Beep, beep, beep—a grating repetition invaded my slumber. Images of skid loaders, their reverse lights blinking, flashed in my dreams. I opened my eyes, felt a crick in my neck. Small drops of saliva left moist, quarter-size spots on the bed sheets. A lemon scent mixed with the bleach fumes. It burned my nostrils. 

The light above flashed strobe-like, highlighting unpigmented hair. Her tresses hung wiry and unkempt—no longer brushed back into a perfectly coiffed French twist. The machine moaned with a hiss, pumping the air in and out of her lungs. My hand grasped hers. I wondered if she could feel it. 

I stared at the lines etched into both sides of her mouth, willing her to part her lips and speak. My gaze moved from her face down her frail body. Her movements were once graceful—arms fluid, like a stream rising and falling over polished rocks. Now, her feet stuck out from the bottom of white bedsheets. I stared at them, remembering the way they jumped, pointed, and landed with no sound. A ballerina’s feet—stunning when wrapped in satin and lifted onto the toes. Underneath, hidden blisters oozed and bunions formed.   

***

I took a needle and pressed it against the skin, squeezing both sides of the pulsating blister. The liquid moved around inside until the needle punctured the mass and the serum began its slow escape. I watched it trickle over my toenail, creating a rivulet. I wrapped blue medical tape around the ailing toe and tried to adhere a gel cushion on top. The adhesive had worn away from multiple uses. Having exceeded my quota on these for the month, I wrapped an additional band of tape around the cushion. 

I positioned a larger toe pad—a mix of lambswool and gel—over all my toes. I put my foot under the elastic strap and inserted my toes into the pointe shoe, pushing my heel into the satin. I crossed the pink ribbons in an “X” across the front of my ankle and repeated the same pattern behind the back. I tied a knot on the inside of my ankle. The remaining lengths of ribbons were tucked neatly away for a smooth finish.

“Dancers, you were given a number when you signed in. Please place your audition number at the front center of your torso. Then enter the studio and line up numerically. Number one will stand stage right at the barre and we will count up from there.”

We stood up, placing our dance bags on our shoulders and filed into a straight line, one bunhead behind the other. I thought of myself as “Ten,” my name for the next two hours. I was used to being a number in a much larger system, so this suited me fine.

Finding my spot at the barre, my toes burned as I stood on their tips. The pointe shoe’s box—layers of paper and fabric hardened by glue and forming a hollow square—squeezed the digits together. Like too many crayons jammed into one box, my second toe sat atop the middle one. The onyx Marley floor slicked in powdered rosin provided traction under my feet. The feel of wood under a tightly-clenched hand recalled hours of pliés, tendus, and battements at the barre. 

My body, the perfect vehicle, anticipated the upcoming warm-ups. A tingling sensation spread like blowing embers below my skin. The pianist played and my arms arose, outstretched to my sides. One hand grasped the barre and the other stood taut, fully extended parallel to the floor. The fingers relaxed, waiting for a partner to arrive. 

We performed the exercises two times on both sides and held each balance at the end, standing on our toes, for at least one minute. Sweat dripped down my back, and the muscles on the inside of my legs shook like small vibrators—off switches broken and shaking independent of me. 

The Ballet Mistress approached me, embracing and elongating my fingers. She reminded me to breathe from my center, up my spine, and finally out the crown of my head. She draped over me, like my favorite velour blanket, and used her hand to engage my core—belly button to spine. She stretched with me folding forward, then lifted me up, eyes toward the vaulted ceiling above. I felt her inhale and I allowed my lungs to fill as well. As she completed the carriage of my arms, her hand holding my wrist, she pushed on my belly with her other hand. We exhaled together.
She looked right at me. “Dancers, breath is life. Your body needs oxygen to survive. When a movement presents a challenge, exhale.” We all inhaled and exhaled a few times, breathing in tandem. She motioned with her hands toward the center of the studio. “Our barre exercises are complete. Please line up starting at number one downstage right and finishing with number twenty in the upstage left corner.” 

