Hooked 4 (Hooked #4)(13)

“Well,” my mother spoke. She was dumbfounded, I knew. “It’s good to hear your voice, as well.” Her cries had begun to dissipate. There was nothing for us to discuss. We just sat on the line, listening to each other breathe.

“I opened up a different dance studio,” I told her. Just to fill the air with words.

“Did you, honey? That’s wonderful. Is it still in your—“

“Wicker Park. Yeah. It’s right by my apartment.”

“Oh, darling. You don’t still live in that dreadful apartment.”

“I do, mom. But Boomer keeps me company.”

“You’re seeing someone?”

“Sort of. A few different guys,” I answered, lying. It was always the lies between us. I felt us falling away from the honesty that had been at the beginning of our conversation. I swallowed.


“That’s the way to live, isn’t it?” my mother answered. “When your father and I were dating, though. I just knew. Instantly.” She sniffed.

I thought about that; how she’d never told me that part of the story before. All she’d ever told me was that my father had forced her to stay, when she could have been anyone, she could have been anything. She, like me, was so beautiful; she wore her heart on her sleeve. But she got that sleeve caught on something in Indianapolis, Indiana. And now, she was going to die there.

“Do you ever think about what would have happened if you hadn’t met dad?” I asked. It was an outrageous question, one I never should have versed. I bit my lip while I waited.

My mother sighed. “I think about it all the time. But in an off-hand way. Like, would my skin be more wrinkled if I’d lived in Florida? What if I’d never had a baby? Would I have better sex?” My mother cackled. I’d never heard her speak in such a way. I closed my eyes and tried not to giggle. “But no. I couldn’t imagine my life without him, actually. He was the love of my life. And then we produced you. And you, Molly Atwood. You are the love of my life now.”

I swallowed, feeling the weight in my chest once more. I peered out into the night, wondering about all the lost souls out there, all of them living alone, without anyone to care for. “I love you too, mom.”

We hung up the phone not long after that. I suggested she have a few of her old friends over, but she said she wanted to get caught up with some Dr. Oz shows she hadn’t seen yet. I nodded into the phone, feeling assured. Feeling so happy, really. I felt, in those moments, that whatever I did, however I messed up, my mother would be by my side. There wasn’t anything to worry about, really. I had a support system, just down south.

I clambered into bed, feeling my consciousness falling away. I wrapped my arms around myself and daydreamed until I couldn’t think anymore. And then I fell asleep.



CHAPTER SEVEN

The next morning, I prepared myself for the young girls’ first dance class. It was going to be at four o‘clock in the afternoon. These younger girls were five and six years old, and they were dizzy, lost little girls who couldn’t quite plié yet. But we would get there. After all, I’d started when I was four. And my mother stated I’d looked more like a spinning turtle than anything else, until my legs grew in.

I went to the studio and looked around at it sadly, spinning in a circle, looking at the broken mirror I’d strapped to the large wall; eyeing the awards I’d brought over from the previous studio—my awards from high school and college. It all wasn’t so far away, but it seemed like a few lifetimes ago.

I orchestrated a beautiful technique for the girls to learn that evening. I did an initial plié and then I spun into a leap, landing softly on my toes. I felt the strain for a moment in my bum knee—the knee that I’d hurt after college. But then the twang went away and I smiled at myself in the mirror. It was going to be all right.

I got a call mid-routine and I rushed to my bag, which was splayed by the door. Mel was on the other line. I answered the phone, breathing heavily. “Mel? Hey. What’s up? Are you coming in for the little girls tonight?”

I hadn’t received word yet if Mel was heading in to help me teach the class. I was certain she would, of course. She had been eager to train the children, especially as she became a better and better mother. But then, her voice on the other line sounded strained. “I’m so sorry, Molly. I have been called away by something. I can meet you immediately after? I’ll need to go over something in the books with you, okay?”

“Okay, okay. The class lasts an hour. You’ll be here by then?” I tipped my hip to the right, watching as the sun began its descent over the city.

“Yeah. Again, I’m so sorry, Mol—“

“It’s okay, of course! I can handle the five year olds by myself. But hey. Listen. Your—your nephew or whatever. He was the one who paid for my f*cking loan.” I sounded so huffy, so angry. I knew it wasn’t coming across correctly. I sighed.

“Molly, I’m so sorry. Can we talk about this later?”

“Of course.”

Already, I could hear the pitter-patter of little feet as they ascended from the pub to the dance studio. Their mothers strode up with them, forcing the stairs to creak beneath their weight. They all smiled at me in greeting. “It’s been a while, Molly,” they said. The little girls reached toward me and wrapped their sticky hands around my waist. “Miss Molly!”