Finding Center (20 page)

Aly

“Thanks, Dad,” I whisper, kissing my dad on the cheek in front of the restaurant. He looks so sentimental right now, at odds with the fierce and competitive father I remember growing up. He hugs me tightly and then when Zed offers his hand, hugs him too. I have to stifle my laughter at the look of surprise on Zed’s face. Zed doesn’t touch idly, or at least he doesn’t with anyone but me. It’s just not him. But then, my dad’s never been one to show restraint.

“I’ll see you before I head out. I mean, other than at the gala,” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s the Dad I know. I smile and nod, because it’s fine. I’ve survived telling him this—and he didn’t say anything critical about my career. He didn’t say anything about Zed and I not being financially stable the way he and Mom were before they adopted me. He didn’t say anything about us not being married, either.

We watch him catch a cab and then a weight settles around my shoulder as Zed sets his coat around my shoulders. I slide my arms into it gratefully, buttoning it up to my throat. I tilt my chin up to Zed and he obligingly drops a soft, gentle kiss on my mouth. His brow furrows up like it does whenever he’s anxious.

“What are the chances you’re still up for an adventure?” he whispers, like he’s not already an adventure. Like the baby inside of me isn’t going to be an adventure enough.

And strangely, I’m not nearly as tired as I’ve been even though I danced nearly all day today and then had that brief rehearsal with Zed. Given that he warmed up early with me, taught all day and then danced before dinner with my father, Zed is probably more wiped than I am.

Today is a good day. There are more bad days coming, but today is a good day in what’s been a week of bad ones. Tonight’s the night to have adventures.

“I’m always game for an adventure with you.” I slip my hands inside the pockets of his slacks. His hands wrap around my wrists like he thinks I’m going to start that type of adventure right here on the streets.

“Okay,” he says, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and tucking me against his side. “Onward, then.”

We walk along the main street and then cut down a side street, not far from our apartment. He guides me up the marble steps to a house and then reaches inside the pocket of the coat I’m wearing, shaking out his keys. It takes him a second to find the right key and I look up at the gorgeous brick facade. We’re in a trendier area of Georgetown but it’s quiet back here off the main thoroughfare, unlike our apartment. Zed turns the lock and pushes open the door. He flicks on the lights and turns to me, his face silhouetted.

“After you,” he says quietly.

I have no idea what’s happening but I step inside the house. The main hall’s painted a deep blue, the same color as my dress, and the trim is all gorgeous cherry-stained wood. A staircase leads straight up to the second floor and to the left is a small empty room with built-in bookshelves. I walk a little farther, to a second room clearly meant to be a dining room because it has a swinging door into the kitchen where the hallway dead-ends. Above me, in the high vaulted ceiling, a chandelier flickers on. I glance over my shoulder at Zed who follows behind me, his eyes roaming around the empty house with a hint of wistfulness. His hands are shoved in his pockets and though I can see him swallow hard, a sure sign he knows I’m looking at him, he’s deliberately not looking at me.

My heart’s pounding. I step into the kitchen. It’s full of light, the windows going from countertop to the ceiling, with plenty of counter space. There’s a small kitchen table next to a chalkboard. Someone hasn’t erased
ballet at six
. I touch the walls, freshly painted the color of sunbeams. I move to the back door that looks into a private, tree-shaded backyard. There’s a patio and two garden beds.

I turn around, hand still on the glass pane of the back door. Zed looks sheepish in the doorway to the kitchen. He scratches at his jaw and squints at me, waiting for me to ask the question we both know I should ask now.

But I can hardly breathe. I slide past him into hallway again, my hand on the banister as I start up the stairs.

He didn’t.

He did.

He didn’t
.

I exhale on the landing, dizzy with everything that’s happened. On the second floor there’s a front-facing master bedroom with its own bathroom. It still smells like fresh paint up here. There are full bay windows and a window seat with cushions on it still. I want to touch everything. Next to the master bedroom is a smaller bedroom, not big enough for a full-sized bed. But big enough for a home office. Or a—
no
.

And then there’s a third bedroom and a bathroom off the hall. Zed’s path up the stairs is slow and I can hear the exhaustion in his steps. I walk back down to the master bedroom and sink onto one of the window seat cushions, looking out onto the street.

