Chapter 15 - The Body I Had Forgotten
The clinician did not care that I had danced at Lincoln Center.
She cared how long I had been rehearsing.
How quickly I had increased the workload.
Whether pain changed with certain movements.
What the examination showed.
I found her questions insulting for approximately thirty seconds.
Then I realized I was embarrassed.
I had treated my body as evidence.
Proof that fourteen years had not taken anything essential from me.
Proof that I could still become the girl my mother trained.
Bodies were not designed to win arguments.
Mine had finally objected.
The assessment required further evaluation and a period of reduced activity.
I received a plan, referrals, and clear instructions about what needed follow-up.
No one promised a permanent ending.
No one promised I would be back onstage next week.
I hated the uncertainty.
Alexander listened beside me.
Too closely.
By the time we reached the car, he had begun composing a plan.
Cancel appearances.
Suspend rehearsals.
Hire more teachers.
Move my office upstairs so I could rest.
I watched him speak.
Then I said, “Stop.”
He turned.
“I’m trying to help.”
“You’re arranging my life before I’ve had time to understand what happened.”
His face tightened.
I knew he was frightened.
So was I.
That did not make me less entitled to decide.
We sat in silence until the driver pulled into traffic.
Then Alexander put his telephone away.
“What do you need first?”
I looked out at the city.
“To be upset without everyone treating it like a logistical problem.”
He nodded.
For the rest of the drive, he held my hand.
Nothing else.
At the studio, Marisol took over the afternoon classes.
One of the senior instructors offered additional hours.
The school continued.
It hurt how relieved I felt.
It also hurt that I was not indispensable.
Both things were true.
Ruby found me in the office after class.
“Did you break?”
I nearly laughed.
“A little hurt. Not broken.”
She considered that.
“Can you still teach arms?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Mine are bad.”
“Your arms are perfectly respectable.”
“They look like noodles.”
We spent ten minutes practicing seated movements.
No jumps.
No turns.
Just breath and shape.
When she left, I remained in the chair.
For the first time that day, I had done something I loved without demanding pain prove my devotion.
That evening, Alexander brought dinner.
Takeout in paper containers.
He set it on the studio desk.
“May I suggest one thing?”
I smiled faintly.
“One.”
“Eat.”
“Approved.”
We ate with the office door open while the cleaning crew worked in the hall.
One woman paused when she saw me.
Her name was Celia.
She had worked with me at a hotel two years earlier.
She looked at the ring.
Then at the takeout.
Then at Alexander.
“You still owe me twelve dollars,” she said.
I burst out laughing.
“For what?”
“The train card. You said Friday.”
“I remember.”
Alexander watched us.
For a moment, I wondered whether he would offer money.
He did not.
I paid Celia from my own wallet.
She counted it with exaggerated care and went back to work.
Afterward, Alexander said, “I’m glad she knows you.”
I looked at him.
“The version before all this?”
“Yes.”
“So am I.”
Later, Camille called.
Vivienne had supplied selected agreements.
Not the complete archive.
The documents concerned management services and certain recordings.
They did not clearly establish the broad ownership she asserted over The Glass Orchard.
Camille wanted the missing schedules and the correspondence accompanying them.
“Does that mean we can ignore her?” I asked.
“No. It means we don’t let her summary replace the documents.”
I nodded.
Then she asked whether I had approved photographs taken outside the clinic.
My stomach dropped.
“What photographs?”
Within minutes, I saw them.
Alexander helping me into the car.
My face pale.
A headline suggesting the billionaire’s ballerina could no longer dance.
Underneath, an unnamed source questioned whether our wedding would proceed.
I put down the phone.
My ankle hurt.
My pride hurt worse.
May you like
Then a message arrived from Vivienne.
Your mother also struggled when she confused discipline with desperation. We should talk.