I moved toward my place at the center of the studio. The piano keys played a haunting, yet romantic tone guiding my body through the exercises. A drop of salty liquid rolled down my forehead and landed on my lips, quickly lapped-up for hydration. I pirouetted and the room spun. The Ballet Mistress’s façade was the only visible target as my head whipped around—one, two, three, four full rotations en pointe. She halted the pianist’s musings with a single slash of her arm, towered over me, and demanded I repeat the movement. Over and over, I prepped in fourth position ouverte, rolled through the shoe’s shank, passed my left foot up the right leg, sliding the toes close to the knee. Four revolutions each time. By the tenth reprise, my legs were gelatinous. The room colorless, tasteless.   

The Mistress excused the remaining students. They curtsied, mouthed a brief thank you, and exited, leaving me alone. I faced her. My eyes met hers as I clasped my hands together at my front. 

“Number Ten, you show potential.” She walked to the corner of the studio, picked up a clipboard, scanned the page, looked up. “Ms. Anika Larkin, I will take over your training. I presume this is agreeable to you.”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you.”

“I will make arrangements with your parents.”

I dropped my eyes and fidgeted with my hands. “I … don’t …”

“Ms. Larkin, do not stutter. Please speak up.”

I dropped my hands by my side and lengthened my spine. “I don’t have any parents, Mistress. I live in a foster home.”

“A foster home. I see.” She took a moment, considered. “We will make the necessary arrangements. My home will be yours as long as you train hard. I will watch over you.”

“Yes, Mistress.” 

She offered her hand and I took it. 

An agreement resulted between iFoster and Jeanne Sue Geddes, effectively closing the file on Case #B24I890 and determining the residence of one Anika Larkin. Not an adoption, but at the mature age of ten, I counted myself lucky. The contract provided an education, dance with Mistress, three meals per day, and a warm bed.   

While waiting for the designated date at Children’s Court to arrive, Mistress was granted temporary foster privileges. I moved into her brownstone and traveled with her each day to my dance classes. I noticed many changes—leotards smelled fresh from daily washings, toe pads and cushions stocked up in my dance bag, healthy meals prepared and eaten at the table together. 

Once the guardianship order was granted, we took a trip to London. I felt those same embers charge underneath my skin as the plane took off. Mistress did not look at me, only placed her hand on top of mine. She kept her spine long, making sure not to press her hair’s French twist against the plane’s headrest. A breathing pattern began low in her abdomen as her ribcage rose and fell in rhythm. I made my breaths match; we inhaled and exhaled over and over again. Once the plane leveled off, she released my hand and pointed to the clouds. Gazing out the window, a sense of peace surrounded me.

We pulled up to her Victorian-style home. On the drive there, she spoke of the reign of Queen Victoria and shared stories of her own English upbringing. The house’s structure was streamlined, easy—for me, something out of a fairytale. Water spurted from a central fountain and a brick chimney ornamented the stone facade. 

We entered and Mistress said, “We will be here on holiday for a short spell.” She talked like the ladies of the Renaissance I imagined. Sometimes I tried to mimic her speech patterns and she would send a disapproving glance my way. As she turned her head, I was pretty sure I caught a subdued smile on her lips.

Mistress excused herself. I shuffled careful feet past the wooden staircase and headed to my left, the sitting area. I admired the books and paintings displayed in this room. Diplomas and certificates were framed with care and created an abstruse display—gold-filigree frames, varied in their dimensions and patterns. One eight by eleven frame caught my eye. Dual sunpatiens with tiny beads and twisted threads rested on each corner and sterling lattice work surrounded the document. Four letters, A-M-M-A, were spelled out in bold type. I leaned in to make out the meaning.  

Mistress cleared her throat and startled me. She moved with a stealth-like grace. There were times in the studio when poof—she appeared—entering my awareness as she fixed my leg or adjusted my head to the desired angle. 

She reached over my right shoulder, removing the certificate from the wall. She sat on the settee, patted the spot next to her, and I joined her.  

I read aloud, “The Assistant Masters’ and Mistresses’ Association. AMMA was formed in 1978 to represent educators throughout their careers.” 

I repeated the name, “Amma.” 

Mistress smiled. “Amma. Yes, that sounds right.”

***

I sat next to Amma’s bed, and wrote the letters of her name, Amma.

I reorganized them and the word spelled, Mama. In my youth, she would read to me after she tucked me into bed at night. One evening, my eyes drooping, I said, “Goodnight, Mama.” Her head snapped up and I thought she would admonish me. 

