On cue, the lights dimmed to an ambience more fitting to a romantic restaurant, revealing candles strategically placed around the room. I hadn’t noticed anyone lighting them.
The grinding, sultry bass of a Beyoncé song filled the room. This was going to be excruciating. Unlike other things I’d succeeded in teaching myself, rhythm had proven to be an impenetrable foe. In theory, I knew you were supposed to clap on the “two,” but it was much harder to put into practice.
A woman sashayed into the center of the room, as if controlled by her hips. She ran her hands down the sides of her body like she was savoring the touch.
“Yeeessss,” Sylvie whispered appreciatively. “This is going to be amazing.”
“Are you ladies ready to really feeeeeel your bodies?” The woman purred, eyes closed in pleasure.
Everyone in the room responded with various enthusiastic versions of “Wooooo!”
Except for me. I was pretty sure I was going to vomit. In my estimation, the door was about ten feet away. I could bolt now and never look back.
But before I could act on the impulse, Sylvie grabbed my hand and pulled me up. “I’m so happy we’re doing this together, C!”
The tension holding my body captive relaxed and the nausea began to recede. Sylvie was looking at me so earnestly that I couldn’t let her down. Pleading with my nerves to calm, I focused on the feeling of connection with my friend.
“I am too.” I smiled weakly, exhilarated and terrified in equal measure. It was like I was holding on to a cluster of helium balloons and had finally let my feet leave the ground.
As far as I could tell, there was no actual routine to the class. It mostly consisted of a lot of writhing in time to the music (or in my case, slightly behind the beat), a few songs spent crawling along the floor like jungle felines (I wished I’d brought kneepads), and running fingers through hair (impractical for me since I had a tight topknot). Sylvie, apparently born with perfect rhythm, embraced it all with gusto, as did her ponytail, which seemed to sway exactly in time. She’d occasionally bump shoulders with me and flash an encouraging smile before striding off confidently as if sensuality coursed through her veins and it was no big deal.
Twenty minutes into the session, I began to feel sporadic flashes of surrender. It helped that we were told to close our eyes (and “just let goooooooo”), and when I snuck a peek, nobody in the room was paying attention to anyone but themselves. Liberated, I allowed my body to move with a fluidity I’d never experienced. Running my hands over my thighs and waist felt newly intimate … and pleasurable.
In an unexpected moment of release, I reached up and unleashed my topknot.
* * *
As Sylvie and I retrieved our belongings from the locker room, I felt slightly euphoric.
“See? I knew you’d love it,” Sylvie said, looking approvingly at my invigorated glow. “Look how relaxed you are.”
“Yeah, it was better than I expected, I guess.” I didn’t want to seem too enthusiastic in case she tried to talk me into the pole-dancing class. But when the chill of evening hit my skin as we walked toward Eighth Avenue, I was keenly aware of my body. The way my clothing felt against it, the way it moved. It was the same rush I’d get from watching a love story unfold on TV, or indulging in Julia and Reuben’s tender kisses from afar.
Yet, somehow this was different.
This time, the stimulus had come from within.
30
Sebastian’s name flashed across my phone screen for the second time that morning. The first time, I’d sat and stared at it, willing it to stop. I didn’t like that he was inserting himself into my day without warning. He didn’t even leave a voice message.
I screened his second call, waited fifteen minutes, then texted him instead.
Hi, Sebastian. Did you try calling me? I was in the shower.
The three-dotted bubble appeared under my message. Thank God—a text would at least give me time to think about my response. But then the dots vanished and his name flashed across the screen for the third time. I had no choice but to answer.
“Hey, Clover!” The sound of his voice triggered the nerves of our last encounter. “I figured it was way easier just to call you rather than texting back and forth. How’s your morning been?”
“Pretty good, thanks.” I waited for him to reveal the reason he was calling.
“So, the other night was really fun…” He said it like he was testing a hypothesis.
“Yes, it was.” Parts of it, at least.
An ice-cream truck jingled in the background on Sebastian’s end.
“Anyway,” he cleared his throat. “I’m actually playing in a cello quartet tomorrow night and I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come … with Grandma? She always loved coming to my concerts and I thought it might be nice for her to see, um, one last one.”
Well, I couldn’t deny Claudia that. My nerves eased slightly—suddenly Sebastian and his phone call felt less intrusive.
“That’s such a thoughtful idea,” I said. “I’d love to bring her.”
* * *
Since Sebastian had to be at the concert early, I stayed past my usual visiting time to accompany Claudia in an Uber to the gallery space in Chelsea.
I watched her sit in front of the gilt mirror above her dressing table. She applied her red lipstick with the ease of someone signing their name, then dabbed perfume on her wrists, behind her ears, and on her décolletage. Somehow I felt like a child watching her mother get ready, brimming with adoration for her beauty and elegance. But instead of it being a painful reminder of something I never got to experience with my own mother—or at least don’t remember—it felt as if an empty place in me was being filled.
“Help me with this please, darling,” Claudia said, holding a string of pearls toward me.
I took the necklace and pinched open the clasp as she held up the wisps trailing down her neck from her French twist. I patted her shoulder once it was fastened. “There you go.”
Claudia put her hand on top of mine and held it, catching my eye in the mirror.
“Thank you, lovely girl. How lucky I am to have you.”
Words I’d never thought I’d hear. I felt a small lump swell in my throat.
“I’m very happy to be here,” I said, unable to quite express how deep her words had really hit. “Though we should probably get moving so we’re there in time.”
I helped Claudia up from the antique Windsor chair, catching the notes of bergamot and tuberose from her freshly applied perfume. I glanced at the name embossed on the gracefully curved bottle and its emerald green cap: Creed Fleurissimo. It felt too glamorous for me.
“Well,” she said, smoothing the creases in her skirt. “How do I look?”
“Perfect,” I said, taking in her elegant silhouette. Like Leo, Claudia’s style was still firmly planted in the 1960s, but hers leaned less Mad Men and more Joanne Woodward. Tonight she wore a refined, high-neck silk blouse along with her tea-length skirt and block-heel pumps. “I’ll go ask Selma to help us get you downstairs before she leaves. I’ve got your wheelchair waiting in the foyer.”
Claudia waved her hand in a shooing motion. “No wheelchair for me tonight—this could be my last night on the town, so I’m determined to do it in style!”
* * *
Without the wheelchair, our grand entrance into the art gallery was more of a shuffle, with my arm wrapped tightly around Claudia’s waist helping her keep balance. And yet she carried herself with such grace and confidence, which didn’t go unnoticed by the people gathered at the entrance, who beamed at her with approval.
What was it like to turn heads like that, to assert your presence with such charisma, so unafraid to be seen and admired?
Inside, folding chairs were lined up in rows facing the back of the gallery with an aisle carved through the middle. As Sebastian strode down it toward us, a swarm of moths began flitting about in my stomach. I’d been so captivated with Claudia that I hadn’t had time to worry about how I’d react to seeing him.