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BREAKFAST THAT WEEK was a silent affair. Even Renee and my sisters were unusually silent as we munched on eggs and toast. I hardly ate breakfast with them, sleeping off the generous supply of pain killers the doctor had given me. Lord, those things were a wonderful way to forget the internal and external agony I was in every damn day.
But every morning since Claude’s assault had been different. The next morning, Elijah had gently knocked on my door before sunrise, inviting me to eat with them. He had tried that the first year he lived here, and I only answered him with insults and thrown shoes. That day, however, he seemed urgent. And it was the least I could do after he saved me that night.
A week went by with nothing from Claude, and I could breathe easier again. Whatever my mother had done seemed to fix the problem, but I knew Claude. He didn’t give up easily. Every time the doorbell rang, I jumped, even if it as a mailman. Although with a stream of postcards arriving this week, I didn’t know if I was in terror or elation.
I wanted to spend more time in my room than usual, but Elijah wouldn’t let me. He insisted I accompany my mother and him to signing events, a few informal business lunches, and even one day, shopping. Three weeks flew by as they kept me busy almost every single day.
“You can’t stay cooped up forever,” my mother had told me.
So Jacques drove us around, me with the bulky cast, and my parents dressed in their formal finery.
It was actually the most fun I’d had in ages. Being locked up in the dorm, I never went out. My life was practice, ballet, more practice. I couldn’t be mad at either of them. They were right – I needed the fresh air.
But today was different. In the last week, I’d received two more postcards from Vasily in Moscow, and I’d stayed up late pouring over them. With only a few sentences between them, I tried to piece together what he was like. He was twenty-two, two years older than me, and he liked to draw and spend time with his friend, Igor. His most recent postcards had a strange line I couldn’t puzzle out, however:
Igor wants me to go to temple with him, but I’m not sure my aunt would be disappointed.
Temple? I wasn’t stupid, I knew it meant Igor was probably of the Jewish faith. Did that mean that Vasily wasn’t, since his father wouldn’t allow it? Our family had never been religious at all, so I didn’t understand what he meant. After staring at the line for a few moments, I shrugged and set the postcard aside.
I was up before Elijah’s knock this morning, my phone buzzing over and over so many times it fell off the dresser, waking me from a deep sleep. I knew before I looked they would be frantic messages from Claude. After a week, he was begging me not to call the police, not to end his ballet career, and just to talk to him.
Yet, not once did he acknowledge he had drugged me, or nearly ended my life. Not once. I ignored his few texts then.
Claude had been an off again, on again fling for a couple of years, nothing ever serious. Now he was acting like I was his girlfriend or something. His texts started again, even though it had been nearly a month since the attack. Fed up, I dressed and sent him a hurried text, hoping a break in my silence would make him go away:
This is over, Claude. Please don’t contact me again.
His immediate response: Don’t, Jaqui. We are great together. I miss you.
Before I could answer, a flurry of explicit texts came through: details including a flogger and a feather that were so intimate my breath caught in my throat. Despite the events a week ago, I was weak. I wanted all that and more. It was so silly that I craved pain to replace the throb in my recovering ankle.
God, this had to stop. I was addicted to the way he treated me, like a sex object to be tied up and hit. He never bothered to ask what I wanted, and never respected my wishes. He had twisted me into some kind of addict, feigning for his abuse. No, I finally told myself, we were never good together. You were just a quick screw meant to piss off my parents, at least in the beginning. But you turned me into a version of myself I don’t even recognize anymore.
No, we are not great together, I texted back, you are an asshole, and I never want to see you again. I avoided adding I hated everything about him — the arrogance, the poor ballet skills, the masochistic tendencies, I loathed it all. The roughness, the slapping, even the time he tied me to the dresser in my changing room, even though I loved it at the time. I didn’t bother checking the three additional dings as he continued to harass me. No more. I needed a change.
I had no idea my parents had a bigger change in mind.
So here I sat at the breakfast table, my phone vibrating so loudly even my siblings were exchanging glances.
“Is that him?” My mother said after several awkward moments, raising an eyebrow.
I nodded, taking a slow bite. I wasn’t hungry, but my presence seemed important to them.
