I dropped Lacey off at the theatre in the early afternoon.  For a 10-year-old, she looked ready for a beauty pageant: fake eyelashes, cherry blush, blood-red lipstick. 

 

The little vampire bared her tiny teeth at me from the backseat.  “Mom, can you take a photo of me and Stacey when we get to dress rehearsal?”

 

“Sure.”  I checked my phone.  Five minutes until Miss Krista asked all of the dancers from Ballet II to be ready.  It was difficult getting out of the house this morning;  Lacey forgot her pearled crown. We had to turn around five minutes into the drive.  I forgot my coffee, and the chance to circle back again was gone.  I am terrible at doing makeup and hoped all of the other dancers looked as garish as I had made my daughter.  They said “heavy application,” but Lacey was borderlining a maniacal baby doll look: a cross between “Pet Semetary” and “Thriller.” 

 

“Mom?”

 

“What?”

 

“Did you remember to pack my peanut butter cracker snacks?” Her young voice was still high and light.  

 

“Oh. You know, I’ll drop off some snacks later.  I’ll bring food for Stacey too.”

 

Lacey sighed, something she was picking up from me.  “You can’t just bring a snack for Stacey.  That means you’ll have to bring a snack for everyone.”  

 

There were 23 other junior dancers, so, no. 

 

Lacey rubbed at her right eye.  A black smudge appeared.

 

“Lacey!  Now it looks like you’ve been punched in the face!”  I pulled the car over and turned around to face her.  “I don’t have any wet wipes to fix this.”  Lacey stared back in mock horror.  

 

“That’s okay.  Stacey’s mom brings everything.  She can make it look normal.”  

 

I sighed. I pressed my foot on the gas pedal and made the final few turns to the theatre.  The sun blazed, I squinted.  No sunglasses either.  A quick glance in the rear view mirror.  Makeupless, I was blotched-red and sun-marked, from years of outdoor sports. I could have used Lacey’s natural foundation. She was rosy, a milder blushing pink.  Dewy for days.  

 

I never thought I’d have a daughter interested in dance.  I played soccer my entire life - JV all-star - then starting defense in high school Varsity.  I was gifted a full scholarship to Purdue and pummeled through my four years, getting MVP my junior and senior years.  When I married Jake, I imagined the two of us co-leading a team as parents.  We would be unstoppable, Gatorade-fueled forces of sweaty knee pads and swinging ponytails.  How genetics surprises you.  

 

When Lacey was a toddler, she started watching YouTube videos of dance, obsessively.  Jake would take her out to the backyard, green grass galore and soccer ball flying, but she twirled instead. Twirled and kicked and gestured wildly to nothing.  It was a foreign language to my husband and me. 

 

“Mom!”  

 

I had driven past the theatre.

 

“Whoops, sorry.  Turning around.”  Lacey nearly vibrated with excitement in the backseat.  She had been rehearsing the past six months for this weekend, the hottest on record in any June.  She took no notice of the humidity.  I saw beads of perspiration  appear on her forehead from my rear-view mirror. 

 

“Make sure you drink a lot of water before you dance.  I don’t think this old theatre has the best air conditioning.”  

 

Lacey nodded impatiently as I pulled up in front of the theatre.  She smoothed out her tutu - all $75 of it - and pulled open the van door.  

 

“Love you see you later!”  She galloped towards the massive doors of the theatre.   Her shellacked bun stayed in place. Her legs reminded me of a grasshopper’s, all knobs and thin lines. I secured her ballet bun with hairspray and about 60 bobby pins, mildly proud of myself for how professional it looked.  As she pulled open the door, she looked back at me and waved.  A long strand of hair fell in between her eyes.

 

Shit.   

 

Just then, I felt a sharp pain in my abdomen.  It was fleeting, enough to make me gasp.  I frowned, placing my hand on my stomach and pressing gently. 

 

I made my way back home, breathing in the quiet of a Saturday afternoon.  Lacey usually had class at noon, so the extra hour was a welcome respite.  My weekends were now a Google calendar mosaic of lessons, appointments and events.  I remember, when Jake and I first got married, the utter stillness and quiet of the kitchen.  I’d walk down, barefoot, and listen to the coffee maker while he slept.  There was no rush to the car, no stuffing tights in duffel bags or running back to the house for glasses.

