I’m a frazzled mess of nerves as I wait in Studio 3 the next morning for the little dancers to arrive. I pray nobody has talked about me or Blitz. I want all that to go away.
I lift my ankle to the barre and lean into a stretch. I don’t really need to warm up for this class. The girls require a lot of help, and I do more encouragement than dance. But it passes the time.
The first dance student arrives, Marissa, a six-year-old with a riotous head of honey-blond curls. Her mother wheels her in, smiling to see me.
Marissa sits up a little straighter, but I can see by the strain in her smile that she’s had a rough night. She’s weaker than usual, listing against one side of the wheelchair. She has cerebral palsy, and some days are tougher than others.
“I’ve got her,” I say to her mother.
“I’ll be outside,” she says. “She’s not quite one hundred percent today.”
I don’t ask questions, just push Marissa to the center of the room and face her to the mirror. “We’ll start with some arm positions while we wait for the others,” I say. “I’ll turn on the music.”
As I head to the corner, Janel, the instructor, rushes in. “Thank you, Livia,” she says as the music fills the room. “Marissa, how are you today?” Even though she asks, I see by the concern in her expression that she also recognizes Marissa’s lack of energy.
“I’m okay,” Marissa says, but we know better.
“I’ll help her with arms today,” I say to Janel.
Two more of our students arrive at the same time, one powering her chair, the other pushing the wheels on hers. They are all smiles and excitement, bright in hot pink and vivid purple tutus that explode off the seats like blossoms.
Janel greets them and helps them fall into line beside Marissa.
The fourth and fifth girls also arrive. I struggle to pay attention to our warm-ups as well as the open door to the studio. I can’t help but wonder if Blitz is still here somewhere, if he’s doing whatever got Aurora so worked up.
I try to shake him from my mind as I adjust the girls’ arms to mimic Janel’s position. Marissa can’t lift her right arm at all today, so I gently hold it in place.
When the first song ends, I realize Gabriella isn’t here yet, and all thought of Blitz is eclipsed by my concern over her absence. Janel continues to take the girls through a simple dance, turning in a circle. The whir of electric motors and squeak of rubber on the floor punctuates the whimsical tune of the music.
When we pause for a moment, I ask Janel, “Did we hear from Gabriella’s mom?”
Janel shakes her head no. “Let’s practice our recital number!” she announces.
I have to rush to line up the girls in their spots. They will be dancing to “Flight of the Sugar Plum Fairy” in the Christmas show, their first public appearance together. I’m beyond excited. I fought for the class, pestering Danika about it until she relented, and personally made fliers and sent them around until we filled a class.
But the little girl I did it all for isn’t here today. Gabriella’s mother didn’t enroll her right away, and I had begun to despair she would ever show until one day, she wheeled in. That was pretty much the best day of my life.
Where could she be? I always fretted over these girls. They were so vulnerable to illness, complications, and setbacks. Gabriella’s spinal cord injury was caused by a car accident a year ago, and she’s grown stronger as she’s taken the class. But I worry. Always.
I’ve just gotten the last girl into place when I hear, “So sorry to be late.”
My shoulders relax in relief. It’s Gwen, Gabriella’s mother. I turn to them, Gabriella merrily pushing herself into the room. She’s four years old and a spitfire. Her hair is exactly like mine, dark and thick. Gwen has twisted it on top of her head and fastened it with a sequin scrunchie.
My heart clenches as it always does when she arrives. I hurry over and wave Gabriella into her position in the line. Gwen heads out. The music begins, and time flies as I help the girls maneuver into their places.
Janel has been clever in the design of the dance so that the girls who can’t propel themselves are situated at the heart of the formation and don’t need to move their chairs to make the choreography work.
My pride surges as I watch Gabriella curve her arms and turn her chair in time with the song. She’s smart and quick to learn. I wonder how different her life would have been if she had not gone to live with Gwen, if she hadn’t been in that car with her adopted father when it crashed into a semi, killing him and injuring her tiny spine.
None of that would have happened if I had been stronger. If I’d stood up to my own parents.
If I’d never let them take my newborn daughter away.