This Much Is True (24 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

Tally ~ In more ways than just one

T
he lies take hold. They get bigger. My parents believe me when I call like clockwork to let them know how Marla and I are getting along in New York. Marla is busy working at the Dahlia with Rob and takes modeling and photo gigs wherever she can find them. Competition is fierce, worse than ballet, according to my best friend. I stayed in the background in the Corps after having come clean with the New York City Ballet creative director Sasha Belmont after my first lead performance in
Sleeping Beauty
ended in the first part of November. I hid my pregnancy. Spanx helped. Layers helped. Not eating too much or often helped.

I’ve been told as long as I stick to a healthy regimen and return ready to dance and perform in early March that Sasha was good with everything. She saw me dance. She appreciated my talent and eventually told me she admired my decision to raise a child even as she hinted that it’s not an easy choice for a dancer to make. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’ve since decided to give the baby up. No sense in bursting her little bubble of happiness about me and my choices.

Like I said, the lies just keep on building, one on top of the other.
Why stop now?
Nothing feels like it is in any kind of order. I try not to think of the money dwindling from my savings because I stopped attending NYC Ballet’s rehearsals six weeks ago at Sasha’s insistence. No dancing. No paycheck. I’m officially taking a paid position at NYC Ballet with the Corps in the spring, if only to start generating an income again. It wouldn’t be fair to ask my parents for more money, since I’m holding back from them on so much of what is actually going on in my life.

The good news is that despite all the deception with everyone else back home, we have found suitable parents. At least, that’s what Marla thinks. I’ve only met them a couple of times. They seem nice enough, desperate enough. Their questions are few, and we’ve been able to mitigate most of their concerns about my age and why I’m giving this baby up in the first place as well as the permanent absence of the father—the usual red flags that would have most couples walking away at this juncture. Jamie and Elissa Mantel seem grateful for the opportunity to adopt this baby from me. I’ve been given the designation of surrogate mother since all I’m asking for is that my medical bills be covered, and that they call her Cara. I don’t really tell Marla that this is a request I made of them. Cara. It means beloved. It’s a cute little girl’s name to me, and it is one implicit way that I can give her something that tells the story of who she is to me without ever really meeting her.
Beloved.
Cara Landon Presley Mantel. It makes me happy in some small way.
Cara. Cara Mantel.
I mean, who couldn’t be famous with a name like that? If that’s what she wants, of course.

The contract that the Mantells and I will have to sign is pretty straightforward. Marla hits up one of our neighbors, some attorney she met in the elevator one day and asked for his legal expertise. Bryan Davis was more than happy to help us out. He seems to have taken a vested interest in Marla, who remains oblivious to his interest in her. She just goes on telling him about her modeling sessions and helping me out and remains immune to the guy’s advances. As far as the adoption contract, I have yet to scrawl my signature upon it. It rests on the coffee table where Marla set it when she first brought it home. Every time I think about signing it, I think about Lincoln Presley and his part in all of this.

I should tell him. I shouldn’t tell him.
I go back and forth. His knowing would jeopardize his baseball career. Yet, by not knowing, he can deny it, if ever asked.

And yet.

I constantly combat these wayward thoughts of him, knowing he’s out there somewhere being famous and playing baseball. He’s going to be father and never know it.
Linc
. His faraway presence still reaches for me. I have tried not to examine too closely why that is. He broke my heart. He ended it. And yet, I still think about him. And I wonder. Uncertainty. Guilt. Remorse. Hormones. These things make me feel conflicted. That’s all it is.

I am a little over two weeks away from the big day when this baby arrives, and I give her away and start my life all over again. All I focus upon is my knowable future—ballet. This sideshow is almost over, and then I’ll be able to breathe freely again.
I’ll be able to breathe. And be free. Again.

* * *

It’s the end of January.
Marla returns to the apartment looking worn out and not her usual bubbly self. She’s withdrawn, unhappy. It’s only a little more than two weeks before Valentine’s Day, and we both seem to have begun a secret countdown. We need to get a cheaper place. We have determined that much. The rest of our plans remain uncertain. The resigned look on Marla’s face makes me sad. I have to set her free. I can’t take her down this abyss with me, not like this.