While my pocket buzzed fervently, my step-father’s phone dinged once. He lifted his phone off the table and peered at over his glasses. “Jacques is out front,” he said to my siblings. “Get your things together.”
Renee, Izzy, and Darci nearly ran from the solemn, depressing breakfast table, pushing and shoving each other to be the first one out the door. Renee, the one who always doted on Darci, picked her up and slung her tiny backpack over his own. He kissed my mother on the cheek, then my step father, and waved to them. I smiled a little at the affectionate moment.
My pocket buzzed six more times.
“God,” I breathed, still terrified to check it. I sank down in my chair, pushing my half-eaten plate away from me.
“Elijah,” my mother said when my siblings had slammed the giant front doors behind them.
He nodded to her and picked up his phone again. He punched in a few things to the screen, the noise of each key loud and clear. Did he ever turn his phone to silent? I wondered. He was over fifty, I remembered, and used the phone like everyone else did at that age.
My phone suddenly ceased vibrating. I pulled it out and glanced at it under the table. Where Claude’s messages used to be, the screen just read ‘block number’ and didn’t show me the messages.
“Did you do that, Father?” I stared at him, unbelieving.
He nodded. “He won’t bother you anymore,” he said softly.
I was scared to even speak the next line. “What happens if he comes here?”
My mother pursed her lips. “He’ll get worse than he was that night three weeks ago, and also, we will call the police.”
My step-father looked at her, nodding. “Very true.”
My mother frowned at him, saying nothing. Turning to me, she said, “Are you excited to get that cast off today?”
I nodded, biting my lip. With everything going on with Claude, I wasn’t sure what I would do now. As long as I had the cast, I could pretend everything was going okay. But the scar from my stiches was still something I couldn’t look at, and feeling my ankle so weak scared me. I missed ballet dearly. It had been the longest two months of my life without the dance floor and my pointe shoes.
“What are your plans for returning to school?” Elijah added.
“I ... I don’t know,” I said finally, finishing half my food and pushing my dish away. “I’ve been thinking about starting over. Something new.”
Elijah leaned forward, his hand on his chin. “What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. Cooking, maybe. Father would have liked that.”
I didn’t miss the way he winced and looked at my mother. “But dance is your life,” he said softly. My mother nodded.
“You heard the doctor!” I was careful not to shout. There had been too much of that lately. “I’ll never dance again,” I nearly whispered, angry at my own sense of defeat.
“Don’t say that!” My mother spoke forcefully. “You just need time to heal.” She bit her lip, a nervous tick, I knew. “I have a small confession to make. I gave your name to the Opera de Nationale, who promised to connect you with someone at another academy. Sort of like old-fashioned pen-pals.”
“Pen-pals?” I asked in French, though my mother insisted on English at the table, mostly for Elijah’s sake.
Elijah smiled. “Isn’t that how this whole thing started?”
My mother chided him. “Not now.”
“I got a postcard in the mail last week,” I interrupted their amorous nostalgia. Elijah’s postcards from my mother were plastered all over my temporary bedroom. I resisted rolling my eyes like a petulant teenager. Who fell in love over a few stupid cards?
“You did?” My mother perked up. “From who?”
“Some Russian guy,” I said, “I wrote him back. A few times, actually.”
“That’s wonderful!” Elijah added.
“It’s fine,” I told them, “but nothing will fix this,” I knocked on my cast to demonstrate. “I’m not a ballerina anymore.”
My step-father’s phone dinged twice then, and he looked at it. “Ah! I think I might have a solution.” He looked at my mother. “Do you remember my editor, Leo?”
“I love Leo. He’s a nice guy,” Mother said.
“Well, he’s got a brother that just had to let one of his instructors go. He teaches at the Tanets Academy, in Moscow. He’s looking for an apprentice.”
I knew the latter was said for my benefit, but I cringed. “Oh no, you’re not...”
“I told him you’d be interested in at least discussing it,” Elijah looked right at me as he said it.
“You didn’t!” I pushed away from the table. “I can’t teach ballet. I can barely complete a lift...”
“Nonsense. You were already teaching the younger students at the Opera,” Mother offered quietly.
“That’s different. It’s not ... the goddamn Moscow ballet!” I exploded, feeling the heat rising to my cheeks even after I said.
