Chapter 24 #2
“They were married to their work, and they were married to each other, and they had me even though they weren’t excited about being parents,” I explain.
“They owe so much to your parents—your family—and they know it. They saved a ton of money on nannies and babysitters because I got to stay at your place when they weren’t around.
You’ll meet them at the fundraiser. In Cleveland. ”
“I will?”
“Yes. You’re surprised because they never came to my school events.”
She nods.
“Well, my mother is on the board of my foundation, so…”
“Ah. Do you get along with them?”
“Yes. I think so,” I say. “We aren’t close, but I respect them.
I put my mother on the board of my foundation because she’s a very bright woman with great investor instincts.
She has a solid basic understanding of high tech, but despite how hard she works, she’s on fewer boards than my dad. She doesn’t get as much publicity.
“She’s a very honest, straightforward person, and a couple of years ago, I offered to buy them a new house.
She said they’re hardly ever home, so what’s the point.
I asked her if there was anything I could give her that would make her happy.
Most mothers would say grandchildren. She said she just wanted me to remember her if any business opportunities come up.
So…she’s making a lot of connections on the board. ”
“And you’ve really never been mad at them?” she asks.
“I don’t understand the point of being mad at someone for being who they are.
People change when they want to. My parents never wanted to be better parents.
But they were never terrible parents. They provided for me.
That was their definition of good enough.
” And now I’m ready to ask Olivia the thing that I’m dying to know: “Do you ever want kids?”
“Yes.” I’m surprised by her quick response. “Eventually. Obviously, I can’t do it while I’m working my way up the ranks. But after I retire.”
“So your goal is to become a principal dancer first?”
“My goal is to dance the lead in Giselle. It usually goes to principal dancers, obviously. Once I’ve nailed Giselle, I think I’ll be ready to retire.
I’m not the most ambitious dancer in the world, believe it or not.
I just want to be the best that I can be, and I think my best will be expressed in that particular role. ”
“That’s very interesting. What is it about that role?”
She sits up, cross-legged and facing me, so animated all of a sudden.
“It’s just a freaking awesome ballet on so many levels!
Especially because there’s a supernatural element, but I think the character of Giselle just epitomizes so much about the life of a dancer and love in general. Do you know the story?”
I love seeing her so enthusiastic. I lie on my side, facing her. “Tell me.”
“It’s simple, of course. Or the plot is, anyway—they always are.
It’s about a peasant girl who’s been courted by a gamekeeper named Hilarion.
But she falls in love with a duke named Albrecht when he’s pretending to be a peasant, and then she finds out that he’s already betrothed to a princess, and she dies of a broken heart. ”
“Oh no.”
“And then there’s this band of undead virgins called the Wilis, who dance in the forest from midnight until four a.m., and any man who’s in that part of the forest at those hours will die of exhaustion after being magically compelled to dance with them,” she says.
“Because that’s the Wilis’s fate—to lure young men to their doom. ”
God, I feel this in my soul.
“They raise Giselle from the dead, and she’s commanded under a spell by the queen of the Wilis to lure Albrecht to his death, after she’s had this really sweet reunion with him and watched him grieving for her at her grave.
But Giselle is powerless to disobey the queen, so she dances seductively, enticing him to come to her.
And he can’t resist her. They dance together, beautifully and furiously, as Albrecht’s energy is exhausted.
Giselle keeps begging the queen to have mercy on him.
They dance an amazing pas de deux until the sun begins to rise.
At four a.m., the Wilis return to their graves and Albrecht’s life is saved, although he mourns for Giselle forever. ”
“Albrecht doesn’t die?” I ask.
“Well, it depends on the interpretation, but he dies a metaphorical death, for sure. Whether he lives to marry the princess or not. And what’s great about the character of Giselle is that she is this joyful, passionate young woman who loves to dance, but she has a weak heart.
Literally. In death, she finds forgiveness and strength and learns that even though the duke deceived her, his love was real. ”
“I see. So it’s a poignant ending,” I say.
“Most of the popular ballets are tragedies.”
“Do you see yourself as having a weak heart?”
Olivia shrugs. “Maybe? We’ll see. You can’t really know until your heart is broken. Right?”
I take her hand, lift it to my lips, and kiss it. She’s looking down, avoiding my eyes. She might be tearing up. I wait for her to speak because I don’t think anything I could say right now would be the right thing.
But I understand what Giselle is about. I get it.
Women make men do a dance, and men are afraid it will kill them.
We fall in love, and we feel like we have to hide who we really are to get them to fall in love with us.
They find out we’re a lie, and it kills them.
But it makes them stronger, and they save us, even though we can never truly be with them. Not in the way they want us.
Another metaphor.
Art. It hides the truth in beauty and feelings. That’s a noble thing.
