Page 25 of Give Me Strength

“It is, but try telling that to a bunch of entitled teenagers and their entitled parents. Hannah didn’t do carpools, so I’m not sure why they expected Russ to engage in free labor for their spoiled brats.”

I can’t hide the snicker that escapes. “Tell me how you really feel.”

She throws a dish towel in my direction. “It’s not my job to play nice with other parents, nor is it Russ’s. It wasn’t Mrs. Torres’s job to clean up after other peoples’ brats either, but they didn’t seem to get the memo until she called the authorities on them for trespassing. It goes without saying that Lynn wasn’t the most popular student in middle school, and high school is no different. Teenagers can be cruel, but Lynn is no pushover.”

So she’s a loner. Like Rachel and I were in high school.

It’s like Bonnie can read my mind. “Lynn doesn’t care about being liked by her peers. This might sound cliché, but she’s always been more emotionally mature. She finds the whole teenage experience tedious. Her words, not mine. Sure, she’s a bit sheltered, but sometimes even I forget that she’s a teenager, with everything she’s been through, how she talks, and even how she carries herself. Eighteen going on eighty. On the drive here, she asked why I didn’t seem to be all that concerned about her living here. Well, it wasn’t a question, more like an observation.”

Loathe as I am to admit, Ashlynn has a point. She knew Rachel, but she doesn’t know me.

Not yet, anyway.

“You should be. For all intents and purposes, I am a stranger to her.”

She tucks both hands into her pockets. “I will move heaven and earth for that girl, but there are limits to what I can do. After the accident, she was diagnosed with PTSD and an anxiety disorder. It’s mostly managed without medication, and having a routine and structure helps. That said,” Bonnie’s face tightens with worry, “Lynn’s been having nightmares. Sometimes, she wakes up screaming, drenched in sweat. Other times, she’s quiet, but I can see the terror in her eyes.”

A pang of sympathy hits me. “Nightmares are a common response to trauma. They’re the mind’s way of processing what’s happened, but without the proper support they can become overwhelming. Given how long she’s had them, does she take something for it?”

“She has a prescription for lorazepam, which she takes as needed. She tells me when she takes them, but she doesn’t like to talk about her nightmares. After the accident she saw someone for about a year, so I know she’s not opposed to seeing someone now.”

I nod, absorbing the information. “I’ll need to familiarize myself with her medical history. I’ll need Ashlynn’s consent, so I’ll ask her directly.”

Bonnie smiles at that, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “My advice is to tread lightly. She doesn’t trust easily. She’s built up walls around herself, so it’s up to you to bridge that gap.”

I lean back, the weight of the responsibility settling on my shoulders. It won’t be a piece of cake, but I’m up for the challenge.

“To be honest,” Bonnie adds, “That’s the main reason why I’m not contesting Hannah’s will. I want Lynn out of that gilded cage. Hell, I wanted to fight Everett for custody five years ago, but Will talked me out of it. With Everett gone most of the time, it was easier for Lynn to set her own routines that didn’t include him. She has always been passionate about ballet. It isn’t a hobby for her, it’s a calling, one that fulfills a deep, seated need within her. I walked away from it a decade ago, and turned out okay. I don’t think Lynn can live without it. It’s her way of coping, of expressing herself. Everett didn’t understand that about his own daughter, and with Hannah gone, it was my job to set his head straight.

“When he was gone, Mrs. Torres lived with Lynn full-time, and I stayed over when I could or she stayed with me. Obviously, I’d like her to move in with me, but there’s a seventy percent chance she’d have to change schools, and I’m not doing that to her a few months into her senior year. If I can give her a more permanent home base, then that’s what I’ll do. Or rather, you’ll do.”

That’s when I hear it. The familiar, tragic strains of Prokofiev’s “Romeo and Juliet” filter through the house, each note a haunting reminder of love and loss. Their story has always struck a chord with me, each note a dagger to the heart.

I glance at Bonnie. “You don’t think…?”

“I don’t think, Gilbert. I know.”

We follow the sound. The music pulls us towards Rachel’s Creative Wing, as she called it. The hallway leading up to it is lined with framed photographs and enclosed glass shelving filled with ballet trophies. It’s a gallery of frozen moments featuring Rachel, Hannah, and Ashlynn.

Suffice it to say, I haven’t stepped foot in this part of the house in years. The caretakers kept it in pristine condition, though. Like they knew something I didn’t — that someday this wing would be infused with life.

We approach the studio, the sorrowful melody growing louder with each step. I glance at Bonnie and she nods, understanding my unspoken question. When we reach the door, I pause, letting the poignant melody seep into my bones. We push the door open and stand in the doorway, watching Ashlynn.

She moves with a grace that is both mesmerizing and heartbreaking, her body telling the tragic tale of Juliet. Every step, every turn, speaks of love and loss, her movements infused with a raw, aching intensity that speaks of her own pain. Her arms reach out in longing, and her leaps defy gravity, but there’s a profound sadness in her dance that makes my chest tighten and takes my breath away.

Ashlynn is dancing on blistered feet. I can see the strain on her face and how her muscles protest with each rise onto pointe. But she doesn’t falter. The pain is evident, yet hidden behind her flawless form. She channels her anguish into the fluidity in her movements despite the obvious physical discomfort. Her face is a mask of determination, her body pushing through the agony.

Watching Ashlynn, I can’t help but draw parallels between her and Rachel. I’m transported back to those days when Rachel danced with the same passion, grace, and fierce resilience. But there’s something more here, something that stirs a long-dormant part of me.

Rachel used to say that ballerinas don’t like pain, but they learn to tolerate it. They condition their bodies to get used to the constant aches and pains and everything else in between.

But Ashlynn — she owns it, makes it her own.

She commands the pain, and she makes it her bitch.

Hers is a performance born of suffering, each spin and leap a cry for something irretrievably lost.

And yet… there’s an undeniable pull, a magnetism that draws me in. It stirs something inside me, a primal heat that I can’t ignore. The way Ashlynn moves and the way she pours herself into the song are both captivating and unsettling. Her vulnerability, her strength, her raw emotions — it’s impossible to look away from. A part of me aches for her, wants to reach out and hold her, to ease the pain that fuels her every step.

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