listened to her. Who knows?”
“Did you ask him?” Dad raised an eyebrow.
“No… Stop, guys. Please.”
Mom got up and walked to my purse. “You should ask him.” She pulled the scarf out of my purse like a magician, the fabric accusing me, one faded cherry at a time.
Dad groaned. I guess he remembered the aqua chiffon scarf too.
“I’m not asking,” I said. “I know the answer. He has nothing to do with Lorie’s madness.” I took the scarf from Mom’s hand and put it back in my purse before zipping the bag. “Having Claus by my side right now is the only thing keeping me from going crazy. Don’t ruin this for me, please.”
We sat in silence, and Mom’s eyes were bright with tears.
This is as good a time as any. “There is something—”
“What are you going to do now?” Dad asked, interrupting me.
I can’t say it. It will break their hearts.
He held Mom’s hands. “Honey, do tell.”
“I’m moving in with Claus.” I lowered my head. I couldn’t watch them hurt. “I’m going to Germany.”
“Are you getting married?” Mom sounded more surprised than heartbroken.
“I don’t know. Not now, if that’s what you are asking.”
“And how is that different from what Peter is doing with Lorie?” Mom’s voice had gone from surprised to harsh and accusatory. “Ana, you can’t be serious.” She slammed both hands on the table and startled me. “You two hardly know each other. And I wasn’t going to say anything, but guess what? You should not have kissed him in the first place. I taught you better.”
Here we go. “Tell me how you really feel?”
“Don’t give me an attitude. You know I’m right.”
Sure. You’re always right.
Dad looked at her, his eyes sad.
“What is it about this guy?” Mom paced, running her hands through her hair. “He has a gift for ruining your life. This is not happening. Not again. I already watched him break your heart once. I don’t want that to happen to you again.”
I fought the urge to cry.
“Don’t make a decision now.” Dad sat next to me at the kitchen table. “You and Peter just broke up. You haven’t even had time to process that. How can you possibly make a life-changing decision now?”
“It doesn’t have to be a life-changing decision.” I imitated his solemn tone. “If it doesn’t work out, I’ll come back. What I cannot do is go back to the company and look at Lorie every day.”
“Weren’t you going to audition for some companies in Atlanta?” Mom walked to the window, taking a deep breath.
“I don’t want to audition in Atlanta without Peter by my side.”
“What does one thing have to do with the other?” Dad tapped his fingers on the table.
“Everything. Dancing in Atlanta was part of my life-with-Peter plan.” I put life-with-Peter in air quotes. “Why can’t you guys be happy for me? I’m trying to get over this craziness with Peter and Lorie, and you’re not helping. A door closed and it hurts—believe me, I get it—but another door has opened, and things just may turn out awesome.”
“Take a vacation in Germany, then, instead of moving there.” Mom’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “How about that for an idea?”
Closing my eyes, I put my lips together in a thin, tight line. There was no arguing with her. She’d made up her mind.
“Sweetie, forgive your mom.” Dad held his half-empty coffee mug with both hands and stared at the hot liquid. “But like she said, we don’t want to see him break your heart again—we don’t think a move overseas right now is what’s best. You’re a wonderful young woman, but you have this awful habit of wanting things to be black or white, and that’s hardly ever the case.”
Things were black or white for me, but I nodded to be agreeable. Dad knew how to disarm me.
“Think about a visit instead of a move, like Mom said. We can keep Barysh, and you can go travel, clear your head—enjoy time with Claus even. How about that?”
I looked out the window beyond the bird feeder, beyond the woods.
“Or don’t go at all.” Mom sat with us. “You were a beautiful Juliet. I bet you’ll get more lead roles now.”
“Maybe in another ten years.” I’d already seen Brian and Lorie working on some Don Quixote solos.
“Nonsense.”
“Mom, Lorie is already rehearsing Don Quixote. She’s the lead, as always.” My eyes filled up with tears.
Hers did too. She shook her head, and her shoulders dropped.