Math and science still make more sense to me, though. This plus this equals that. Add this to that, and you’ll get this.
Olivia plus John equals…what?
She sniffs, clears her throat, and lies down beside me, staring up at the ceiling. “But yeah. Once I’ve danced Giselle, I can retire, get fat, and crank out a little monster or two. …Do you? Want kids?”
“Yes.”
“You do?”
“Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I don’t know. Do I?” she asks. “I am. Sorry. It’s just hard for me to picture you driving a minivan and changing diapers.”
“Would I have to do both at the same time?”
“Well, obviously Richard would be driving while you change diapers in the back of a luxury electric minivan.”
“Sounds good to me.”
She is quiet for a while before saying, so quietly that I barely hear her, “Would you wait?”
“For you? Yes.”
Olivia rolls over to rest her face on my chest. It feels wet where her cheek is pressed against me. She sniffs again. I stroke her hair. “What’s your middle name?”
“Anthony.”
“John Anthony Brandt?”
“My mother’s father’s name. Italian American.”
“That’s where you get the dark hair?” She swirls her fingertips over my chest hair, and I feel it everywhere.
“Yes.”
“And the fiery temper.”
“Exactly.”
“What’s my middle name?”
“Your middle name is Tamsin, after your grandmother. It’s a diminutive of Thomasina.”
She kisses me sweetly and draws some pattern on my chest hair with the tip of her index finger. I think she’s writing her name over my heart. “Do you ever feel lonely?”
And there it is. My trigger question. The one that usually sends me running for the exit. But not now. Because it’s Olivia, and because it doesn’t feel like a leading question. She actually wants to know.
“You mean because I’m so much smarter than most people?”
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
“I don’t get lonely because I’m always busy,” I say. “I’ve never felt isolated because my thoughts always keep me company.”
“I would laugh, but I totally believe that.”
“I think that I would have felt very lonely growing up if it weren’t for your family.”
“I’m glad we were there for you,” she says.
“Do you get lonely?”
I can see something shifting inside her. “I didn’t used to. I mean, a little bit when I first moved to Pittsburgh and when I first moved to San Francisco. But I was so excited, it didn’t really matter.”
“And now?” My body tenses up in anticipation of her answer, just as her body relaxes because she’s finally letting it out.
“Now I feel lonely when I think about all the time we didn’t spend together.
And all the things we haven’t said. And all the things we might never say out loud.
” She isn’t being mean or sardonic or accusatory.
She isn’t crying anymore. It’s just an honest acknowledgment of something that she’s coming to terms with.
A thousand words flash across the monitor in my mind, so many things that I know I could say that would make her feel better in this moment. But I’m not going to sugarcoat it, and she knows it. “I’m sorry,” I say, kissing the top of her head.
Olivia presses her face into my chest, not quite kissing it. “Tell me something. Something you’ve never told anyone else. Something about you.”
There are so many things I haven’t told anyone about myself, but I know what I want to tell her.
She’s the only person I’d tell, because I know she’ll understand.
“I used to keep a spreadsheet about my parents. When I was, like, ten to twelve years old,” I tell her.
“So I could optimize my time with them whenever we were actually spending time together. Lists of things they liked to talk about. Movies or TV shows or music my mom liked so I could put them on if she seemed unhappy. Things I could ask my dad about his parents if he seemed open to it. If I sensed that they were fighting, I noted that I could suggest we go to a restaurant that I knew they both hated. Because they’d both object, and it would make them feel united in their dislike of it. Things like that.”
“Johnny,” she whispers. “That’s so sweet. And sad.”
“I guess. I only did it for a couple of years.”
“Do you keep a spreadsheet about me?”
“I don’t have to. I told you—I remember everything you ever said or did. I tried to forget about you, but I couldn’t. I won’t.”
She traces the shape of a heart on my chest, over my heart.
“Tell me a secret about you,” I say.
Olivia takes a deep breath and then whispers, “I had a crush on you when I was a little girl.”
“That’s not a secret.”
“It so is. I never told anyone.”
“I knew. You couldn’t take your eyes off me when you were little. You were in awe of me.”
She laughs and nudges me. “Shut up. That’s not true.”
“It’s so true. It was really cute.”
I expect her to punch my arm. Instead, she wraps her arm around my chest and curls her leg, wrapping it around both of mine, pressing herself against me. Almost like she’s trying to protect me from something.
If only she knew the person we both need to protect me from is myself.
Hours later, I wake up and we’re still in the same position. Her cheek is flat against my chest, leg curled around mine. My arms are around her waist, and my head is raised up on three pillows. I watch her sleep. The Beautiful Dreamer. My foot’s asleep, and my neck is sore.
I don’t know the choreography of the next part of this dance, but I know I won’t move until she does.