A Lily in the Light(54)

Their final school performance had been Sleeping Beauty. The wings had been a rush of fabric and fear, rosin and joy. She’d just finished dancing Candide, her favorite fairy because Anna Pavlova had danced her once. Esme had danced beautifully—one of her rare performances that had filled her with purpose. It had been the moment she’d left home for, why she’d sacrificed her childhood, and hers alone. She’d stared at the empty stage while the stage lights had cooled and the audience had chattered behind the curtain. She hadn’t been ready to take off her costume and hang it up like an empty shell. She’d wanted to be Candide a little longer, who’d gotten Esme into SFB, an official corps member, on the edge of a new unexplored part of her life in a costume that smelled like hair spray and sparkled in the darkness.

Esme bit the side of her thumbnail until her skin was red and raw, unsure what the Waltz Girl would be for her tonight.

“Stop,” Adam said, jolting her back from the memory. “Let’s run it one more time. But this time . . .” He turned his back to the mirror, hands on his hips, then circled back. “Are you nervous? Where’s the emotion, Esme? You’re flat as hell.”

His frustration only made Esme more panicky. Esme took a deep breath. She knew this piece technically, but she had less than an hour to find the real character.

Adam gripped tighter than usual when he lifted her, so hard it caught her breath. She couldn’t tell him about the girl in the basement. He’d say she was too distracted, and she needed to be here, not alone in an empty hotel room.

“You’re traveling,” he said of her supported grand jeté. “And you’re not leaping high enough. Just let me lift you. Just . . . let’s try it again.”

He took his position. Esme took hers, aware of his breathing behind her. She leaped, and he caught her, releasing at the height of her jump so she’d reach a little higher before guiding her gently down. He was right. She had been overjumping.

“That’s better,” Adam said. He took her hands in his. “You’re gonna be fine. I know you can do this. Take a minute, OK? Find the emotion. Maybe it’ll be easier if I’m not here.”

Adam stepped away, checking the clock on the wall. “We should get dressed.”

His jaw made a harsh angle just under his ear like the corner of a box. She’d danced with Adam for years. He knew she was restless and didn’t ask why and still trusted that she’d do the right thing for his show tonight. His show. She flooded with gratitude. He was the reason she was here, in Paris, in this dark studio with concrete walls and a dusty mirror. He gathered his bag and headed toward the door. She reached him first and put one hand on his shoulder, raising herself en pointe to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” Adam looked surprised.

“For everything. I wouldn’t be here without you.” It was true.

Adam looked down. He squeezed Esme’s hand. He was blushing. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered and let go. Her hand was cold where his had been. They’d never had a moment like this. Esme lingered in the doorway, watching Adam shrink down the hall.

There was a poem she’d read once about grief, the only one that got it right, that told the world to stop clocks and put away the stars and the ocean because life was over.

It was what her parents had become, moping in the glow of internet forums, posting and reposting old pictures, skipping her shows or Nick’s graduation because they felt too guilty to do anything but search. When this wasn’t Lily, they would rev up again, hire a new investigator, because someone had been found.

Esme couldn’t stand the oil drop in water her mother had become, how everyone slowly scattered away from her. After the cards had stopped and there was no news, asking how Cerise was led only to angry rants about what the police had done wrong. Or worse, Cerise would say things about Lily coming home, like, “I hope Lily has Mrs. So-and-So for her kindergarten teacher next year.” Then people pasted those dumb, polite, how-can-she-not-see-it sympathy faces on and listened patiently, sorry they hadn’t crossed the street or busied themselves with coat zippers or the National Enquirer at the supermarket checkout until Cerise was gone and they weren’t at risk for catching her sad life and bad luck. Esme hated to admit it, but she was repulsed by it too. Talking to her mother had become something she did out of obligation, like leaving flowers at a grave.

But Esme had realized a long time ago that she did not want to freeze life as her parents had. It didn’t mean she loved her sister less. She’d done her share of internet searching, scouring missing persons threads and sites for lost relatives. Hello, my name is Esme. I lost my little sister when she was four years old . . . hoping it would ring a bell for someone reading, but it never had. It had taken a long time to accept that someone could just be gone.

Esme shut off the light in the studio and stood in the darkness. She closed her eyes and imagined blackness inside herself until she found her younger self sitting at the foot of her mother’s bed, watching her sleep through a haze of pills. “Lily, go back to sleep,” her mother had mumbled. She played it over in her mind until the first tears prickled behind her eyes, and then she moved her arms and legs and traced the first few lines of choreography, pushing against the heavy feeling in her chest.

Imaginary Lily was curled in the corner of the studio, fogging the mirror with her breath and writing little Ls on the glass.