Fading (57 page)

"How have you been dealing with the blame?" Dr. Christman asks after I sit down on the couch.

"I don't know. I guess I still feel responsible in a way. I can't get past how my actions led to his actions. I know his actions were wrong, but I still feel responsible for leading him there."

"You can't hold your past responsible for your future."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"You can't hold the past Candace responsible for the future Candace. You're holding your future self responsible for something your past self didn't know anything about. You can't judge your past behavior because of the way things turned out. You had no way of knowing what would happen next. It's only because you
do
know that you judge your past self."

"I struggle with that. I get what you're saying, but I can't seem to see past all the poor choices I made."

"Well, we will continue to work on that. For now, let's transition and talk a little about tonight. How are you feeling?"

"I feel good. I feel like everything you and I have done has really helped me finally connect to this piece the way I always should have. I used to use Ryan's pain to draw on, but I feel strong enough now to pull from my own."

"That's wonderful."

"I just have to remind myself that it's all right to feel it. It's just a feeling and it will go away, and I will still be okay."

"And the more you can deal with these emotions in a rational manner, the more your sleeping should start to improve. The goal is still to wean you off of the pills." She flips the page of her notepad and continues taking notes.

"I know. I'm just scared."

"But you just said that your emotions will come back down and you will be okay."

"The day stuff seems so much easier than the nightmares. They are so real to me." I don't have the vivid nightmares when I take my pills, but even on the pills my sleep is still restless and filled with night terrors. I'm terrified that if I stop taking them, the bad dreams will start up again.

Crossing her legs, she asks, "So, tell me, what do you think is causing your restless sleep?"

"At this point, it's a lot of things. I still feel like I'm mourning the loss of Ryan. I miss him. A lot. I miss what we had. I wonder what he's doing now. If he's seeing anyone. If he ever thinks about me. I know I shouldn't, but I do."

She leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "There is no right or wrong way. These thoughts are completely normal. Do you feel like you need more closure?"

"I don't know." I feel a lump form in my throat, and my eyes prick and sting with tears. "It's weird because he lives a few minutes down the street from me, but it feels like he's a world away."

"I want you to think about what you might need to bring you more peace over this situation."

"Okay."

I look at myself in the mirror. I have finished dancing my ensembles and am applying the last of my makeup before I take the stage for my solo. Adding a few extra bobby pins to my bun, I stand up and make my way backstage. I focus on keeping my muscles warm as I wait for my call.

I feel nervous, as I always do, but I know the nerves will fade as soon as I hit the stage. When the curtain drops, the dancers clear the stage, and I walk to center stage and place myself in fifth position. My heart is pounding, and I'm anxious for the curtain to rise. I know I've worked my ass off for this moment, now I just need to nail it.

The heavy velvet curtain begins to rise as I hear my music start. The heat of the lights sinks into my skin, as I feel the weight of everything I have been working so hard for in the tension of my muscles. Sliding into my chainès across the stage, the music is loud and it fills the auditorium. When I feel the vibrations of the low cello in my chest, I let myself fall into the tortured piece. The music pulses throughout my body while I take myself to my dark places as I begin my footwork across the stage. I know every seat is filled, but right now, it's just me in this room as I glide effortlessly, always leading with my heel to show off my perfect turnout.

Everything about this year floods through me. I no longer need to take from anyone else; I only take my pain, my brokenness, my suffering. It pours out of me. Everything Jack did to me, and all the torment of losing Ryan. I let my heart bleed as I move through my piece. I throw it all out there and finally allow myself to truly experience this piece—I finally feel it.

When the staccato violins enter the piece, I hit my fouettès one by one with a double pirouette on every second and sixth count. The applause rises as I finish and slide out. The spots are sharp on my piquès and I know I've nailed the routine when the music hits its second high then drifts away.

The crowd is almost as deafening as the music was. I stand and pas marchè to center stage. With a strong port a bras, I take the final curtsey of my college career. Ms. Emerson catches my eye as she walks onto the stage, looking as stoic as ever, and hands me a bouquet of long-stemmed pink roses. I thank her, and I can barely hear her over the applause when she says, "I knew you could do it," and then steps aside, giving me a reverence, and I curtsey one last time before the curtain drops.

I stand there for a moment while dancers for the next ensemble run and rush all over the stage and around me. I soak in the moment and then walk off stage, back to the dressing room. I'm overcome by the congratulations from my fellow dancers and friends.

When the show ends, I wash my face and change into my old yoga pants and UW sweatshirt. I tie my running shoes and throw my bag over my shoulder as I make my way out of the building. Everyone is coming over to the house tonight for drinks to celebrate. Nothing big, just hanging out as we usually do. When I turn the corner, I have to do a double take when I see Donna standing there against the wall.

"You were amazing, dear," she says as she walks toward me.

I haven't spoken to her since Ryan and I broke up. She has called several times, but I knew it would hurt too much to answer. Donna filled a place in my heart that was only hers to fill. She's the mother I'd always wanted—the one I'd always needed.

