A Lily in the Light(61)
The alternative wasn’t great, but Madeline trapped in responsibility she wasn’t ready for, for the second time in her life, was worse.
The rattling plates stopped. Esme pictured her sister tracing the outline of a dish with her finger. “You have choices, Madeline, even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”
“What would that make me? This isn’t exactly what I aspired for, but I have to live with it.” There were probably dozens of dancers who’d had to choose, and many were back onstage, living for a dream. They’d beaten every statistic to be there. Ballet didn’t let them do both, but that wasn’t true for Madeline. For just a quick second, Esme was jealous of other people’s balance.
“You could do both,” Esme said quietly. “Mom would help you. She’d watch the baby so you could study and work. Lots of people do both.”
“I really don’t know how I feel about Mom watching the baby.” Madeline was crying again, softly.
A memory flickered up, hazy and long forgotten, of her mother dipping the first beautiful wedding dress she’d made after Lily had disappeared into a bathtub of black dye. What did it mean? No one was innocent? Marriage was a death? It had been odd then. Now it was disturbing. What Cerise would do with a baby creeped Esme out, but another selfish part of her wished it would heal Cerise.
“Or maybe Uncle Nick will drop by, Esme, and I’ll have to worry about my kid around him and a loaded gun. Let’s add that to the equation too.”
Nick. He’d never recovered, not really. It had probably never occurred to him that his silence had made them suspicious, but Nick was his own moon now, cold and orbiting his family in the same distant way they all were. Esme couldn’t prove whether he’d done anything that night, but it didn’t matter. He’d never be guilty or fully innocent, but he’d always be distant. Suspicion had forced him there. Occasional news that Nick was OK was enough.
“I’m so tired. All I want to do is sleep.”
“That probably gets better,” Esme said, wishing she knew more about pregnancy, enough to know how Madeline felt. “You also don’t have to decide right now. What does Nathan say?”
“Nothing.” Madeline’s voice rose. “He says absolutely nothing.”
“Then it’s your choice, I guess.”
“No.” Madeline sighed. “I’ve already made it.”
“Good,” Esme said, the paper bag with the turtle book still on her lap. “I like the idea of being an aunt.”
Last night’s rain evaporated in a fine mist. The sky was its own wide blue today. Watercolor blue. Rolling, sheep-cloud blue. Even the puddles reflected that beautiful sky, holding a tiny piece of it on the earth. Esme hated leaving it behind as she entered the studio, into tense, trapped air where people were probably gossiping. The reviews were in, and she was sure this group had their own opinions, as hidden and sticky as a spiderweb in the dark.
Someone was vomiting in the bathroom. The faint acidic smell hovered in the hallway. The retching stopped. She thought of her sister on the bathroom floor. Morning sickness must be daunting. That was what she’d heard in Madeline’s voice: the dread of not knowing what to expect until even emptying the dishwasher was overwhelming. If she lived closer, she could let herself into Madeline’s apartment with a spare key and sweep the kitchen while Madeline slept, put groceries in the fridge, water plants—small, stupid things to make her sister feel less alone. Esme sighed. For as long as she danced, she would never be near enough, and she wasn’t sure how much she wanted to be.
The corps dressing room was a flurry of costumes. Clothes were thrown over garment racks. The whole room was a mess of hair spray. It stung the inside of her nose and tasted bitter. Her new dressing area was down the hall with the other soloists and much quieter. Clothes hung neatly on garment racks. Makeup and hairbrushes were stored on shelves. A small oscillating fan blew toward the door, carrying away the smell of hair spray. In a room this small, no one wanted to be the messy one.
“Am I in line?” Ashley asked, referring to her cheekbone and the height of her bun. “I can’t get it right today.”
“Too high,” Esme said, slipping the elastic band from her hair. “Bring it down.”
“I thought so.” Ashley nodded in the mirror, her unmade eyes washed out by the rest of her made-up face. Esme settled into her seat and reached for her brush, secretly relieved that Jennifer’s place by the vanity mirror was empty.
Esme sprayed her brush with hair spray and gathered her hair into a ponytail. It hung there while she dipped a sponge in pancake foundation and dabbed it over her face, closing her eyes and moving the sponge in small quick jabs. The vanity lights glowed yellow orange like tiny suns. Esme moved from foundation to white powder. She drew lines for her new eyes, making them bigger with eyeliner and pencils. The real Esme felt less touchable now, less bothered by what people were saying or not saying as she tucked herself away behind layers of makeup.
Esme thumbed through the costumes on the rack, looking for hers. It was where she’d left it, only there was a dark-brown coffee stain where it should have been smooth white. A puddle of spilled coffee spread on the floor, seeping into the pointe shoes she’d already sewed for tonight. Her stomach cramped. Jennifer’s empty dressing table glared back at her. It was so immature, almost comical. Esme laughed.