He walks in behind me. Unlike me, he’s not exploring anything. He had keys and the chalkboard downstairs had his familiar handwriting on it. He’s been here before. Because—

“I thought,” he says, his voice hesitant and unsure, “that we could put a barre in the second bedroom up here. Gives you somewhere quiet to go.”

My vision swims in front of me and I swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. The breath I draw rattles audibly. “When?”

“A few weeks ago, same week that I told you I was dancing again, actually. Big week, I guess,” and his voice is so soft. “It belonged to the parent of another teacher. His dad moved into assisted living. They were motivated to sell so negotiating was pretty easy. We can rent out the apartment.”

Zed used some of his insurance money from the car accident settlement to buy the building with the café and apartment years ago, when they were run-down and forlorn. He rented the café space to the business, and redid the apartment himself.

“There’s a studio apartment in the basement. Separate entrance. Has a tenant who’s been there for years and he’s staying on. His rent nearly covers the mortgage.”

I nod and look out the window again, my fingers running over the panes. This place, with its mailbox out front, with its garden and its bright and beautiful kitchen, with its needed space and the most beautiful woodwork I’ve seen in ages, is a home. It’s never meant to be a house. It’s a home.

“Aly,” he whispers, anxiety and anguish clouding up his words. “Tell me what you’re thinking. I can’t read you right now.”

This time I can’t stop the tears from rolling down my cheeks. I’m reaching out with a hand before I can choke out the words, “It’s perfect. Thank you.”

He stumbles forward and sinks to the ground, drawing my hand against his cheek. He kisses my palm, then curls my fingers toward him, kissing each of my knuckles. He kisses the pulse in my wrist and I scoot forward off the window seat, sinking onto the floor next to him. We curl up against each other, fingertips brushing against each other, spelling out things we can’t say.

Then Zed mumbles against my mouth, deliciously warm and absolutely perfect in ways I’ll never understand and he’ll never believe, “I knew it. All those years ago, I knew it, Aly. You never needed anyone to save you, love. But I did. You weren’t waiting for me. I was waiting for you.”

Aly

“Alyona. You look well.”

“Thank you.”

“You sound tired.”

“Ever been pregnant?”

“This is rhetorical, I assume, so we’ll skip my answer. Other than tired, how are you?”

“Is there something other than tired?”

“Okay. Tell me something new since last week.”

“Zed bought a house. Without telling me. And it’s beautiful. It’s not far from where we live now. It’ll be a little farther walk across the bridge to the Metro but I think we’ll survive that.”

“He bought a house as a surprise.”

“Yes.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I thought it’d be upsetting. When I first realized what he was showing me, I started to freak out.”

“But?”

“But then I didn’t. It’s gorgeous and he’s right. We need the space.”

“You sound confused.”

“I was really depressed last week.”

“You were.”

“And now I can’t tell what I am.”

“You don’t need to be able to name every feeling you ever have, Alyona. That’s not how feelings work.”

“It’s exactly how feelings work. That’s what they teach you when you recover from an eating disorder. They teach you that every impulse to use behaviors comes from a feeling.”

“Are you having impulses to use eating disordered behaviors?”

“I always have impulses. Even before I was pregnant. Some days are easier. I did manage to gain the proper amount of weight this week. My doctor was happy.”

“That’s good. I’m proud of you. I know that must have taken a lot of effort.”

“I think it’s why I was depressed.”

“Because you were eating so much.”

“I don’t think I can eat that much and still be in touch with the world.”

“Fair enough.”

“But I’m doing well right now and I don’t know if I’m happy or sad or excited or resigned.”

“Why don’t you tell me how rehearsals are going? How does it feel to dance with Zed again?”

“Like coming home.”

“Tell me more.”

“Zed—God, I forget you’ve never seen him dance. Zed’s musical in ways that he has no idea. He goes out onstage and it’s like he’s the only person out there. Even when he danced in the corps, people would talk about him. And when he dances with you, it’s like the spotlight just gets broader. He’s got the Midas touch onstage. Everything turns to gold.”

“You’re considered one of the best American ballerinas in three generations.”

“Yes.”

“What was Zed before the accident?”

“One of the most promising male ballet dancers in four generations.”

“Does he know this?”

“I don’t think Zed’s ever conscious of his talent.”

“And the talent remains?”

“He was never the most technical dancer. And he’s maybe even less now because his left leg just doesn’t have the nuances to it that a natural leg has. But he’s just so—he turns into this monstrously creative person. He’s so deeply musical and he just lets everything fall away so he can
be
his character.”

