When I left Eli earlier today, after another laid-back, easy afternoon of riding horses and reminiscing about the summer we first fell in love, I ran home to finally read the last letter and almost wished I hadn’t. I wanted nothing more than to pretend like I hadn’t seen those words, didn’t know what my mother had done, didn’t have the proof of it back in my bedroom or the realization that I’d probably always instinctively known she had something to do with the way Eli left and chosen to ignore it.
I’d also ignored the text my mother sent me a few weeks ago the morning I was in bed with Eli, simply stating that we needed to talk. After reading that letter, I wanted nothing more than to turn my back on her and never speak to her again. She never cared about me, she never cared about my happiness, she only cared about herself. The pain in my chest is so acute that I can’t stop the sob that flies from my mouth when I think about the words Eli wrote and remember everything she stole from me.
The only reason I finally agreed to meet with her, the only reason I’m here right now, is because I want to understand. I want to know how it’s possible for a mother to hate her daughter so much. I want to know what was in the e-mail Eli sent to her that day and I want to know why he didn’t tell me about it, but I’m scared to death to finally have all the answers.
I thought coming here to the studio to stretch and listen to music before I met her up at the house would calm my nerves, but the longer I stay here and avoid the inevitable, the worse I feel.
“I was always jealous of you two.”
My head flies up and I quickly whirl around when I hear her voice. My heart flutters nervously, wondering how she found me here, how she knows about this room, and why she doesn’t look at all shocked to be standing in the doorway.
“You and your father,” she continues quietly, assuming the surprised look on my face has something to do with the statement she made. “I was always jealous of the connection the two of you had.”
She steps farther into the room, her heels clicking against the wood floor and I take a moment to really look at her. Gone is the demanding, haughty look on her face, perfectly pressed business suit, and every hair flawlessly in place. She looks like she’s aged twenty years as I continue to stare at her when she stops in the middle of the room, twisting her hands together nervously in front of her. Her black pants suit is full of wrinkles and her usual tight, slicked-back French twist has started to come loose, strands of hair falling against her face and around her shoulders. She looks so vulnerable and small and it makes me sad. It should make me happy that she finally looks as miserable as she’s made me feel most of my life, but it doesn’t. I don’t know how to deal with the emotions I’m feeling for her right now. I’ve spent so much of my time resenting her and she made it easy with her nose up in the air, looking down on me all these years. It’s hard to hate someone who is standing in front of you, cutting herself open and bleeding all of her emotions out into a puddle at your feet.
“I never wanted to be a mother, but I still hated how close the two of you were,” she goes on. “Going off together all the time, sharing secrets and laughs and a bond that I could never understand. I never wanted a child, but I still hated that the two of you had something like that and I didn’t.”
I want to speak, ask her a thousand questions, shout a million insults, and scream at her until my voice is hoarse, but I can’t make the words come. I can do nothing but stand here, tightly clutching onto the barre behind me, letting her finally tell me what I’d always wanted to know. Everything finally makes sense, but it’s not a relief to hear her say these words to me. I stopped giving her the power to hurt me a long time ago, but it doesn’t stop the pain from spreading through my heart hearing her admit she never wanted me.
“I always knew about this studio, too. I followed the two of you one day when you snuck off, thinking I wasn’t paying attention,” she explains quietly. “I watched you dance and…it hurt everything inside of me. It made me angry and it made me hate you even more. I knew it was horrible and I knew it was wrong for a mother to feel like that when she discovered her daughter had so much talent, but I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop it.”
She pauses to run her hand nervously against the side of her head, trying to control the wayward pieces of hair that have fallen out of her updo, but she gives up after a few seconds when they won’t conform.
“Why?” I finally whisper.
With a deep breath, she closes the distance between us, reaching into the front pocket of her suit jacket and pulling something out. I look away from her eyes at the item she holds out to me when she gets right in front of me, letting go of the barre with one hand to take the picture from her.
Staring down at it, I can hardly believe what I’m looking at. The photo is worn around the edges, a crease lining the center of it from the number of times it must have been folded and unfolded over the years, but there’s no mistaking what it is or who it is. It’s a picture of my mother, probably not much older than nineteen or twenty, wearing a black leotard, a sheer black chiffon ballet skirt, pink tights, and pink pointe shoes, with her leg extended gracefully up by her head and her arms in perfect first position. Her face is so serene and peaceful and happy that I almost wonder if my eyes are playing tricks on me. I’ve never seen her look anything but hard and disappointed.
“What is this?” I mutter, even though I know what it is, but I’m so confused that I feel like my head is spinning.
“I was one of the best premier dancers for the New York City Ballet,” she tells me quietly, staring down at the photo I clutch tightly in my hand. “Dancing was the only thing I’d ever known. The only thing that made me happy and the only thing I wanted to do for the rest of my life.”
I don’t know whether to scream at her, or drop down to the floor and cry. All these years, we had so much in common and I never knew it. She never let me know it, and for some reason, she hated me because of it.
“I know you don’t understand, Shelby, and I wish I could change the way I felt when you were younger and the way I treated you, but I can’t,” she goes on. “I never thought I’d want anything more than ballet, until one day, when I was twenty, a man came to the ballet. He acquired access backstage when it was over and he handed me the largest, most beautiful bouquet of pink roses I’d ever seen.”
A sad, wistful expression comes over her face and it takes my breath away.
“He asked me out on a date, and I accepted. I didn’t come from money, my parents were blue-collar workers who could barely pay the bills. He took me to fancy restaurants, he showered me with expensive gifts, and he loved me more than I ever thought someone would,” she tells me softly. “I fell for him hard, and in a few months, I got pregnant with you.”
All of the pieces start falling together. Why she hated me, why she hated it when she found out I could dance…it all makes sense now.
She blamed me for taking away her dream.