She whispered, “Goodnight,” and waited a bit longer than usual to take her leave. Staring, she finally clicked the door shut.

Our roles now switched. I tucked her in and sat next to her, reading books to her she may or may not find interesting. I wanted her to open her eyes and knock the book from my hands, telling me to stop my incessant babbling. 

Instead, my Amma lied in bed—cocooned, an exoskeleton. Her brain scans emaciated like a shrunken Halloween mask ripped apart by a rabid dog. This imposter lacked coherent language skills. One tube fed her and another removed the waste. Plugged into a blood-red outlet, I imagined Amma screaming within herself, “The audacity.” 

I wanted to shake her, forcing her awake. There was no light up ahead as each day passed. I would sacrifice my life to allow the resurgence of hers.   

***

The woman guiding me towards the theatre’s glass doors exuded elegance in her blue silk sheath dress. She reminded me of a taper candle, standing tall and lean with spillovers of wax enhancing the lines falling over her hips and down her center. I reached to flatten out the ruffles on my own knee length gown, hunching over to tug at my tights. 

“Anika, you are a lady. Do not pull at your clothes. Stand tall with your shoulders back.”

“Yes, Mistress. I am just excited. You look beautiful,” I said, eyes toward the floor. 

“Thank you, Anika. You are very lovely as well.” She gently lifted my chin toward her. “Let’s imagine you are the lead in this performance. Head held high. Place your left hand in mine, and place your other hand on your skirt, lifting it just a bit to show off your ruffles.” I did as I was told and felt grown-up, prettier. “Perfect. We will make our way to our seats.”

My black patent leather shoes clicked on the lobby’s terrazzo floor. Amma’s fingers gripped mine and guided us toward the stair’s summit, her white hair swept back. Vases, gold-dusted, cradled flowers in alabasters and purples. As we ascended each step, I reached out to brush my fingers across the soft petals. I inhaled the scent of gardenias and lavender, watching the corners of Amma’s mouth twitch upward. Joy spread up her rouged cheeks and kissed her eyes with light.

She pushed the velvet curtain aside and we entered the box. I proceeded toward the balcony’s railing, grasping the cold brass and gazing at the audience below. The sounds of flutists and pianists filled my ears. Amma touched my shoulder, and our eyes met. She directed me onto the tufted cushion—my forearms caressed the armrests. A baton tapped against the music stand. I sat up straighter in anticipation.     

The lights dimmed and the curtain rose on An American in Paris, the musical. I remained still, enraptured, and sang along inside my head throughout the first act. I longed for the moment when the two leads would dance. When the time arrived, I leaned in closer to the railing. The hero embraced the girl. Their eyes locked. The dancing began, and Amma humphed. “This is not Gene Kelly’s original choreography.” She arose, grabbed my hand, and marched us back down the staircase. “The audacity. There is no respect for the classics.” 

I did not fight her, only followed behind. We exited the theatre as wind whipped my dress skyward. I held the ruffled corners down with my free hand. An idling car waited for us. As city brownstones whizzed past, my hand remained in hers. The car stopped. “Home,” she said.

Amma unlocked the front door, flipped a switch and a fire blazed. Her hands warmed my goose-pimpled arms. She lifted the gown over my head, wrapped me in a blanket, and left the room. I sat cross-legged on the sofa. The texture of velvet tickled the sides of my feet. I reached for the remote, flipped on the television. 

Amma handed me a steaming mug of cocoa. Three marshmallows floated on top. I tried to pick one up, but it kept disappearing into the brown liquid. “Anika, don’t play with your food.” She picked up the TV remote and spoke into it, “An American in Paris, The Musical, 1951.” 

George Gershwin’s prelude began with the quick strokes of a bow back and forth across the violin’s strings. My eyes widened, and I wrapped my arms around Amma’s waist, hugging her tight. I looked up, said, “May I?” She placed the remote in my hand. I fast forwarded to the ballet scene. 

Her hand held one side of her skirt and she curtsied to me. I took her other hand, stood up, and began to twirl. She reached back to her twisted hair, removing a large hairpin and freeing the waves. Blonde highlighted the white tresses as they coursed down her back, swaying side to side. She abandoned herself to the music, hips swinging. The scent of a lavender candle soothed us both. We danced like that until I fell asleep.