“Do you think that’s hard for you?”

“Horribly.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to be the most me onstage. Zed wants to be less him. Both ways are right. Just sometimes, we’re more successful than other times.”

“Alyona, I’m going to say something now and I don’t want you to take it the wrong way but I want to hear your thoughts.”

“Okay.”

“I think it’s dangerous to build our homes inside of other people.”

“I don’t think that’s what I’m doing. I mean, maybe that’s what I did ten years ago, and maybe that’s what I did two years ago when we met up again. But that’s not what we’re doing now.”

“Okay. Explain the home thing to me.”

“Zed and I don’t find the best versions of ourselves in the same places.”

“Where you find you, he loses himself. Where he finds himself, you have a hard time holding on to yourself.”

“Yes. That’s strange.”

“You’re juggling a lot of roles lately. Is that hard?”

“I’m trying not to think of it.”

“I think we should probably talk about that some.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I think it’s important. I’m going to push you on this.”

“Why is it important?”

“You don’t juggle well, Alyona. You were raised to be a ballerina, because your parents, without your permission, found you wanting in your ability to be the magical ingredient that kept their marriage from falling apart. So you became a ballerina. And you did that unbelievably well. But when you were twenty, things got muddled. You had never held a different role in your life. Now you had to be two things, a dancer and a girlfriend. When the car accident happened, you were almost relieved. You could go back to just being the dancer now and no one would think wrong of you. But you fell apart anyway. And since then, you’ve become girlfriend, and dancer, and daughter. Now you will have to be girlfriend, dancer, daughter and mother. That’s a lot of roles to juggle. I think it’s why you’re harder and harder to reach.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. You talk more about Zed than you do about yourself.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re angry at me because I’m getting close. Stay with the anger, Alyona.”

“They’re the roles I have. I’ll deal with them.”

“Will you? You don’t think you’re cutting yourself out the equation? You don’t think that’s what you’re doing?”

“What?”

“We had all those roles you have to play and juggle and carry with you all the time, but I’m worried about
Alyona
. The young woman who is just herself. None of those roles. I’m worried about her.”

“Oh.”

“If you’re cutting out roles you have to play because it’s too much, your instincts are to cut yourself out first.”

“...Yes.”

“That’s what you do with your eating disorder. That’s why it’s so hard to understand how you feel right now. It’s too hard to juggle, and your self-preservation button’s been stuck in the Off position for a long time now.”

“Thanks.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No.”

“Okay. So let’s go back, Alyona. I want to talk about you. How are you?”

“I think I’m falling apart. I’m afraid.”

“There you go. Let’s start there.”

Zed

Tuesdays I come home late after meetings, and Aly’s usually already asleep, a tiny lump underneath the blankets on her side of the bed. Not this week. They moved into the Kennedy Center for rehearsals tonight. I’ll have my first rehearsal there tomorrow night, and then we open Friday. It doesn’t give us a lot of time there, or really any at all, but it’s all we have.

Not to mention, this morning we had a doctor’s appointment. Aly can feel the baby moving now, which she describes as alien. I bet the baby’s doing pirouettes already. After all,
her
parents are two dancers. We’re having a girl. The ultrasounds are still freaky and incredible.

And
her
mother is late getting home from rehearsals. She comes in the front door, quiet and tired, and sits on the floor, on top of my foot, a head against my knee. I put the TV on Mute, studying her eyelashes against her cheek, the evenness of her breath. Sometimes I wonder if I should have insisted that she not dance in her pregnancy. But it’s not like she’d listen to me anyway.

I set aside my grading and brush my hand over her head. Her hair’s still sticky with hair spray. The sparkly mascara sticks to her eyelashes. “Hi. How was it?”

“We never moved past the first five minutes,” she murmurs, and then yawns. “I’m going to kill Yana. I love her, but her head’s not in this right now. She keeps missing her marks on the stage. I’m not exhausted because the only thing Yevgeny and I did this evening was a tiny bit of our pas de deux in the wings so I can work on my half of it. He’s a saint you know.”

“I’ll get him a fruit basket,” I tell her. I’m not kidding.

She laughs softly and says, “You should.”

“You sound exhausted,” I say tentatively. She feels warm too. She tilts back her head to stare at me with those crazy blue eyes. “Calling it like I see it.”