I watch her fill a tall glass with ice cubes. She pours a healthy dose of vodka, followed by a mere splash of pink lemonade. It’s Thursday. It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. We haven’t really partied since we got here. I consumed a single glass of champagne on New Year’s Eve.
It was the one and only night, I allowed myself to feel reckless and free and not pregnant and not gangly, all these things I feel regularly now. I gaze at Marla from my designated position on the living room sofa. “What’s up?”

Marla’s hand trembles as she brings the glass to her lips and takes a long swallow. “Charlie’s seeing Cynthia again. He’s going out with her tomorrow tonight. I thought it was a one-time thing, but I guess not.”

“How do you know?”

“She sent me another text, letting me know how excited she was to be going out with Charlie again. He’s in Palo Alto for the weekend. And she came home, too. I don’t like this!” Marla moves her head back and forth in disbelief. “She was sure I’d be okay with it since I never came to L.A. to be with him. And Charlie must have apparently told her I’d broken off the engagement, and we were done for good. He hasn’t called in a while.” Her hand slices through the air. “Damn it.”

“Like I said before, you know he’s doing this to get a rise out of you,” I say. “He
knows
that just the idea of his seeing Cynthia
again
will drive you crazy. He’s mad because you stayed with me in New York, and he doesn’t understand why, not all of it, anyway. My part in all of this.”

Marla slumps down next to me and rests her head on my shoulder. “I know.”

“You should go back home and figure things out with him.”

“What about you?” Marla asks. “You’re just weeks out from delivering the baby. I can’t leave you. And what are you going to do? After the baby comes? About the Mantels versus Tremblay’s offer?” She makes a face.

Marla isn’t exactly happy with me right now. Tremblay showed up two nights ago offering to adopt this baby. Marla is pulling for the Mantels, but I’m drawn to the idea of not giving this baby away to strangers. Tremblay’s offer is intriguing. She hinted at helping me further my career. No details. They were just these subtle remarks of hers that she could help me in some way with NYC Ballet’s next offer this spring beyond dancing in the Corps. Guilt surges with that particular admission; however silent, because I want to do more than dance in the Corps.

“What are you going to do about Tremblay’s offer?” Marla asks as if reading my thoughts.

“I don’t know yet. I’m thinking about it. I
know
Tremblay. That makes a difference to me.”

“I know Tremblay, too, and that makes a difference to
me.
”

There’s a bit of an edge to her tone, and it sets me off.
“It’s not your kid.”

“No, but we’ve both made sacrifices to see this through.”

She’s pissed. She resents me.
It was bound to happen.

We share a stormy five minutes of pure silence.

My anger turns to remorse. I can’t keep her here. She’s been the most loyal friend to me, but I can’t keep her from Charlie just because she feels this overwhelming obligation to take care of me.

“Go see Charlie,” I finally say. “Go. Catch a red-eye to San Fran and go work it out with him. And quit worrying about me. I’ve got this.”

Now she looks conflicted. I feel guilty for having kept her here for so long.

“I thought it would all be so different. You know? Fun, freedom, parties, new things, love, guys,” Marla says with a hint of disappointment. “We haven’t been able to do any of that. We’ve both been working all the time. You’re worrying all the time…about everything. It’s all so messed up.” She dabs at her eyelashes.

“I know. It’s supposed to be the best time in our lives, but it feels like the worst,” I say gently. “The truth is it’s not supposed to be this way, not this hard, not like this.”

“And the thing is I miss Charlie. I do love him, you know? The longer we’re apart, the more I realize it.”

“You two are meant to be together,” I say gently. “So go work it out with Charlie. You love him. Go to him. I’m okay.
Really.
I can handle this. Go home. Work it out with him. I’ll be okay. Promise. Now go catch a flight back to San Fran tonight and go see Charlie. You know he’d drop any plans with Cynthia with you in town. That’s what he’s been waiting for, for you to come back. So go.”

“The whole Cynthia thing just pisses me off. It’s not much of a show of commitment from him for me.” Marla gets this wounded look.

“Don’t let your ego get in the way. He’s crazy about you. He has been for years. He’s just doing what guys do; he’s trying to get some kind of reaction from you. So? Show him how much you care because you
do
care. You love him. Anyone can see that. Go home. I can handle things here on my own. You missed Christmas and New Year’s with him. All because of me. Besides, if something happens, I can call Tremblay or the Mantels.”