"What are you doing here?"

Pulling me into her arms, I savor her embrace as she says, "I told you I would be here." Leaning back, she adds, "I couldn't miss seeing you dance. You were beautiful. I knew you were amazing, but I just had no idea you were that amazing."

"Thank you," I say as a smile breaks across my face. "I still can't believe you're here."

"I tried calling a few times, but—"

"I'm sorry. I know you called. It just...It hurt to lose Ryan, but it hurt to lose you too."

"You didn't lose me. I love you, dear. You will always have me whenever you need me. I know Ryan hurt you, and I understand it might be easier if I'm not around, but please know that I am always here for you."

Her words hit where they always hit: deep inside. My chin quivers as I try not to cry, and I go in for another hug. When she wraps her comforting arms around me, I let the tears free. "I'm glad you came. I've missed talking to you." When I step back, I add, "But you're right, it hurts. You were the best gift Ryan ever gave me, but I need the space right now."

"Of course. I understand."

"I'm sorry."

"You have absolutely nothing to be sorry about. I am so proud of you. You will do amazing things. Just keep following that strong heart of yours."

"Thank you, Donna. Really...thank you for everything."

"Well, I better get going. Congratulations."

I smile at her one last time as she turns to walk out of the building. Another pang of loss eats me from the inside and I cry. I don't fight it; I just let it envelop me. After a few minutes, I walk outside into the cold rainy night and welcome the chilling drops that plunk down on me and mix with my hot tears. I keep telling myself it'll be okay, because I know it will be. I have to believe in that.

A few days after the production, the calls started coming in. I was offered placements in five companies. Pacific Northwest Ballet here in Seattle was one of them, but when the call came from the American Ballet Theatre in New York, one of the most respected ballet companies in the world, I couldn't say no. My dreams of dancing full-length classics such as Swan Lake and La Bayadere at the Met are about to come true. I can hardly believe it. Life has been a total whirlwind since I accepted their offer.

Graduation is in two weeks, so I have been busy packing up my room and researching apartments in New York City. I found a flat in a walk up that is close to Lincoln Center, where I will be dancing every day. I rented a storage unit here in Seattle to store some of my furniture and the boxes of things I don't need or won't have space for. Once I'm more settled I will figure out what to do with everything.

Everyone is out of town for Memorial Day weekend. I stayed behind because I just had too much to do. Kimber is still seeing Seth even though he is moving to California for grad school. She says they aren't in love or anything, just having fun. They went to Whistler for four days while Mark and Jase went to Vegas.

It's Saturday night, and while everyone is on vacation, I am sitting on the floor of my trashed room, trying to sort through all of my things, deciding what to throw away, what to take with me, and what to leave behind in storage.

My phone rings and when I pick it up, I see it's Kimber calling and that it's already past midnight. Swiping my phone, I answer, "Hey, Kimber."

"Candace, hey." Her voice is shaky and slow.

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah. Uh...Candace, Seth just got a call from one of his fraternity brothers, and I need to talk to you about something."

My mind immediately goes to Jack. Why else would I care about any news from Seth's frat house?

"Okay. What's up?"

There is a long pause before she speaks.

"Jack's dead."

I swear my heart stops when she tells me this, and I have to remember to breathe.

"What?"

"Yeah. It happened earlier today. A drunk driving accident."

"Oh." I don't know what to say. I feel numb.

"Look, I can come home if you need me to. I just wanted to tell you before you saw it on TV or something."

"No, I'm fine. Really." For some reason, I feel tears threatening, and I rush to get off the phone. "You guys have fun. I'm about to go to bed. I'll talk to you later."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Bye."

When she hangs up, I set the phone down. I feel the tears run down my face, but I don't make a sound.
Jack's dead
. I keep saying it to myself over and over.
He's dead
. The more I say it, the more my emotions well up. I want to shut down, but I know I need to force myself to feel whatever it is that is brewing inside of me.

When I choke back a breath, that's when I begin to cry. I'm not sure why I'm crying. I'm so confused. I don't know what I'm feeling, but it feels a lot like sadness. But why am I sad? Shouldn't I be happy? But I'm not happy. He's dead. God, what's wrong with me? I shouldn't be feeling sad for the guy who raped me. I should be relieved—relieved that I don't have to be scared of him anymore. I begin to sob, my emotions overtake me, and I know for sure: this is hurt and sadness.

I pick up the phone to call Jase, but it just goes to voicemail. I hate that I'm feeling this way. I lie on the floor in the middle of my messy room, and curl into a ball. I try to slow my breathing, but everything about Jack starts flashing through my mind: meeting him for the first time at the club, dancing with him at Remedy, kissing him in his car. Why am I thinking this way? I should be thinking about the asshole that raped me, broke me, destroyed me. He ruined my life, and I'm sobbing on my floor because I feel bad for him.