Page 29 of On Dancer
“Of course.”
Alexander walked away from me, and I watched him go. It was only a few feet, but it felt like miles, a deep ache opening in my chest. How was I going to cope when a few paces turned into a whole continent between us?
Fifteen
Dress rehearsal:the full run-through of the performance in costume, on stage, with lighting and sound in place. Usually, the day or night before a performance.
Alexander
December, like every December I could remember, whirled by, a dizzying kaleidoscope of class, rehearsal, costume adjustments, with an added bonus this year of continued PT, massage, and doctors’ visits, including the doctor sitting across from me at the small bakery café adjacent to the theater. Isabella had insisted on treating me to lunch before what was sure to be a long afternoon and evening of rehearsals at the theater. The set and tech committees had been hard at work the last two nights, setting the stage for today’s dress rehearsal. The mere thought of walking into the theater filled me with equal measures of dread and giddiness, and I’d barely been able to nibble at my soup and sandwich combo.
“Either that’s the most fascinating bowl of tomato basil soup ever, or something is on your mind,” Isabella observed before taking a bite of her tuna salad on a croissant.
I had so much on my mind that picking a single topic proved difficult, especially one I was willing to engage with my sister on.
“Is it possible to over-ice a healed injury?” I reached for the question that had poked at me most of the month. Ever since the Friday after Thanksgiving, Rudy and I had not missed a single night of game play, and I was loath to give up the time.
“Over-ice? Like you’re having skin breakdown?” Gaze sharpening, Isabella glanced down under the table at my warm-up-covered knee.
“No, nothing like that.” I waved off her concern. My own worry had more to do with losing my convenient excuse for seeing Rudy than anything physical. “My PT mentioned something about how I can give up the ice part of my after-dance stretching routine, but I’ve found it…helps.”
I’d had to pause to search for the right word, and Isabella seized my hesitation.
“Are you sore? More than normal? Sharp pain?”
“No more sore than usual for tech week, and honestly, possibly less.” I quirked my lips. My lack of issue was indeed my issue, which only proved how good I was at finding worries. “My routine seems to be helping.”
By routine, I meant the stretching and the nominal icing, but also the extended time with Rudy each evening, playing and chatting. I was relaxed and loose in a way I couldn’t remember being during any other December withThe Nutcrackerlooming.
“Then keep doing what you’re doing.” Isabella adopted a more pragmatic tone. “No harm in ice if your skin is tolerating it. I’d have more concern if you were using it to mask genuine pain.”
Tolerating was one way of putting how I basked in Rudy’s caretaking. Of course my skin was fine. He was always so careful to make sure there was a towel or cloth of some kind between the ice and my skin. He draped me in fuzzy throws and surrounded me with pillows. I’d endure years of ice for such comforts.
And that was a sobering thought because we didn’t have years.
“I’m not having pain.” My voice came out too sharp, so I gentled it before Isabella could press. “Now, enough medical talk. Tell me all about what else is going on in your life.”
“The new nanny is a godsend. The kids are on a bedtime routine for maybe the first time ever.” Isabella ticked good news items off an imaginary list. “I discovered a new five-thirty a.m. workout class with weight training. Bradley is on something of regular shifts, finally.”
Isabella’s husband was an anesthesiologist, and between the two of them, they had an impressive number of degrees and certifications. Rudy often mentioned feeling inferior to his siblings and didn’t believe that I could feel similarly. All I’d ever known was dance. Isabella had traveled the world for pleasure and helping people alike, had aced medical school, had a lovely family, and a richness of life that was hard not to envy.
“All excellent news.” I smiled broadly, careful not to reveal any traces of envy. “And you’re coming to Saturday night’s performance and Sunday’s matinee?”
“Of course.” Isabella shrugged like the planner poking out of her leather purse wasn’t bulging with notes and bookmarks. “I wouldn’t skip a chance to see you dance.” Sandwich done, she reached across the table to pat my hand. “It’s so good to have you back, Alexander. I’ve missed my twin and our talks.”
“I’ve missed you too.” I squeezed her hand, not letting go. “How are you really?”
I held her gaze, daring her to be honest in the way we could only be with each other.
“Fine. You know me too well.” She broke off an edge of the molasses cookie she’d ordered with her sandwich. “I’m worried the kids like the nanny more than me. I’m working too many hours, as usual. Insurance companies are the devil. Our practice manager is making noises about leaving. And I barely see my husband, even with his better schedule.”
“There.” I beamed at her. I’d much rather hear her complaints than a list of accomplishments. “That’s the real Isabella.”
“You’re the worst.” She stuck her tongue out at me like we were twelve again. “Your turn.”
“My turn?” I twirled my Americano like it might offer a way out of this conversational turn.
“What’s going on with you? Don’t say nothing.” Isabella broke off another piece of cookie, offered it to me, then used my full mouth to add, “Mom said you’ve been gone a lot. And even I’ve noticed you seem a bit preoccupied.”