“Jamie and Elissa are out of town.” She gets this vexed look. “They went to North Carolina to see his parents.”

“Oh.”

It’s disconcerting to have to readily admit that Marla knows this couple better than I do. I should be more involved, but there is a distinct part of me that remains detached from all of this.
I love this couple; don’t I?
They’ll be good parents to this baby, but there is a larger part of me that secretly resents that about them, too. It’s not something I can really share with my best friend who has sacrificed so much to make it right for me. No. It’s hard to share these ungrateful parts of myself with another person, no matter how much I love them, not even with Marla because my ingratitude makes me feel shallow and unworthy. It’s not something I’m proud of this resentment. I hate feeling this way, but I can’t help it. They get to love this baby and have her be a part of their lives.
And I? What do I get? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
It stretches out before me into this hushed oblivion, this endless nothingness. And I resent it and them for being so perfect, so loving, so worthy.

“It’s fine.
Really.
Like you said, I’m not due for another two weeks. I can handle things myself.”

Marla looks torn for a few more seconds. I busy myself with looking resolute until I realize that Marla is talking to me. I’ve missed everything she’s been going on about. It takes me a few seconds to catch up to her after this long reverie where I’ve done nothing but feel sorry for myself. Now I struggle with the guilt for feeling this way. It buries me a little. I’m not quite following what Marla is going on about.

“I’ll only be gone the weekend,” Marla is saying. “Maybe, five days max. It’ll be fine. I’ll call Rob and have him check on you.”

“Noooooooooooo,” I say. “I’m fine on my own.”

“Somebody needs to be watching over you. Rob can do it.”

“Noooooooooooo.”

I’ve managed to avoid socializing with Rob Thorn for months. He works with Marla, and they take classes together at NYU. They’ve become the best of friends; it seems, but I stay out of it. Up until two months ago, I continued to dance with NYC Ballet, but they finally told me that for insurance purposes, I couldn’t perform or rehearse anymore.

Dance. Rehearse. Perform. Suddenly, it was a no-go on all fronts. I’ve taken up the practice of ballet and yoga at home in the privacy of our living room and have become proficient with a wooden chair and the kitchen’s highest countertop using it for barre work, even if I do look awkward doing it.

“I’m not going to go unless you cooperate. Tally, you’re on doctor’s orders to rest. The last thing we want to happen is for you to go into labor while I’m gone and when Jamie and Elissa are, too. Come on. Rob can do a run to the grocery store later in the week. He’ll just pop in to check in on you. I’m sure he’ll be fine with it.”

“Does he
know
about me?” I look at her intently.

“No. You asked me not to tell anyone, and I haven’t.” She gets this vexed look. “I guess he can drop the groceries off at the front door. He doesn’t have to come in unless you want him to.”

“No. I don’t want him to come in. This is my thing. I don’t want the world knowing about it. I’m so close to being done with all of it.” I don’t hide my sudden agitation with all of it, as I stalk past her towards the kitchen and begin unloading the dish rack. Marla follows me into the confined space and watches me intently until I’ve put the last dish away.

“You’re sure that you’re fine.” She looks unconvinced and crosses her arms and practically glares at me.

“I’m fine. Great. Fabo.”

She laughs at the screwed-up face I make. It’s been months since I’ve seen her quite this happy. The modeling gig hasn’t been as easy as she thought it would be and the break-up with Charlie has been hard on her, regardless of how often she’s told me she’s
just fine
with it. And then, there’s me.
My stuff.
Marla’s been there for all of it. The late nights when I’ve all but panicked and openly shared my fears about failing, falling, and losing. Marla’s the one who has stayed up with me and told me everything was going to be okay. I sort of gasp suddenly realizing what a burden being my friend has become over the last four months. I’m certainly not going to spoil it for her now when my unwarranted panic at the thought of being left alone in New York by myself starts to surge. Me. Alone. Me, solely dependent upon Rob Thorn and his grocery delivery. I can do this. I will.

“Go!” I say with a rare burst of giddiness when she gives me another questioning look. I don’t need to say it twice. Marla races to the hallway closet and starts jamming stuff into her suitcase. And, all I can do is smile and mean it for once.

* * *

Within a half-hour, I’ve lined up her airline reservation while she’s set a world record for packing. Now, she’s ready to walk out. I damp down my ever growing reluctance at her leaving and follow her out to her car.