As the morning sun lit up the bedroom, I rubbed my eyes, opening them. Lace-edged canopy curtains fluttered and dawn’s approach brought a slight breeze, whistling through the window’s opening. A gentle rapping came from the door; Amma peered into my bedroom—a floating head, knotted bun at her neck’s nape. I sat up. She glided toward me in her silk dressing gown, laid a pink leotard on the bed. It was adorned with picot lace capped sleeves. I reached out, brushed my fingers across the oval-shaped loops, lifted the leotard for a closer look. I smelled the sweet scent of Amma’s perfume on the garment.

“Today is the day, Anika. Please dress and take extra care with your hair.” She brushed her hand across my head as she spoke. I rested my cheek against her palm for an instant. Her eyes met mine and then she exited. 

Today was my audition day for admittance into the Academy’s accelerated program. As Head Mistress of the Ballet Department, she secured me a private audition. My twelve-year-old self pulled nylon pink tights over my legs, followed by the precious leotard.  While fastening my hair back, I recited Mistress’s teachings aloud, “Legs extend fully through the back of the knees.” 

I twisted each section of hair. “The toes are the final embellishment to the foot. Articulate the ankle completely and then add the ornamentation of the toes.” 

I began wrapping the coils of hair, using bobby pins to secure the mass. “The carriage of the arms begins at the middle of the back and then grows out toward the ends of the fingers.” 

I sat on the cushioned stool of my vanity table and looked into the oval mirror. I picked up a new toothbrush, using it as a small comb to tame the flyaways on either side of my head. Taking a deep breath, I arose and put on my dance shrug, wrapping and tying it at my waist. I wore my legwarmers. Fist-size holes were cut below my ankles so my heels could peek out. On each foot, I placed warm-up booties—black and grey nylon stuffed with cotton. They were like sleeping bags for your feet. 

Amma called from downstairs, “Anika, your breakfast is ready.” 

I went down the stairs to the kitchen and pulled a small box out of my dance bag. I offered the gift to her. She reached out and I placed the gold embossed box in her upturned palm. Lifting the lid, a smile spread across her face. 

Inside, a stainless steel tea infuser rested on pink tulle. She lifted the gift from the box and watched the ladybug charm swing back and forth. Its gems reflected the kitchen window’s light. Her thumb moved over the “V” where the ladybug’s wings opened.

“Anika, where did you get this?” 

“I saved my pay from cleaning mirrors in the studio, Mistress.”

“And how did you get to the shop?”

“The driver took me, Mistress.”

“You are thoughtful. I will use it each day to steep my tea.” She cradled the infuser in her palm. “Anika, you may call me Amma as we discussed.”

“Yes. Amma.” I let the word roll off my tongue, looked into her eyes. “Ladybugs symbolize trust. I promise not to break yours.” I sat down and ate while Amma steeped her tea— the ladybug charm hanging just below the mug’s outer lip.

After breakfast, a black Lincoln appeared at the front of our home, door left ajar by the driver. Amma entered first, followed by myself. She opened her right arm to me, and I slid across the leather seat toward her, fitting inside like a puzzle piece. We stayed that way until we reached the Academy. 

She walked with me across the studio’s black flooring—neither too slippery nor too sticky. We both ran our fingers along the wooden barres. We faced the wall—hands grasping the barre and slowly bending our legs. Our heels adhered to the ground. We straightened both legs and repeated the pliés ten more times in first position, heels glued together, our toes turned out and feet creating a 180 degree angle. Amma squeezed my hand tight before she disappeared to her office, leaving me with her voice running through my mind. 

The Master Teacher drilled me, repeated critiques until each step was executed with precision. Over and over, I performed four precise revolutions. By the tenth repetition, my supporting leg felt nothing like jello. It was concrete. I could still smell Amma’s lavender perfume on my leotard as I tasted sweet success. 

Amma was waiting for me in the hallway when I finished. “Shall we get to work on your Freshman level classes?”

“You don’t even know if they accepted me into the program.”

“Anika, I know. Follow me.”

I reached back to reaffix the bobby pins in my bun, making sure everything was in place. I needed to look my best in front of the fifteen-year-olds. I stepped next to her, but Amma moved a few steps in front of me, solidifying her place at the head. I deferred with a smile and watched her satin-covered pointe shoes guide mine into the next stage of my dance training.