 

I drove past the pizza shop, the bustling hair salon, the funeral parlor.  All hallmarks of a commute I have on auto pilot.  The ‘picking up’ and ‘dropping off’ of Lacy was now the bookmarks of my afternoons.  Sometimes, I’d wait in the car for 15 minutes, sneaking in time to read or listen to podcasts or scroll through my newsfeed after work. Jake would make dinner.  

 

Pulling into our driveway,  I whistled at a familiar jogger rounding the bend.  

 

“Lookin’ good, fella.”  

 

Jake laughed and pulled out his headphones.  “How’s Lacey? Excited?”

 

“I forgot her snack.  Her bun started falling out.”  

 

“What a complete and utter dance mom failure you are.”

 

“I know, right?”

 

I felt another twinge in my stomach.  This time, the pain was enough to catch my breath.

 

“What’s wrong?”  Jake walked to the car, peering in.  His face was glossy with sweat.  

 

“I know the doctor said I might have some discomfort, but it’s really been hurting this morning.”

 

Jake helped me out of the car.  “Let’s keep an eye on it.  Maybe we should stop at the doctor’s this afternoon.”  

 

I shook my head.  “I’m alright.  I have to drop off Lacey’s food, then stop at Mom’s to help with the bathroom.  What time is the show again tonight?”

 

“I think 7.”  

 

“How long do you think it will last?”

 

Jake wrinkled his forehead.  “Remember last time?  I think there was something like 30 dances, and we were in the theatre just shy of three hours.”  

 

I did remember, all too well.  This time, I was coming prepared with water, a granola bar, and another granola bar. 

 

*

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The afternoon stretched into early evening.   My stomach was radio silent, and we made our way back to the theatre.  I got a text from Stacey’s mom, assuring us she had brought a light dinner for Lacey (energy for the show!) and I crumpled inside realizing my mistake.  Child neglect rule #1: feed your children.  

 

I stopped in the bathroom as the theatre lights dimmed.  Jake secured two seats for us in the sixth row, amid hundreds of plush red velvet seats.  Other excited family and friends waited in line, chatting about the show.

 

“Which dance is your daughter in?”

 

“Did your son get moved up to the junior level ballet?”

 

“I’m thrilled to see that jazz number with everyone, finally!”

 

I wondered if these proclamations were all in earnest;  were they really clamouring to hear “I’m Walking on Sunshine” with 20 yellow spandex-wearing first graders?  

 

“Claudia, how is Lacey looking forward to dancing tonight?” A woman with beady brown eyes and thick bangs smiled up at me expectantly.  I couldn’t remember her name.

 

“Oh yea,” I said with an encouraging smile.  “She can’t wait to strut her stuff.”  I had never said ‘strut her stuff’ in my entire life.  

 

The women nodded.  “My Lydia is absolutely on edge with excitement.  She could hardly sleep last night!  She has a solo in the contemporary dance, you see, and she’s been practicing her triple pirouettes all spring.”

 

I smiled and felt a sharp twinge in my abdomen.    

 

“-and then we were thinking of moving her up with the intermediate level, but I thought she needed one more year before we even entertained the possibility of her being en pointe. She has this incredible flexibility, though.  I think an audition for So you Think You Can Dance is a real possibility in a few years.  I have no idea where her talent comes from!”  

 

Was her name Melinda?  Miranda? Marissa?

 

“-she is so advanced for her age.  Miss Krista says her jumps are more extended than she’s ever seen them for someone her -”

 

“Melissa, would you mind holding my spot in line?  I’ll be right back”.  I walked stiffly out of the bathroom line, scanning the crowd for Jake.  He had found seats close to the front, and he was on his phone.   

 

“Jake!”  His name was swallowed up by the pre-show chatter. “Jake!”  I gestured for him to walk over to me, debating on a quick trip to the doctor’s as a good idea. The office was about a ten minute drive away.  Was Lacey in the first half?  I tried to remember, but my mind felt foggy and light.  

