1. Chapter 1
Giselle
five years later
I gently peel off my fake lashes and start wiping my stage makeup off alongside a few of my fellow dancers that I share a dressing room with. We just completed our third run of Swan Lake, and it’s grueling being a corps de ballet swan. My arms and feet feel as if they might fall off. A hot bath with epsom salt is calling my name. The quicker I finish getting out of my costume and put all my things away neatly so they’re ready for the next show, the better.
Ten minutes later, I’m walking out of the Lyric Opera House into busy downtown and heading east down Madison Street. It’s nine at night, but it’s still hot and humid out since it’s the middle of summer. Although I may never get used to this humidity compared to the dry California summers I grew up with, my muscles appreciate it. I still have a few blocks to go until I’m at my apartment complex near Millenium Park, and I can’t wait to get in and turn the A/C on and run that bath.
When I first arrived in Chicago, the ballet company put me up in a flat with several other dancers. It was fun for the first couple of years and it definitely helped me not be so lonely in a new city, but as soon as I started making a bit more money as the years went on, I got this little studio apartment all on my own. It’s drastically different from my cottage back home with its sleek and modern lines, but I’ve made it feel as cozy as possible with plush pillows and a more laid-back California bungalow style with all the plants I can keep alive.
I’m just getting through the lobby and into the elevator when my phone rings.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, hon. How’d tonight go?”
“It was fine, nothing special,” I admit, shrugging my shoulders. Having been in the corps de ballet for five years now, all the shows I perform have lost a bit of their sparkle, having danced in them so many times. I really thought that I would have been promoted by now, but it hasn’t happened. It’s disappointing, and sometimes I think I should audition for other companies, but I'm comfortable here and not really sure where I would want to go next anyway.
“I’m sure you were special up on that stage,” my dad says. My parents think my company is crazy for not promoting me to soloist, but I’m sure all dancers’ parents say that.
“Thanks, Dad. How are you and Mom doing? Gearing up for harvest?” I ask as I exit the elevator and go down the hall to my door. I unlock it and head in, setting down my ballet bag in the entry and turning the air on. Chicago is a great city to live in, but I definitely still miss fall in Napa Valley. It was always my favorite season with all the busyness of grape harvest and the vineyards turning gorgeous shades of yellow and orange. The way the autumn sun casts a magical spell each sunset over the valley lives rent free in my mind.
I truly miss it, so much so that my heart aches when I think of my home.
I’ve only been able to visit home on long weekends once or twice a year. Never enough time at all, but our rehearsal and performance schedules haven’t allowed for more.
The only positive of not having much time home has been successfully avoiding Hilarion for five years. After all this time, he still calls and texts, asking me how I am. The first couple years I was gone I never answered the phone or responded, but over the last several months I caved, feeling like a horrible human for ignoring him. I still keep it minimal—not wanting to get his hopes up—but I admit it’s nice to have someone to talk to and know someone's thinking of me.
Don’t get me wrong, I have dated a little bit in Chicago, but nothing really pans out past a few dates. I just haven’t felt that spark with anyone to where I wanted to make a commitment.
“Well, that’s why I’m calling. Your mother is struggling,” my dad says, his voice lower and sounding weary. It’s as if time stops when I process his words; even my body freezes and my voice gets caught in my throat.
“Wha… what do you mean by that?” I ask, even though I’m terrified to hear his response. I stop what I’m doing and sit down on my pink velvet couch, trying to take some deep breaths to calm my pounding heart.
“It means that the dementia is progressing. She’s been forgetting things from one day to the next and repeating herself more often. I didn’t want to have to tell you—she wouldn’t want you to worry—but you made me promise you that I would.”
This is my worst fear coming to life. I’m so scared to lose my mom, and I’m angry at myself for being so far away. My mind starts racing with thoughts on what I should do. I have two more shows this weekend before the summer performance season ends.
“Giselle, are you still there?”
“Yes, Dad. I’m here, but not for long. I’m coming home.”
I hang up before he can try to convince me otherwise. A sense of peace fills me as I think about leaving Chicago and being back home. The fact that this feels like such an easy decision convinces me it’s the right time to move on. I don’t know if this is the end of my ballet career completely—I hope not because I’m only twenty-five—but I can feel it deep in my bones that this is the right next step for me.
I’m going home.