A pattern of whirlwind days ensued for us. We spent our sleepless nights practicing my technique in the dim glow of antiqued lava lamps. The liquid wax created silhouettes melding together with my shadows on the great room’s walls. Amma allowed her hair to free-flow. She extended her arms gracefully, and I stared in wonder. Limbs like jellyfish floated and created pictures worthy of display at any acclaimed art gallery. I lived for these overnights until day crept in again. Amma’s hair was once again upswept and mine, a mirror image. She, the Head Mistress, and I, her protégé—entwined, hand inside hand.  

***

The decimated plant on the end table begged for hydration. I opened the window, balanced the plant on my palm and reached outside, allowing the raindrops to offer sustenance. My arm wet from the rain, I placed the plant back on the table, picked up the sponge, and moistened it in the bowl by Amma’s bedside. I blotted the sponge over her cracked lips and recalled a time when I was sick in bed at the age of fifteen. 

It was only our second week in North Carolina, and Amma and I were settling into our new life. I was proving myself after being accepted to the premier School for the Arts on the East Coast. Amma had already garnered their attention. They were the ones who lured her away from our city life with not only a head teaching position, but also the title of Artistic Director. She had the final say in all choreographic and staging matters. 

I had gotten a stomach virus and tried to hide the sounds coming from my bathroom. Amma knocked with a gentleness, growing into a thud. She found me on the cold linoleum floor, lying by the toilet. She wet my washcloth and propped me up against her, placing the warmth upon my forehead. She got me to a standing position and I leaned on her as we stepped over unpacked boxes toward my bedroom. 

I slept for hours but she awakened me and brushed ice cubes across my lips in regular intervals. When she couldn’t get coverage for her classes, she left water by my bedside and had chicken soup delivered by one of the school’s secretaries. I could have said, “Don’t fuss over me,” but the truth was that I flourished under her attention. 

When I returned to school after three days, I kept two steps behind her only to notice her slow down and put her arm through mine. She stayed next to me, not separating, until we made our way to different studios. From then on, we stepped in sync between classes—often taking a moment to share a story or demonstrate a favorite move. As I grew taller, I carried myself with her grace and was able to look her directly in the eyes. 

Looking at her now—shriveled like a plant—I searched through my memories of her. I settled upon an image she had painted for me of her fifteen-year-old self. She’d spent most of her time at her uncle’s dance school. Left alone in her dormitory most evenings, she opened her window, allowing the breeze into her stuffy quarters. A lavender tree below created a saccharine smell throughout her room as she taped her aching toes with cooling aloe. Many nights—to the sound of raindrops and the calls of the nightingales outside her window—she shook out her blonde hair and abandoned herself to the movements. Her head would drop side to side, followed by her shoulders rolling forward and backward. This led to the circular motion of her ribcage and the freedom of hip circles. The scent of lavender allowed her to let loose. 

I stood now and lit the purple candle on the end table. I hummed a Gershwin tune. My head relaxed, shoulders dropping front and back. I flipped off the light switch and curtsied to her. Closing my eyes, I imagined Amma dancing next to me. 

***

I closed the door behind me with a small click. The Dean looked up from his sizable desk, his head and torso visible between piles of stacked folders. Schubert’s Rosamunde trills set the background tone.  

“Please sit.”

I felt like a mangy mutt learning basic commands. My vinyl shorts twisted and rustled as I descended. My curiosity peaked. I had prayed to be summoned here and offered an opportunity as soloist for the Company. I waited.

He began, “Ms. Larkin, I have a rather concerning and delicate matter to discuss. Is there something you would like to share with me?”

My insides squirmed. They knew. It was only one time, a single weak moment I wanted to rage at him. I needed one break from this reality—this constant quest for perfection. 

“Sir, I am not sure what you mean.”

“Would you feel more comfortable speaking with one of your instructors present?”

I wanted to scream, “Please don’t tell Amma.” I only wanted what every other teen was allowed. As a dancer, I used my body each day for everything except what my peers experienced. No drinking, no smoking, only healthy eating, certainly no sex—it blurred my purpose, split my focus. I was eighteen for goodness sake. I considered begging for absolution. 