 

A shot and a pull of discomfort sounded again in my lower abdomen, and I power walked back to the bathroom.  Melissa smiled back at me, saying “Just in time!  That one’s opened, and I saved your spot.”  She expectantly waited for a thank you, but I shoved past her into the stall.  

 

The doctors said - or rather reassured me - my menstrual cycle would come back, normal, but it could take months. They said I might experience some mild discomfort.  

 

I unzipped my pants, pulling down each trouser leg.  I gasped.  

 

A tiny, perfect puddle of blood formed on my underwear. I peered at it, mostly in horror, partly in fascination.  How could that much of me leave so quietly, so quickly?  I had only felt lighter, my body giving up each drop without any visceral alarm.  It had soaked through to my black pants.  I know this was more than was normal, permissible.  The flush from my cheeks escaped with this realization, and I felt the bathroom tip sideways. 

 

“Claudia?  Claudia, are you okay?”

 

Someone had heard my purse drop to the floor, the contents spilling and rolling past my stall.  A tube of mauve lipstick rolled away from its home, down the floor towards the sink.  My cell phone flipped a few times onto the tile. 

 

“I’m fine.  Just dropped my purse.”  

 

A good Samaritan reached her hand under my stall, returning the lipstick.  In a blur, I plucked my things from the floor, tossing them back into my bag and blinking my eyes back into focus. 

 

I unrolled half a wad of toilet paper into a ball.  I stuffed it into my underwear and pulled up my pants around the makeshift diaper. 

 

Walking out of the stall, I smiled at Melinda..  

 

“Claudia!  Are you alright?  You seem pale.”  

 

I steadied myself at the porcelain sink.  “I’m fine, just nervous for Lacey.  You know, I get the jitters and stage fright for her.”  My voice felt underwater, bubbly. Invisible cotton in my ears.  “She’s worked so hard for tonight.”  

 

The women in the bathroom line nodded vigorously.  

 

“Can you imagine how many hours we’ve spent driving this year?” A svelte woman in a blue cardigan and platinum bob said. Pilates body. She answered her own question:  “I’ve calculated well over 100 hours.  We’ve spent days waiting for our children to leave their dance lessons and get into our cars.  Plus all of the hours we spend driving them there.”  She began counting on her long fingertips.  “Plus the monthly cost of the lessons, and the costumes, and the accessories.  I think this year has cost more than the boy’s hockey or my older daughter’s cheerleading.  I need to take out a second mortgage.”

 

A mild chuckle down the bathroom line.  I had been washing my hands, watching the oil-like suds and bubbles slink over my skin.  The water was hot enough to make my hands redden.  

 

Another woman with a crimson purse the size of a small suitcase responded: “My Ben practices while he’s brushing his teeth every night.  Every night!  He does barre while he is at the sink.  I can’t get over how hard he works.  I took a second job at Payless for the extra classes.  I am so proud of him.”  She says it with such conviction, staring at the other women with wide eyes.  “I see what he does, and I think, wow. If he can dance like that at eight years old, think of what he can do when he’s thirteen! American Ballet Theatre, here we come!”

 

The woman at the end of the line piped in, “I sold my own plasma so Susanne could pay for her pointe toes!  Those things cost near $100 per pair.  She goes through them like M&Ms.” 

 

The talk continued as I pushed the heavy wooden bathroom doors open, temporarily blinded by the sunlight in the lobby.  It was nearly 7 p.m., and the show was about to start.

 

*

 

I found my way into the darkened theatre, settling into the seat next to my husband.

 

“Jake we need to -”

 

A voice boomed from loudspeakers on either side of the stage.  “Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Dance Theatre West’s 46th Annual Summer Recital!  At this time, we ask you turn off all cell phones.  All recording devices are prohibited, and you are welcome to purchase a recording of this show from Mr. Dale’s Video Productions for $29.99, available on July 1st at the studio.  Please do not bring food or drink into the theatre.  Alcohol is strictly prohibited.  Thank you, and enjoy the junior and senior dancers in our spring performance!”  

 

The audience politely clapped as the plush burgundy curtains rose.  

 

The wadded toilet paper made me feel buoyant, like I was sitting on a cumulus cloud.  Jake gave me a wink.