“Mentally tired,” she says and then drums her fingers against my left leg. “Almost done grading?”

“Never done grading,” I say as she gets up off the couch and moves toward the bathroom.

“That’s a shame.” She pulls her shirt over her head and lets it fall to the floor, her hair swinging against her bare back.

She slips off her jeans after a few steps. I sit up on the couch, grading forgotten, watching her shed her bra and underwear before stepping into the bathroom. I look over the discarded clothing on the path past the kitchen to the bathroom where I can hear the shower running. Playing with Aly is a lot like playing Russian roulette.

She pokes her head around the doorway, raking her fingers through her now loose and wavy hair. “Hey. That was an invitation.”

“Your subtlety is sometimes too subtle for me, darling,” I say, swinging off the couch and letting students’ reflective essays on the sociopolitical importance of
Rent
fall the floor. They can wait.

“You’re losing your touch, Harrow,” she calls through the haze of steam slipping through the bathroom door.

I hop to the bathroom. “Yeah? Wanna test that theory?”

* * *

Later, Aly shakes my shoulder long after we’ve both fallen asleep, her body curled up against my back, my hand holding hers against my stomach. I groan, rolling over and squinting at her in the dark. “What? What’s up?”

“Feel,” she whispers and pulls my hand to her stomach. Against my palm, there’s a shifting of skin and pressure. Once, and then again. I can see the corners of Aly’s mouth turn up in a smile. “She’s moving.”

I sit up and stare at Aly’s stomach, rising and falling as she breathes. “Shit.”

Aly props herself up on her elbows. “What?”

“Kid’s inherited my sleep schedule,” I say, pouting at her. “I was so hoping she’d inherit your sleeping superpowers.”

Aly laughs, falling back on her pillows and swatting at me. “She’s going to be like you in a lot of ways, you know.”

I flop back next to her and roll on my side, resting my hand on her warm stomach. “I hope she gets your brain.”

Aly presses her hand on my cheek, drawing me down to kiss her. I don’t have to be asked twice. She whispers against my mouth. “I hope she gets your empathy.”

I smile and say, “I hope she gets your looks.” Then I sit up and say, “No. No, wait, I
don’t
. That’s a terrible idea.”

When Aly laughs, her back arches off the bed and she can’t stop laughing, gasping as tears come down her face. She shakes her head at me, and then bursts into giggles again. “Oh my God, I can’t wait for that.”

“That’s going to be terrible,” I say slowly, trying not to laugh but delighting in how hard Aly’s laughing. “No, I mean, really. What do I do?”

“You have at least thirteen years to figure it out,” Aly says and then her tone grows serious. “What if she wants to dance?”

I sigh and lower myself until my face is hidden in Aly’s messy hair. “I don’t know. Then we let her.”

Aly’s fingers tap down my arm. “What if she wants to play hockey or something else we don’t know anything about?”

“Hey,” I object, lifting my head. “I know about hockey.”

“What’s Baltimore’s hockey team?”

“Uh.”

“Trick question, they don’t have one.”

I snort. “How’d you know that?”

“Yevgeny really likes ice hockey.”

“Russians.”

“You’re thinking of ice skating.”

“Cold sports. All cold sports. I’m surprised he doesn’t want to do some sort of outdoor ballet thing.”

“No, but he started that snowball fight inside last year, remember? He brought in the bucket of snowballs?”

“I’m ninety percent sure that it came out at the Christmas party that you were his accomplice.”

“I didn’t carry the bucket.”

“Alyona Miller doesn’t carry buckets.”

“That’s right. See, I’ve taught you well.”

I pull her close to me, the swell of her belly against me as I kiss the center of her chest at the neckline of her T-shirt. “You did.”

She wraps her fingers around my wrists, right against my pulse. I wonder if she can feel it jump when she kisses me again. “Can you go to sleep again?”

“Probably not,” I say but the clock behind her reads 5:00 a.m. We have to get up in thirty minutes anyway. I kiss her collarbone again. “But you go ahead. You need to rest.”

“Mmm,” she says in an agreeable tone but sits up. “Let’s get up early.”

“And?”

“Go downstairs to the café for breakfast. And then maybe you can play me something on the piano. It’s been a while,” she says shyly.

I sit up and run my hands through my hair to get it to stand up at terrible angles. She laughs again. It’s the most beautiful sound in the world.