I breathed, decompressing as Amma had taught me. “Sir, I am comfortable speaking with you. Honestly, I have been putting all my time and energy into my dancing. I am not sure what you are referring to.” 

“Mistress Jeanne was found walking around campus this morning. Alone. She was confused when a faculty member approached her. Are you aware of any changes, perhaps something at home?”

My mouth fought the urge to plummet. He wanted to discuss Amma, not me. My focus had been like a laser targeted on the singular goal of getting into the Company. Classes and rehearsals stole my time, creating a more self-absorbed individual. Amma had always taken care of herself. “I have not noticed anything unusual with Mistress Jeanne, Sir.” 

I sat a moment, buying some time. I thought of Amma searching for her keys for an hour the other day. I heard a noise late one night and found her stumbling through the house. This meant nothing. Exhaustion led to forgetfulness. Amma was still the same. “This morning, she left home at 6 AM to teach her Variation Symposium,” I said. 

There were points I did not mention. She had inquired if her outfit matched. I helped her tie the wrap sweater, telling her she was lovely as always. She had prepped the coffee press, but never brewed her coffee. She cut fresh hydrangeas, arranged them so their petals spilled outside the square glass vase, but the water overflowed and she just kept filling it. I mopped it up while she stood there and watched, appearing frozen. 

I needed to find her.  

“Sir, I certainly apologize for any inconvenience. Amma coached me into the wee hours for the Rosamunde Variation. I so wished to be prepared for today’s audition. I take full responsibility. She has been pushing herself too hard.”

This explanation placated him. “Ms. Larkin, I will move your audition for the Company to tomorrow at 9 AM. Don’t be late. You are excused.”  

“Thank you, Sir.” I exited the Dean’s office, forced my legs into a tentative timbre. The blood pulsed thick in my head. I put one foot in front of the other down the ceaseless hallway. Looked right, left, managed to smile, appearing almost normal to onlookers. 

I stood next to my car, no idea how I got there. Turned the key in the ignition, located the main thoroughfare, watched trees blur past. The cottage emerged spotlighted in peach from the afternoon sun. Amma materialized at its center. Her stature, her magnificence. She stood, reached out her arms, and embraced me.  

“Let’s have a cup of tea, some sandwiches,” she said.

She led me into the quaint kitchen permeated with scents of honey, ginger, and always lavender. Her hands shook as she poured the tea into dainty china cups, her face expressionless. She stood motionless for twenty seconds, then continued adding sugar cubes. Three cubes bobbed up and down in the liquid. She questioned her right pointer finger, placed it in my tea cup, and began to stir. My eyes filled.   

“How was your audition?”

“It was rescheduled for tomorrow.”

“Why? Are you injured?”

“No.” My labored breaths in and out let her know something was wrong. “The Dean asked me about you. He said you were found wandering around campus. Amma, are you okay?”

“Do I appear otherwise to you?”

“I found you fumbling in the dark the other night. You overfilled the vase, lost your keys twice last week, and when I was in your class the other day, you appeared disoriented for a moment.” Her eyes shot open wider. “Don’t worry. No one else would have noticed. I know you, Amma. Please tell me the truth.”

“My mind is not what it once was. I feel confused, forgetful often. I plan to see the doctor next week.”

“I will take you to the appointment.”

“You have class and are expected to attend. That is not negotiable.”

“Even confused, you are infuriating.” I smiled.

“Do you find this humorous?” She waited a beat and then attempted to return my smile. I watched the tears fill her eyes. “Anika, if you want to leave, I understand.”

“No one else will have me. I am yours.”

“You have a successful career ahead.” She took a deep breath and held out the ladybug tea infuser. 

“I remember that.” My fingers touched the “V” of the wings. “You still have it?”

“Of course. This represents our trust, our link. But, I give you permission to move on.” 

“I won’t leave you.”

“Anika, I can barely recall what I had for dinner last night or even how to put my socks on. This will be a difficult road.”

“My road has only been easier with you by my side.” I handed the infuser back to her.

She brushed her fingers along the stainless steel. “The past, those memories are clear as the embers flickering off my candle.”

“Amma, you are my home.” I placed my fingers on the ladybug’s wings held in her hand.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you. You should be living, not tied down caring for me.” She placed her other hand on top of mine.