We struggled to communicate with words sometimes, but ballet we both understood. She knew that with no prospect of moving up in the company, it would be difficult to keep me from moving.
She reached for my hands. “Well, would you dance in Germany?”
“I would audition for the Rhine-Main Ballet and see what happens. Maybe they will let me be stage decoration.”
They ignored my sarcasm.
“How soon would you go?” Dad took a deep breath.
“In a couple of weeks.”
“A couple of weeks?” Mom asked. “Don’t you need a visa? Doesn’t that take time?”
“Not right away. With my American passport, I can enter and stay for three months. The company will help me apply for an artist visa once I’m there.”
“What if they don’t offer you a position?”
“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t have all the answers.” I guess we would get married.
“Let’s back up a minute.” Dad looked at Mom. “Weren’t we trying to talk her into staying? Hadn’t we agreed that this was all too soon and that the potential for Claus to break her heart again was too great?”
“We’re still trying, but did you hear her say that after all her hard work and the Juliet success, Lorie got the lead in Don Quixote?”
Dad took my hands from Mom’s and searched my eyes. “Stop talking about moving like it’s going to happen and promise you’ll think about every angle to this, okay?”
“Okay…”
They had my room arranged just the way it was in our old house in Columbus, with my twin bed, ballet posters, vanity … everything the same. I liked knowing I still had a room in their home, and I loved having a place to keep all the things that were still dear to me but didn’t really belong in my adult life: my first pair of pointe shoes, my Strawberry Shortcake collection, my Care Bears, music boxes, a series of middle school paintings that were surprisingly good, journals, books, and old photos—lots of old photos.
I flopped down on my old bed after a long bath. I wasn’t sure I would be able to sleep. My parents obviously didn’t approve of my plan to move to Germany. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to go without their support.
After a phone call to Claus, who was in Atlanta visiting old friends, I sat at my childhood desk.
The past few days had been great, but what would we be like in two weeks or two months? How about two years? Mom was right—Claus and I didn’t really know that much about each other anymore. We were working overtime trying to be our best selves, but what would happen next? Who would we become as a couple?
Why did I hate to admit that my mom was right sometimes? It wasn’t lack of love—I loved her. I just hated when she was right. I always had, and, I was willing to bet, I always would. Was it her attitude? Maybe. She seemed to gloat every time she proved me wrong.
But I wouldn’t cross an ocean out of spite. Something was pushing me toward Europe. Something other than desperation. I laughed at myself. Something right.
I turned on the desktop computer and waited for the old machine to boot up. Tucked away with my First Communion book was my old Bible, looking as new as ever. I reached for it and opened it somewhere in the middle. Isaiah 41. I closed my eyes and put my finger on a verse. Isaiah 41:10: “Fear thou not; for I am with thee: be not dismayed; for I am thy God: I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness.”
Okay, that’s officially weird.
I closed the book and pushed it away. The urge to read on was palpable but easily squelched.
Noticing the bright colors flashing from the computer screen, I was about to click on my picture folder but decided to surf the web instead. “No use in looking back.” I glanced at the Bible one more time before typing “Rhine-Main Ballet” in the search box.
Within seconds pictures of the theater, the principals, and the soloists scrolled across my screen. I remembered most from weeks before when I was trying to find Hanna. Then I studied the photos of the corps. Would I be among them one day?
I clicked on the schedule for the upcoming season and started dreaming. Would I be watching or would I be on stage?
The company was dancing primarily at the Hessische Staatstheater Wiesbaden, but there was a trip to Prague coming up in the spring and then a one-evening event in Paris later in the year.
Below all the dates and details, I saw a link for the following year’s schedule and clicked on it. It was sketchy—with dates, locations, and some of the programs, but no cast lists. But there it was—a mixed bill at the Met. There were no details about which works would be presented, but that wasn’t important. It was the Met.
My upper body hit the back of the chair with enough force to make it roll back a foot. “Now that, boys and girls, is fate.” I spun the office chair in a thousand happy spins, accompanied by a thousand muffled squeals.