Page 63 of On Thin Ice

When we entered the restroom, she said, “Sinny’s right. You look pale.”

“I feel like I’m going to be sick.”

Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything else. Hurrying, I went to the stall farthest away from the main door and barely lifted the toilet seat before the contents of my stomach came rushing out. And once it started, there was no stopping it. Although I would continue to blame it on something I ate, the truth was my nerves just couldn’t take it anymore. My body had needed to do something to get rid of my anxiety—and apparently this was it.

I didn’t know how long had passed when Vivian quietly rapped on the door. “Are you okay? Can I get you something?”

Out of habit, I almost told her no. But then I said, “Please let Sinclair know I’ll be out as soon as I can—but I need a few minutes. Please don’t wait for me. I don’t want you to miss anything.”

“Only if you’re sure…”

“I am.”

Once she left, I took several deep breaths and then rolled off some toilet paper so I could wipe off my mouth. My breath was still shaky and my stomach muscles hurt from the exertion—but I was feeling a little better, even if empty.

At the sink, I ran the water and scooped up several mouthfuls—first, to rinse out my mouth and then to rehydrate. An older woman came out of the stall that had been next to mine, but I didn’t know if she’d heard my retching, so I gave her a tiny smile.

“Would you like a mint? I always carry extras in my purse.”

Her kindness warmed me through and through. “Yes, thank you.”

“Just a second.” After she washed and dried her hands, she opened her purse and handed me a little red-and-white candy wrapped in plastic. “Do you feel like you’ll be able to enjoy the show?”

“I think so,” I answered, unwrapping the candy.

“Well, they say peppermint is good for an upset stomach, so it’ll do double duty.” With a wink, she headed toward the door, and I followed.

She stopped at the door to the box behind ours and gave me a wave. Soon, I was entering the Whittier box and Sinclair stood, waiting for me to sit. “Are you all right? We can leave—”

“No, I’m okay.”

With that, he smiled. His voice was soft as we sat back down. “Well, you got here just in the nick of time.” Just after he said that, a roar of applause filled the space—and, when I looked down, I saw the orchestra poised to begin, the conductor holding a barely visible wand in the air.

And then the strains of an instrument, an oboe, something I didn’t know at the time but learned later. Its sound was soft, quiet, mournful—and yet it filled that entire space.

I’d heard this tune before, but I couldn’t place it.

As the oboe continued telling its wordless story, it was as if I could collectively feel everyone in the auditorium holding their breaths to make space for its sound. Soon, though, the entire orchestra was in motion, even though the music was still restrained, as if holding back its whole power.

Something about the tune sounded familiar to me, but I wasn’t sure why.

I was fascinated simply watching the orchestra play from above—how the conductor would move his hands to keep time while also subtly pointing at different sections and how they would respond. I would see woodwinds brought to musicians’ mouths or bows begin moving in unison.

And then the red curtain on the stage opened as the music became livelier and louder, celebratory—and the entire auditorium erupted in applause at the sight of dancers posed on stage.

I got caught up in it—in the splendor, the story, and the costumes. The dancers held my attention, and I quickly learned that when one did something extra special—such as leap across the stage like a graceful deer in front of bowing ballerinas—clapping was expected.

Soon, I was caught up in the beauty of the story unfolding before my eyes—and so many sections of music sounded familiar. I didn’t know if I’d heard them played in the background somewhere or in commercials or movies, but I recognized so much of it while never knowing that it had come from this ballet.

There were two intermissions and we got up for drinks and to use the restroom, but I was eager to get back both times.

But, aside from all that, at the beginning of the second act came that same refrain that the oboe had played at the beginning, the one that sounded most familiar, like something I’d heard recently. It was the first appearance of the villain and Odette—and the music, dancing, and story brought tears to my eyes, even as the ballerina received applause for her graceful movements.

I was shocked at how I could experience this story without a single word.

When the ballet ended, I was happy, my eyes once more filled with tears. And I was on the verge of giggling with giddy happiness from the curtain call that was just as lovely as the entire performance before it. I could hear several men in the audience below shouting through the applause—and I finally figured out that they were yelling bravo!

The conductor came on stage and kissed the hand of the ballerina who had played Odette and she danced to the edge of the stage, indicating the orchestra, who also deserved immense applause.

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