“You have given me so much. Let me watch over you for a change.” I grasped both her hands, and she did not shake me away. We sat down to lunch together.

The following day I attended my audition, only half there mentally, but my muscle memory took over. My body leapt, spun, and stretched, imagining Amma dancing with me. I was told that a place in the Company had been held for me. Amma’s smile beamed with pride in my mind. I accepted without hesitation. 

I planned a new daily schedule for myself and for Amma—one where I took the lead. I woke up early, helped her dress, prepared breakfast, cut the flowers and brought them in from the garden, reviewed the day and her schedule, got us both to class on time. I deflected questions from members of the faculty, and with the help of meds, found that Amma could appear almost normal to her coworkers and students.

At home, the deterioration continued. In her anger and confusion, I stood with her, holding her hands, and repeating, “Breath is life. When a challenge is presented, exhale.” This would bring her back.

“Anika?”

“You are home, Amma. Just breathe.”

Similar to cut blooms, she could only flourish for so long. The meds started to lose their potency and she withered. I saw pieces of her float away, leaving me alone. 

At mealtime, I prepared healthy greens filled with antioxidants for both of us. When we entered the Stop-and-Shop, she pulled diapers, men’s shaving gel, and dog food off the shelves. I rearranged, replaced them again and again as she moved ahead of me down the aisle. As we crossed the street, her hand stretched out toward me like a child’s. We headed home, walking often to keep her healthy, whatever that meant now.  

Each evening, like a specter, she handed cocoa to me (she had forgotten to steam it).  Three marshmallows always swam in the mug, and she spoke into the remote, “An American in Paris, The Musical, 1951.” 

I reached out, hugged her tight, grabbed the remote and shot ahead to the ballet sequence. Amma laughed and I snuggled into her open arms. She curtsied, and I saw comprehension in her lit gaze. Someone removed the sheer curtain always present, and I spent the next ten minutes dancing with the Ballet Mistress I loved. She loosened her bun, let her hair fall, and there in our great room, lifted her arms, danced with Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron. My face awashed in tears. 

“Amma. I am so happy to see you,” I repeated each night.

***

I’d fallen asleep in the chair by her bed. The acrid smell of sickness mixed thick within the darkness. I watched the candle on the end table flicker, highlighting the lines of her face. I recalled the shifting seasons of that face—demanding one more pirouette from me, smiling as we danced together, and confused in our last years. I longed for peace to lie across her visage.

Amma. One word, reverberated in my mind. 

I remembered her dancing with me that first time—that feeling of home the moment she stretched with me at the ballet barre. I recalled her presence next to me—sitting on the plane, guiding me up the theatre’s stairs, and dancing by my side in the studio and at home. 

I reached for her, using gentle hands to brush back her hair. I secured it into a loose twist with a single hairpin and laid her head back on the pillow. I took a warmed, moist sponge and began to bathe her with soothing strokes along her arms. I dried her, rubbed a lavender moisturizer into her chapped skin. I put socks on her feet and covered her with a warm blanket, placing her arms on top. I held her hands clasped within mine. I laid my head on her shoulder, began to hum a favorite tune. 

I whispered the lyrics, “I’m a little lamb who’s lost in the wood.” My right arm outstretched toward the electrical cord.  

“I know I could always be good.” Wrapped my fingers precisely as I would a precious gift. 

“To one …” Felt the cold of the theatre’s brass railing many years prior. 

“Who’ll watch …” Turned my head toward her.

“Over me.” Gazed at the grandeur. Pulled.

The hissing machine slowed. I inhaled and exhaled with it. I thought I felt her hands squeeze mine for a moment. 

Beep … beep … beep … silence. 

I blew out the candle. 

About the Author:

Donielle Bailey Horst is a lecturer in Alvernia University’s Communication Department as well as a Professor of Ballet at Messiah University. She is an entrepreneur and the owner of Horizons Dance Conservatory for the past 16 years. Donielle holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Arcadia University and a BFA in Modern Dance Performance from the University of the Arts. She is presently pursuing her MFA in Choreography at Jacksonville University. You can visit her at doniellebaileyhorst.foliotek.me and www.horizonsdance.com. Insta: @doniellebaileyhorst and @horizonsdance

*Featured image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay