CHAPTER 17
Sasha
“I’ll have an extra-large vanilla sweet cream cold brew with two pumps of vanilla, three pumps of caramel syrup, two pumps of cinnamon dolce syrup, two pumps of hazelnut—”
“Um, hold—”
“—two pumps of toffee nut syrup, two pumps of mocha, two pumps of white mocha, two pumps of pumpkin sauce, three pumps of maple pecan syrup, cookie crumbles, cinnamon dolce sprinkles, and five shots of espresso.”
“Could you—”
“And put whipped cream on top.”
I hate this job. I hate this job. I hate this job.
“Ma’am, I am so sorry,” I say, “but you lost me after the hazelnut syrup. Can you repeat the order?”
Rolling her eyes with exasperation, the customer sighs loudly and repeats her order. This time, I write it down with a pencil and paper, then input the details into the ordering system.
“That’s twenty pumps,” I say, counting them up.
She blinks at me. “Are you calling me a fatty?”
“N-no! Not at all. But extra pumps are eighty cents. And the…the toppings…” My voice drifts off. “Seventeen dollars and three cents, please.”
She hands me a gift card. I run it and hand it back to her, glad I’m not the one who has to make such a ridiculous order and deciding, yet again, that it’s time to quit working here. This is never, ever where I saw myself ending up. But when you pursue a career as a professional artist, instead of getting a traditional college degree, your options are limited when your professional career is placed on hold.
As mine was.
About eight months ago.
The next customer steps up. “Where’s the pumpkin spice lattes? I want one.”
“I’m sorry. We’ll have them in about two weeks. They’re available the Tuesday after Labor Day.”
“Annoying,” she says, frowning at me.
“Sorry, again.”
“I’ll take a pistachio sweet cream cold brew instead.”
“What size?”
“Large.”
“You got it,” I say, relieved to enter such an easy order.
“Sasha!” says my manager, Olivia. “Fifteen-minute break.”
“Thanks,” I say, untying my apron and hanging it on a hook in the kitchen. I slip out the back door and sit on a banged-up picnic bench as the sun sets over the strip mall where I work part-time evenings. A fly buzzes near my ear. I swat it away.
Yep, I definitely hate this job. And yep, I am definitely going to quit soon.
I will say this about working at the Coffee Depot, however—the hours are flexible, and the pay isn’t horrible. While I figure out what comes next, it seemed like an easy way to make some money. The problem is, it’s been eight months, and I’m still here.
But leaving my RAB consulting gig without notice, and refusing to return to London, embarrassed Phillip greatly. Despite the fact he said he was holding my spot, I was asked to re-audition for my position at the MBT in January. I took the train up to New York and showed Phillip and Sam how much my dancing had improved.
“You’re much stronger,” said Sam, “but something else concerns me now, Sasha. You’ve been home from London for —what?—seven weeks? Two months? I assume you’ve been staying in Maryland with your family, which is a short trip from here. But you haven’t been up once to touch base. Haven’t rehearsed with the company. Haven’t shown any interest in your position with us. To be frank, I’m concerned that your family is a bigger priority for you now than the MBT.”
My first instinct—and it was very strong for a second—was to lie, to insist that I was ready to move back to New York immediately and resume my career.
But somehow, I heard myself saying, “My grandmother almost died in early-November. She had a heart attack, surgery—”
“Yes. We know all about that,” said Sam, “and we’re very sorry. Because of our compassion for your situation, we smoothed over your hurried departure from the RAB and your refusal to return.”
“I’m sure that was awkward,” I say softly. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s in the past. Let’s focus on your future, your career with the MBT.” She leans forward, focusing her eyes with a laser-like intensity on mine. “You’re not new to this world, Sasha. You know as well as anyone else that being a professional dancer requires sacrifice. Your dancing looks strong. Certainly strong enough for a corps position. But are you really ready to come back?”
I stood there in my leotard, tights, and toe shoes, and thought about how Bubbie came out of her coma right before Thanksgiving. Those weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas, spent with my beloved family, were full of joy and gratitude.
I thought about the fact that my parents still worked full-time jobs at my junior high school, and my pitching in to drive Bubbie to cardiac rehab appointments and be at home to help care for her until three o’clock every afternoon had made their lives a lot easier.
I knew that if I told Sam I was ready to come back to work, and I was ready to commit myself one thousand percent to the MBT, she’d give me a spring trial in the corps that could lead me back to soloist. I also knew that my parents would encourage me to resume my career. They’d hire someone to help with my grandmother, or my mother would retire early to do the job herself.
So, there it is. Go back to New York.
But I didn’t look up and tell Sam I was ready.
Instead, I stared at the floor, feeling miserable.
In the span of almost exactly a year, I’d been through a great deal—a life-threatening accident, hip replacement surgery, a grueling PT schedule, consulting at the RAB, and Bubbie’s heart attack.
I’m tired , I’d thought to myself, finally looking up at Sam. Her image had blurred as tears flooded my eyes. I’m mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted.
That’s the real reason I hadn’t been back up to New York since returning to the United States. The events of the past year had finally caught up with me, and while my body was stronger, the rest of me needed a break.
In the end, I didn’t even need to say, “no.” She already knew. My face said it all. She thanked me for coming in to audition, informed me that they had someone waiting in the wings who was “more serious” about her career, and wished me well in all of my future endeavors.
“Sasha!” Olivia sticks her head out the door. “Five more minutes.”
Future endeavors. Like the glamorous life of a coffee shop employee.
“Got it.”
“Hey! Any chance you can stay until ten?”
I work twenty hours a week, from four p.m. until nine p.m., Monday through Thursday, and I always say no to overtime because I don’t want those hours to change. If I change my hours from part-time to full-time, I could get stuck here forever.
“Can’t,” I say. “Sorry.”
The door slams shut.
After that fateful day in New York when I lost my position at the Manhattan Ballet Theater, I returned home and told my family I was taking a year off from ballet. I wanted to spend time with my family and help with Bubbie’s care, but I also just needed a longer break before resuming my career.
I live rent-free in my childhood home, go to the YMCA most days to swim and weight train, take Bubbie to her cardiac rehab appointments, and work evenings at the Coffee Depot.
As for my next chapter? I don’t know yet.
Sayaka has hinted that she’d like me to help get her studio up and running—teaching classes and giving private lessons. But I don’t know. As much as I wanted to love working with students at the RAB, I didn’t. Just because I’m good at ballet doesn’t mean I’m cut out to teach it. The truth is that I miss the stage. I miss being part of a ballet company. I loved dancing for two of the world’s most prestigious ballet companies.
But I’m twenty-six with a hip that will only give me a few more years of dancing professionally. Maybe it’s time to take some college courses and find a new passion, new direction for my life. I think I had hoped that taking a break from dancing would help my future come into focus, but it hasn’t. I’m still trying to figure it out.
“Sasha! Break’s over. You’re up.”
The late-August sun has set.
I’ve got two more hours of outlandish coffee orders ahead.
I push up from my seat on the picnic bench and head back inside.
***
“Patrick, can you take Mama to her appointment on Friday?”
“Of course!” says my dad. “Glad to.”
“Wait! I can take her,” I say, helping my mom clear the Sunday dinner dishes. “I have Fridays off.”
“I don’t need to be driven,” Bubbie cries. “I can drive myself. My cardiologist said I’m in such good shape now, I could live another twenty years!”
“It’s a late-afternoon appointment, after school,” says my mom, ignoring Bubbie’s pleas for independence. “Your dad can do it.” My mother takes the platter I’m holding and dunks it in a soapy sink. “What are you up to this weekend, sweetheart?”
I snort at her question while loading up the dishwasher. “Oh, you know me and my bustling social life.”
My dad, who’s still sitting at the table, clears his throat, and gets up.
It’s a tell. An ambush is coming.
“Call me when the coffee’s on,” he says, giving me a sympathetic glance before leaving the room.
“Sasha,” says my mother, “I’m worried about you.”
Here we go.
For the record, my mother claimed to be on board with my taking a year off from ballet to rest, recharge, and refocus. But by spring, she was asking about my future plans. Now that summer has come and almost gone, it’s a weekly confrontation, and frankly, I’m getting weary of explaining myself and defending my decisions.
“Mom,” I say, putting the salt and pepper shakers back in the cabinet. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” she says, turning to face me with soapy hands. She shakes her head. “You have low spirits.”
“I don’t.”
“You do. Mama, doesn’t she?”
Bubbie nods. Traitor! “ Da. Low spirits.”
“You’ve given up on your dream, Sasha!”
“I haven’t given up,” I tell her. “Last year was really hard. My accident, not being able to dance last fall, Bubbie’s heart attack. It was a lot.”
“And now it’s in the past, and you need to move forward.”
“I will!” I bark at her. “I’m just not sure what comes next.”
“ Dancing should come next,” says my mother, pots and platters. “You love it.”
“I do,” I say, “but as I’ve told you, many times , I don’t regret leaving the MBT. If I’d been under contract in January, I wouldn’t have been here to help with Bubbie’s therapy and—”
“But you’d still have a career!”
“Mom, please. I needed a break. I wanted a year off.”
“But you worked your whole life to make it soloist, to principal, and now…now…”
“Now, I’m taking some time off.” I scoff. “Geez! Most mothers would be grateful to have such a good daughter helping out at home.”
My mother places the last pot in the drying rack, wipes her hands on a dishtowel, and turns to cup my cheeks. “I love you, Sasha Grace. Without question, you are the best daughter God ever made.”
“But…?”
“But… dancing !” Mom turns away from me to turn on the coffee maker. “Back in January, Sam said you were ready to dance corps in New York again…and now that Bubbie’s doing so much better, your dad and I can handle her appointments. Call Sam. See if they need you.”
“I’m not going back to New York,” I tell her. “I highly doubt Sam and Phillip would welcome me back now. Besides, I like being closer to all of you.”
“That’s so nice to hear.” Tilting her head to the side, she says, “Did you know there are seven ballet companies in Virginia, two in Maryland, two in D.C., and one in West Virginia?”
I played right into her hand.
“Mom, I’m well aware that there are ballet companies all over the country, but—”
“But what? They’re not as glamorous as D.C.? Or New York?”
“That has nothing to do with anything!”
“Are you too good to dance in Annapolis? Or Richmond?”
“No.”
But then what? What if I did start dancing again? What happens in three or four years when my hip can’t take it anymore and I have to resign? I’ll be right back here, living at my parents’ house, trying to figure out how to be useful for the rest of my life.
“The Maryland Ballet has a full spring season,” she says cajolingly, getting out the sugar, cream, and oat milk, and placing all three on the table. “From February to May. And Richmond goes from September to May. Either way, you’d have lots of time to see us over the summer. And you’d be dancing again!”
“Someone’s been doing research,” I mumble, sitting down across from Bubbie.
“She loves you,” says my grandmother, putting her hand over her heart. “ Ты ее сердце .” You are her heart.
“I know,” I murmur, rolling my eyes. “Can we stop talking about this now? I’ll figure it out, Mom. I promise. I just need more time.”
“Patrick!” calls my mother. “You can stop hiding! The coffee’s ready!”
My mother places the coffee on the table two mugs at a time, and my father returns to join us. Once we’ve all sat back down, my mother folds her hands, grins at my Bubbie, then at my father, then at me.
“We have a gift for you.”
“What?”
“A gift.”
“It’s not my birthday. Or Christmas.”
“The money was mine to spend,” says Bubbie. “Your mother and father handled the details.”
“Bubbie!” I cry. “You don’t need to spend money on me! You still have drugs to pay for, treatments—”
“ Nyet. Nyet. Nyet ,” she says, waggling her finger in my direction. “I can spend my money where I like. And you have been driving me, and caring for me, and doing all—all the things for me, Sasha. You deserve a little gift.”
I look at my mother. “You shouldn’t have let her do this.”
“She wanted to.” She shrugs. “Her will is iron.”
“You want it?” asks Bubbie with a twinkle in her eye.
“Of course I do!” I tell her, unable to keep from grinning.
Even though she moved in with my parents after Gramps passed away, she still brings her purse to the table every night, keeping it on the floor by her feet “in case she needs something.”
She leans down and pulls an envelope from its innards, sliding it across the round table to me.
“Go have some fun.”
When I open the envelope, I find a printed itinerary, and a ticket to see Balanchine’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Kennedy Center on Saturday night. The itinerary includes an overnight stay at the Washington Hilton and a dinner reservation on Saturday night before the show. My eyes land on the ticket again, and I unclip it from the itinerary, holding it up.
“Mendelssohn. Balanchine,” I murmur. “ A Midsummer Night’s Dream .”
Instantly, I start thinking about the show and its parts.
Choreographed by George Balanchine, using the music Felix Mendelssohn composed for Shakespeare’s play of the same name, the principal role is Titania. She is a whimsical character, her “pas de deux” with donkey, Bottom, a highlight.
“I want you to go,” says Bubbie, reaching for my hand and squeezing it. “Watch! And see! And feel! And remember! Remember how much you loved it. Then you will find your way out of the woods. You will figure out how to balance everything you love most—family and dancing!”
I take a deep breath and slide my eyes from the ticket to my grandmother’s beloved face.
“Thank you,” I say. I smile at my mom and dad, and then rest my eyes on Bubbie again. “I can’t wait to go.”
***
Vaughn
The day after Sasha left London for the states, I returned to Moscow.
Seeing myself through her eyes—how vile I had become—was the kick in the ass I never knew I needed and will be forever grateful that I received.
Walking into the Rublyovka mansion a little before midnight, I park my suitcase in the corner of the marble vestibule and call for my mother.
“ Ирина, ты здесь ?” Irina, are you here?
My voice echoes off the cold stone walls, but a minute later, I hear the click-clack of her velvet slippers on the second-floor landing. High-heeled slippers. Leave it to Irina.
“ Ты что пытаешься разбудить мёртвого ?” she asks me. Are you trying to wake the dead?
I switch to English. “Sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No,” she says, kissing me on each cheek. “I don’t sleep much.”
“Why not?”
“Ghosts of the past.” She shrugs. “I’m glad to see you. I didn’t expect you.”
“I left in a hurry.”
Her eyes grow instantly wide. “What did Mikhail—”
“He didn’t do anything,” I assure her. “He’s up to his neck in getting his restaurant off the ground.”
“Lara’s. How original.” She scoffs. “Do you want a drink?”
I follow her into the study that used to be my father’s and watch as she pours two snifters of cognac. She offers one to me.
I take it, giving her a censorial look. “This isn’t going to work if you keep picking on him.”
“On who?”
“My brother.”
She eyes me shrewdly. “ What isn’t going to work?”
“The Redemption of Ivan Stepanov,” I say, holding my glass up to hers.
“ За здоровье ,” she says, tapping her glass to mine and gesturing to the couch. I take a seat, and she sits in an easy chair across from me. “What does that mean? I’m curious.”
“Do you have to be anywhere you need to be tomorrow morning? This might take a while. It’s a long story.”
“I have time.”
I take a deep breath and begin: “It all began with that outing to the zoo…”
For the first time ever, in my own words, and with as much detail as I feel comfortable sharing, I tell Irina Stepanov the story of my life. From my kidnapping to my sale. From foster care to the Cignos. From the Kennedy Center to Moscow. From my first day in Rublyovka to today.
I tell her that my desperation to fit in with her and my siblings led me away from the values I’d cultivated in my life before she found me. I tell her that finding Sasha Collins in London reminded me not only of who I was, but outlined who I want to be.
She’s amazingly quiet and still while I speak. She flinches when I mention my abusive foster mother, cracking her knuckles so loudly, the sound reverberates off the study walls. But she asks no questions, keeping her eyes trained on mine for the two hours it takes me to tell my story. When I’m finished, she stands up on shaky legs.
“More cognac, I think,” she says, pouring herself a double. When she offers me more, I decline. She sits back down, her eyes glassy, but no tears slide down her cheeks. She’s made of tough stuff, Irina Stepanova, which is how I know she’s the right person to come to for help. “So you flew back home today.”
I nod. “Yes.”
“And she—Sasha, the dancer—is back in the U.S.”
“Yes.”
“And I assume you want to be with her.”
“Yes.”
“Then…” why aren’t you?
“Not yet,” I explain. “Not until I can prove to her that I’ve changed. Not until I have something to offer her. Not until the Redemption of Ivan Stepanov is complete.”
“Ah, yes. This ‘Redemption.’ What is this?”
I lean forward. “You and Sofia have a charity.”
“ Da ,” she says. “ П.Д. Помощь Детям-сиротам .” Help for Orphaned Children.
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Of course,” she says. “There are over two thousand orphanages in Russia. Some are nice. Some are not. We try to help the ones that are not.”
“How?”
“We get cars and vans donated from factories. Medical supplies come from pharmaceutical companies. We have fundraisers—you know, very fancy—that everyone important attends, and we raise money for new carpets, furniture, Christmas gifts, and new toys, things like that. The Stepanov name means something in Russia. We try to help.”
“Do you think you make an impact?”
“ Da. They have very little. Everything helps.” She takes a sip of her drink. “We know people. We know how to get things donated and how to raise money. These are things that regular people can’t do.”
“Can I get involved? Can I learn how it works?”
“Of course.”
“When?”
“Anytime you like. Tomorrow. The next day. Sofia will show you. She goes to the office two or three times a week. You can go with her.”
“She won’t mind?”
“I don’t think so. We have a fundraiser coming up in the spring. I’m sure she could use your help.”
“Great,” I say, thinking about everything I could do for foster kids in the States once I understand how to set up and run a non-profit.
“Why do I get a bad feeling that teaching you means I will lose you?” asks my mother, narrowing her eyes at me over the rim of her glass.
“Irina,” I say gently, “Russia isn’t my home. Not really. It hasn’t been my home since I was four years old. My Russian will never be as fluent as my English. I’ll never totally understand Russian mannerisms. I—I miss the United States. I miss Washington, D.C. I miss—”
“Sasha Collins.”
“ С каждым ударом моего сердца .” With every beat of my heart.
“She is Russian, da ?”
I nod. “Half.”
“You will bring her to Moscow?” asks Irina, driving a bargain with me. “If all of your dreams come true?”
“Western Christmas is on December twenty-fifth , and Eastern Christmas is on January seventh,” I remind her with a little grin. “If all of my dreams come true, I’ll come back to Moscow with Sasha for Christmas every January. I promise.”
“All right.” She nods. “It’s a deal. I will tell Sofia to find something for you to do.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, feeling, for the first time in a very, very long time, that she’s not just Irina Stepanov, that maybe she could even be more than just my biological mother. “ Спасибо, мама .”
Thank you, Mama.
She gasps softly, and her eyes flood with tears. It’s a huge show of emotion for my taciturn mother, but it’s also the first time I’ve ever called her mama in twenty-six years.
“ Пожалуйста, сын мой .” You’re welcome, my son.
***
When you have unlimited financial resources, it’s easy to get things done.
The same week I start shadowing my sister at П.Д., I hire a personal medical consultant in Baltimore to find out how Sasha’s grandmother, Mrs. Rabinovich, is doing and to keep me informed of her recovery.
Sometime after Thanksgiving, I’m informed that Sasha’s Bubbie has come out of her coma but will have the best chance of long-term recovery if she receives a very expensive new platelet inhibitor that isn’t offered in generic form, and if she is admitted into the cardiac rehab program at the Johns Hopkins Cardiac Rehabilitation Center. It’s considered the best in Maryland.
I have my contact make an anonymous two-million-dollar donation to the Johns Hopkins Heart and Vascular Institute, then tell her to get whatever medication is necessary, and enroll Sasha’s Bubbie in the best possible rehab program.
Before she’s discharged from the hospital, Mrs. Rabinovich is informed that an “angel donor” has come forward to cover the costs of her prescriptions and rehabilitation. She signs the paperwork to allow such bills to be covered by the VC Foundation, which is really just me. All of her medical bills going forward will be paid by a bank account that I’ve set up for Mrs. Rabinovich’s long-term cardiac care.
I explain to my contact in Baltimore that Mrs. Rabinovich and her family are never to know that it was me who took care of the expenses. I’m not doing it for thanks or praise and definitely not to place Sasha and her family in my debt. I’m doing it because Sasha loves her Bubbie, and if it’s within my grasp to make Sasha happy, then that’s what I’m going to do.
I also find a good therapist in the Washington D.C. area and start meeting with him twice a week via Zoom sessions. I tell him about my kidnapping and childhood in foster care, and how my mother swooped in twenty years later and took me back to Russia. I tell him about my life during those five years—hanging out with my brother, partying, doing drugs, and using the services of sex workers. He’s helping me do the hard work of forgiving myself and understanding myself because I’m no longer okay with my identity and character being flexible or changeable. I finally know who I want to be, and Dr. Drew is helping me get there.
But the biggest change in my life since returning from London is the improvement of my relationships with my mother and my sister, Sofia. As winter turns into spring, I continue helping Sofia at П.Д., logging so many hours at the office that my education on how to set up and run a non-profit feels almost complete.
When June rolls around, I start making plans to return to America. I invite my sister to lunch at a local restaurant, Café Pushkin, Sofia’s favorite.
“We never go out to lunch,” she says, placing her napkin on her lap. “What’s the occasion?”
“Do I need a reason to take my older sister out to lunch?”
“You don’t,” she says, “but I sense you do.”
“I wanted to thank you for showing me the ropes at П.Д. I’ve learned so much from you—not just about how to run a non-profit, but also how to deal with donors on one side and employees on another, how to get what you want without alienating people with deep pockets. The importance of social media, but also the importance of face-to-face, one-on-one contact. How to plan major donor events, but also how to talk to orphans who are frightened and alone.” I smile at her. “The work you’re doing? I’m so humbled by it. I’m sorry we didn’t spend more time together when I got here, Sofia. I think you’re amazing.”
“You’re leaving,” she says softly, her face falling. “Aren’t you?”
There’s no sense in denying it. I’ve always been upfront and clear about my goals for shadowing her at П.Д. —that I eventually wanted to take my money, knowledge, and experience to America and start a non-profit of my own.
“Yes,” I say. “I’m going home.”
“When?”
“In a week or so.”
“So soon.”
“I’ll be back,” I tell her. “I promised Mama.”
“Were you ever really here?” she asks thoughtfully.
“What do you mean?”
A waiter comes by to take our orders. When he leaves, she smiles at me, her smile a warmer, sweeter, and prettier version of mine.
“You were here in the very beginning,” she says slowly, “then you were gone for a long time. Then you…well, you came back with Mama, but not really. I think you were in a fever dream for those five years. At least, it felt like that to me. I only started getting to know you in January. In my heart, it feels like I’ve only had my brother back for a handful of months.”
“A fever dream.”
“It felt like you were here…but you weren’t. Not really.”
“I’m here now,” I tell her.
“I know,” she says, sipping her water.
“Will you come to D.C. to visit me?” I reach for her hand across the table. “To put your stamp of approval on Fostering the Arts once it’s up and running?”
“Is that what you’re calling it, this pet project of yours?”
I nod at her. She’s the first person I’ve told, which feels right.
“Absolutely,” she says, taking my hand and squeezing it with hers. “Just try to keep me away.”
***
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate the donation, Mrs. Elliott,” I say. With my phone up to my ear, I nod at Jerome, the desk attendant in the lobby of my apartment building, who holds out a small pile of mail for me. I grab it as I pass, grinning at him in thanks before continuing my conversation. “I was hoping to equip our first Fostering the Arts center with two pianos, so your generous donation will cut my work in half.”
“Oh, dear boy! Did you need two?”
“Ideally,” I say, pressing the call button for the elevator and holding my breath.
“Well, then I will just have to donate two pianos to your new venture.”
“Mrs. Elliott,” I say, picturing Sofia’s face whenever she received a needed donation and infusing my voice with the same warmth and gratitude as my sister, “I will never forget your kindness. I’d be honored if you’d allow me to add your name to our wall of benefactors.”
“Yes, yes. That would be fine.” She titters for a moment before asking, “Did Mrs. Bonham get in touch with you yet? I sent her your way. Her husband is involved in The Gift of Music , a foundation that receives donations of used musical instruments. That could be helpful for you, I’m sure.”
“I haven’t spoken to Mrs. Bonham yet,” I say, “but at this point, we’re only taking new pianos, keyboards, and violins.”
“ New ?” says Mrs. Elliott. “For foster children? I should think a used instrument would do the job just as well.”
I grit my teeth.
Mrs. Elliott isn’t the first benefactor who’s made such a comment, and every time I hear it, I have to tell myself to calm down. But seriously! Why shouldn’t a foster kid learn how to play piano or violin on the best possible instrument? They’re dealing with enough hand-me-downs and possible neglect at home.
My first Fostering the Arts center will have new pianos, portable keyboards for practice at home, and new violins for music lessons. Further, I’ll have new studios and slippers for ballet instruction, and a brand-new black box theater for drama classes. And when selected, foster kids enter a Fostering the Arts learning center, they will be treated like promising artists from the moment they walk into the building.
I force my voice to sound chipper. “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Elliott! I was able to get twenty new violins for beginners at cost.”
That’s a lie. I paid the full price of $600 each for them, but I don’t care. It’s a pittance to me, and it’ll mean everything to our first class of new violinists.
“That’s going to get awfully expensive when they move on to intermediate violins, then advanced violins. Are you going to buy twenty new violins every six months?”
Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe we’ll cycle the beginner violins through a few classes before recycling them to a place like The Gift of Music , or maybe we’ll start collecting enough donations that we can always offer our students new instruments. We haven’t even opened our doors yet. It’s too early to tell.
“Mrs. Elliott,” I say, as the elevator opens, “I’m about to lose you, so I need to say goodbye. Thank you again for your very generous donation. I’ll have my assistant, Cordelia, send you an email to confirm everything.”
“But of course! And remember to say hello to your dear mother. What fun we had when she last visited. Tell her to come back soon!”
“I won’t forget. Thank you again, Mrs. Elliott.”
We hang up, and I step into the elevator, pressing the button for the top floor.
Fantastic , I think, pumping my fist. Two brand-new pianos. Amazing.
What I learned from working for six months with my mother and Sofia, was that you never say no to the donation you want, but you have every right to decline a donation that doesn’t work for your cause. It’s still a learning curve for me, but so far, so good.
That said, Mrs. Elliott’s warning isn’t lost on me. While I have a lot of money in my trust fund, and good investments should make it last, it’s not totally inexhaustible. I spent a lot on the space and buildout for the Washington D.C. location of Fostering the Arts. If I intend to open more locations, I’m going to need to start fundraising. I can’t bankroll Fostering the Arts by myself indefinitely. People like Aretha Elliott and her friends—who know and admire my mother, are very wealthy and influential, and have a heart for the performing arts—will be imperative to the future success of Fostering the Arts.
I need their generosity, support, and connections for my project to thrive.
The elevator doors open, and I punch my code onto the keypad by the front door of my new apartment.
When I first moved back to D.C. two months ago, I had my broker look for apartments on the other side of the Potomac, near the Kennedy Center, Lincoln Memorial, and Washington Monument, in the heart of the city. But one evening in late-June, while dining atop the Meridien Arlington Hotel with one of my mother’s friends, I realized that the view of Washington D.C. from across the river was spectacular.
My apartment, on the ninth floor of The Weslie in Arlington, Virginia, has sweeping views of the city. I can see every important D.C. landmark over morning coffee on my balcony. And on this side of the river, I have a perfect view of the U.S. Marine monument—the one where five marines are planting an American flag on Iwo Jima—and the Netherlands Carillon, which features daily bell concerts and is surrounded by tulips in the spring.
Never in my life have I felt as purposeful and hopeful as I do now.
I’ve got money to spend, and I’m doing something good with it. It’s food for the spirit. It’s nourishment for the soul. It’s combining who I was with who I am, which means that the man I want to be is coming into sharper and sharper focus. Once my redemption is complete, I’ll figure out a way to reach out to Sasha and hope—just hope—that the stars align, and the fates collide, and the timing is finally perfect for the girl that got away to be the girl who’s mine forever.
I look down at the mail in my hands, my attention piqued by an envelope from the Kennedy Center. I open it to find two tickets for A Midsummer Night’s Dream , playing next Friday night.
I stare at the tickets for a second, then read the attached note, thanking me for placing an ad for Fostering the Arts in their program.
Two tickets.
Hmm.
I don’t have a girlfriend, and I haven’t exactly been making a lot of friends during the last few months in D.C. I’ve been too busy working on my project to invest any time in a social life for myself.
I could give the tickets to my part-time assistant, Cordelia, who’s a grad student at Georgetown. I’m sure she’d like to go with her girlfriend. Or maybe to Dom and Lottie, with whom I’m back in touch, or their son, Berto and his wife Sharon. I’m sure any of them would enjoy an evening at the ballet.
Sure…but wouldn’t you?
The voice in my head is gentle and sounds suspiciously like Sasha’s. But the truth is that I haven’t been back to the Kennedy Center in years, and I’m not certain I’m ready to walk through the doors yet.
If not now , whispers the same voice, then when?
I place the tickets on the black marble counter in my kitchen, pour myself a well-earned glass of red wine, and tell myself I’ll decide later.