“He’s in a pinch, with their new Christmas production, and needs an instructor,” Elijah said, his voice smooth and soft.
This is what he did. He always did. When I was angry, he got quieter. Was this what my mother liked about him? That he could diffuse any situation?
“Sit down, Jaqui.” It wasn’t a question. I did. “We’re going to talk about this like adults, because you’re twenty years old. And this accident may be the end of performing, but that doesn’t mean you can’t reach out to others and help them. Giving back is one the greatest things you can do.”
“Spare me the lecture,” I crossed my arms over my chest. “I’m not going to Moscow. I don’t even speak Russian.”
“Lots of people speak English now, you know,” Mother interjected.
“I’m just worried about this whole Claude situation,” Elijah said, leaning back in his chair. “Not that we can’t protect you here, Jaqui, but if you want to pursue ballet without him around, this might be your best option.”
I shook my head. “I’ll do something else, then. Forget ballet.”
My mother sighed her disappointment, and I could see it in my step-father’s face.
“Very well then,” he said finally, “I’ll tell Leo that it won’t work at this time.”
“Yes,” I told him, “and don’t volunteer me for anything else without asking. We’re all adults, after all.” I did stand that time.
“Jaqui ...” My mother tried to protest.
I walked out of the room.
As I made my way to my room, the mail came, shuffling through the bronze flap near the front door. I stooped awkwardly and rifled through the pile of advertisements and magazines.
I half expected another vague postcard from Vasily, but this time, it was a letter in a small envelope with his Moscow stamp. I smiled, but I wasn’t sure why. I barely knew him. But right now, after my parents tried to force me to move hundreds of miles away, he was the one I really wanted to talk to.
I slipped into my office-bedroom and shut the door, ripping into the letter. It was four half pages of hastily written French, and though I knew it wasn’t his first language by this point, it was readable. The letter contained mundane details: what he had for breakfast, how he liked his coffee, and some game he played with his friend Igor.
The idea of a friend baffled me. I didn’t have time for friends — in ballet, it was competition, not a place to socialize. And since it took up so much time, I didn’t talk to anyone who was my competition. Except Claude, that was. And now, I didn’t even have him.
The letter was short, but it was more than he’d ever included in his postcards. I froze at the end, just before his name.
I apologize if this is wrong...
He used the incorrect French word for wrong, and I laughed.
...but I would please to call you, if your father will allow it.
I smiled again. He knew I was twenty, but we hadn’t talked about fathers. He had mentioned an aunt, so I assumed he was l like me, and didn’t have a father. It was strange he would ask something so old-world, old fashioned, but I liked it.
There was just one problem: international calling was still damn expensive. Normally, my mother would throw a fit, though we had the money to spare, and I knew it. I thought about Elijah’s talk of going to Moscow. Maybe I could ask...
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sent my step-father a text message. I had to scroll through my contacts, because I’d never sent him a text, not in the four years I’d had my phone. I paused. I wasn’t sure how to explain I was about to charge a lot of money to their phone bill.
I thought about what you said, about needing a change, I started the text. And I have a favor to ask. Before I hit send, I hastily added, and I’m sorry for my outburst earlier. Send.
Right away, he responded. Forgiven. What do you need?
Can I call my friend in Moscow? The pen-pal one?
I could almost see my father smiling as he returned: Don’t take too long. And don’t tell your mother. She will flip when she sees the bill. :)
The emoji at the end made me laugh out loud. He was so old, I was surprised he’d figured out how to text.
Moscow was two hours ahead, and it was still barely seven here. He had said was an early riser, so I hoped I wasn’t interrupting him at nine his time.
I almost hung up as it started to ring, and my heart started beating out of my chest. Would he have a Russian accent? Would I be able to understand him? He had to speak French if he could write it so well, but would he be able to understand me? Maybe he spoke English ... or no English! Or maybe ...
“Zdravstvuyte,” a deep voice answered after the third ring.
I panicked. I knew an exchange student from Russia a few years ago. Was that their word for hello? How did I say ‘hello, my name is’ in Russian? In my panic, I forgot entirely and just fell back to my native French.
“Bonjour, c’est Jaquellyn.”