Having Mindy back is a big part of my recovery from losing contact with my daughter. I follow the progression of her conversations with her cowboy Preston through her failure to move her lessons to his inability to change his schedule. She asks for another trail ride, and her father says no.
I remember those frustrating days, being unable to do anything for myself, always at the mercy of my parents.
I pass my driving test and get my license. There's a bit of a disaster at the DMV when Blitz and I are spotted and we end up getting escorted out of the public area due to our presence creating a “public disturbance.” At least I get a private test with no wait.
But for days after that incident, I hear the ringing shouts of people asking, “Where is your secret baby, Livia? Are you going to get her back? How could you abandon her?”
It’s doubly hard because I don’t get to see her on her birthday. It was the first one I would get to spend with her, as she started the ballet class a couple months after it passed last year. Just like with her first four birthdays, she turns five without me.
I spend the day at the condo, listening to The Nutcracker and watching the dance video the girls did with Blitz when I first met him.
Blitz has flowers delivered at 8:52 p.m., the moment she was born five years before. It’s pretty much the sweetest gesture anyone has ever done.
I know I have to pull myself out of this. I just have to find a way.
With my ability to drive, I start volunteering at the church again. Irma, the church secretary, agrees not to mention it to my parents, on the basis that she wouldn’t call the parents of any other adult member of the congregation. She still gets upset when she remembers how my father almost struck me the day I came for the adoption paperwork.
Mindy and I enjoy our time up there, filing things and gossiping and making plans for next year when she is eighteen too. Her relationship with her parents isn't nearly as troublesome as mine was, and I tell her to think about just coming clean about the cowboy and asking if she can go on dates.
Irma doesn’t follow celebrity gossip, even mine, and hasn't realized that there is a public frenzy surrounding my daughter's adoption. When I tell her, we relocate the files to a safety deposit box the church owns, just in case.
I wonder how Gabriella is doing, if she misses us. I doubt Gwen told her about me. She has completely sealed up her Facebook page and I can no longer see anything about my daughter.
“You want to go over to Jenica's and dance?” Blitz asks. “It always helps.”
I reluctantly agree. I really just want to collapse on the sofa again. But I can’t do that.
I get myself up and pack my ballet things. Dance is always the solution.
When we arrive at the gym, Weeza doesn't make any rude remarks as we pass. I guess even she knows when to quit.
Inside, the aerial silks are down and the tall mats pushed aside. A huge line of at least twenty ballerinas fill the entire length of the barre.
We set our bags in a cubby and approach Jenica, who is presiding over the lesson led by Ingrid, who coaches most of the ballet students. The two could not look more opposite, with Jenica loose-haired in her usual bright jewel-toned leotard and scarf skirt, while Ingrid wears traditional pale pink and a tight ballet bun.
“What's this?” Blitz asks. “Invasion of the tutus?”
Jenica laughs. “One of the most famous Russian ballerinas has defected from her country and is putting together a tour here in the US. She needs an entirely new corps of ballerinas, principals, soloists, and chorus dancers, to back her. Male and female. She's holding auditions right here at the Dancery.”
“Wow.” Blitz turns to me. “You going to audition, Livia?”
I shake my head. There's no way I could keep up with a traditional ballet schedule. I have only been en pointe for six months. While I trained hard during the show, I spent a lot of time doing other types of dance. And with the Gabriella issue, I haven’t worked out in almost two weeks.
Jenica looks me over. “Are you sure? You looked quite good on Blitz's show. You should throw your hat in the ring. Your celebrity could benefit you, as ticket sales are always a factor.”
I don't bother to argue with either of them. I’m not really myself, low energy, depressed. The last thing I want to do is tour with a Russian ballerina.
But I did come here to dance. So when Jenica takes Blitz over to the trampolines to work on flips, I slip on my toe shoes and get in line with the ballerinas who are moving through the standard ballet poses with Ingrid.
I'm a little rusty, but after a half hour, I fall into the rhythm with the others. It's nice to turn off my brain and just move, toe out, plié, relevé, first position, step-step-leap.
Other ballerinas join us as the time passes, but no one leaves. The other girls are focused and determined, showing no signs of fatigue. I've heard a touring ballerina's day can last ten hours or more, so it makes sense that they would push themselves.
I watch Blitz when I'm angled the right way. He's working with two of the acrobats who often perform stunts on the triple trampolines. I keep my pattern with the girls, second position, third position, hold-two-three-four.
Weariness begins to set in, but I keep going. At one point, a man who looks very out of place strolls through the gym.
He’s trying to fit in with jazz tights and a dance shirt. But the cut is wrong, same as his hair and the style of his short round beard. He's not from here, or anywhere I've been. His skin is pale, his eyes translucent. He misses nothing as his gaze runs down the line of ballerinas, pausing on a few.
He sees me, but I don't impress him much, and his attention focuses elsewhere.
This is enough to make me want to stop. I finish the eight-count, then step away from the barre.
Blitz notices when I break ranks and hops off the trampoline to head my way.
“That was quite a workout you did!” he says.
He seems pleased. We head toward the cubbies for our bags, and I pull out a towel to smooth the hot sticky strands of hair at the back of my neck.
The man notices Blitz and stops walking, his eyes wide. Then he looks at me again, his gaze falling to my ballet shoes. He's recognized us, and he's not as nonchalant about it as the others.
He takes out a phone, and I groan. He's going to Tweet or Facebook or otherwise disclose our location.
“Come on,” I tell Blitz. “Before that guy tells the world where we are and we lose another secret dance spot.”
Blitz turns to look at who I'm talking about. “Oh, that's Dmitri, the casting supervisor for that Russian dancer. Jenica said he might stop by. He's been pre-scouting the ballerinas.”
“I thought they were doing auditions,” I say.
“They are, but still, he comes. He wants to see their work ethic.”
I'm sure he thinks mine is trash, but that doesn't bother me.
“I’m sure me quitting makes them look good.”
Blitz waves to the other acrobats and takes my hand. “Anybody who knows who you are will recognize you have what it takes to perform. Being on a show like we were is grueling.”
“It was.” Ten weeks of twelve-hour days. I remember them well.
We cross the empty foyer. Weeza isn’t there to torment us.
“You going to chauffeur me home, licensed driver?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say. The more I drive, the better I'll feel about it. The producers are already making noise about Blitz coming up to do some clips for the next season of the show, and I want to be able to stay home and drive myself if I want to. Maybe I can even sneak Mindy away to see her cowboy.
I had plenty of people help me when I decided I wanted Blitz. Danika and the instructors at Dreamcatcher. Bennett and his wife Juliet.
Time to return the favor. Helping Mindy will definitely help me too.