 

“Let’s make this into a game.  Five bucks says Taylor Swift plays in the first half.”

 

I drowsily smirked at him.  

 

“And ten bucks says someone does a trust fall in a black leotard before the show is over.”

 

“Game on.”

 

He squeezed my hand, and the lights lowered.  

 

*  

 

Lacey wasn’t on stage until the sixth dance, and we both felt the fidgets.  I assumed my adult pads could last until intermission, so I kept my focus on the dances; so far, there were: 

 

• A group of five years olds in sunglasses, wiggling to Bruce Springsteen and playing air guitars.

• A surprisingly dark solo for a girl, about 13 years or so.  Writhing on the ground, reaching towards the audience while looking constipated, 

• Why are there fifth graders in midriffs?

 

It felt like the bones in my face were starting to loosen and separate, like a glacier cracking and spreading in the water.  My pelvis, a puddle. I leaned over to tell Jake we had to go. My mouth opened, but we reached the dance with Lacey. I closed my lips, tasting the worn raspberry gloss.  The music started, slow and pulsing with a soft blue light.  

 

My daughter - fearless, a ball of pure spiraled energy - jumped onto the stage with a huge leap, every pore of her shining.  She smiled, radiant, reaching her arms up and out, forward and back.  She pivoted with the attitude of Beyonce, the debonair charm of Gene Kelly, the spastic defiance of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction.  

 

“How is this our daughter?”  Jake whispered, eyes wide and mouth open.  

 

I felt a pool of wetness underneath my chair.  The stage became soft; Lacey moved underwater with fuzzed music.  She had worked so hard.

 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she, Jake?”  My voice was in a breathy whisper.

 

“Yea, we did good, partner.”

 

“Even if she’s not a soccer star?”

 

“Even if she’s not a soccer star.” Jake stared unblinkingly at Lacey.  

 

Lacey lifted her leg to the side, cutting through the air and extending her knee with ease.  It looked impossible to hold a limb, that high, without a door or walls or two hands, but she did it in spite of gravity. She extended her fingertips to the audience.  I felt them brush my face.  This was the three minutes that came from the six months of her practicing in the kitchen, playing the song on repeat, singing through a mouthful of toothpaste.  This was the three minutes that was made possible by many overtime hours at work, by foregoing the summer vacation, by declining invites of our childless friends to fancy restaurants.  How uneven the ratio is from process to product.  

 

“How did she come from me?”  I leaned over and whispered in Jake’s ear, lightly clutching his forearm.  My vision blurred and acquiesced to the distilled energy before me, of the cells that multiplied into a fetus that morphed into a baby that turned into this small, perfect, human, bursting her way through life well beyond anything Jake or I anticipated.    

 

The dance finished.  Lacy bowed with her ensemble, a glassy sheen of sweat on her forehead, a smile the shone brightly to her parents, her beacons.  I smiled and closed my eyes.

 

I counted the second passing, dipping softly into new black waters. I fell further down.  I heard Jake’s muted clapping, miles away.  I felt his grip, shaking my shoulders, clamouring for his cell phone.  I felt every pore of the universe, the vibrations of the applause in warm, pulsing waves for our Lacey. Sweet, fierce, triumphant Lacey.  It was worth it all.  I heard the sounds of sirens in the distance, the hushed whispers as the house lights came up and the show stopped.  I sensed someone yell “Is she okay?” I smelled copper. I felt gloved latex hands on my head, shoulders, lower spine, legs, hoisting me up - was this the dance move Lacey showed me last weekend on Youtube? They placed me tenderly onto a blessed soft surface.  I was wheeled away from the stage, rolling down the aisle and leaving through the main entrance.  I saw the new blazing lights of rotating vermilion outside. A dramatic exit.  I exhaled into a face mask.  I opened my eyes to a glorious sunset.  I didn't mean to be the main event. 

 

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Megan Mizanty is an interdisciplinary artist based in Pennsylvania.  She is an Assistant Professor of Dance at Wilson College, and the artistic director of MizantyDance, a collaborative ensemble of artists. She has performed in London and across the East Coast, and her screendance has been shown throughout Europe and New Zealand.  A busy brain and body, Megan values entangling disciplines and finding new ways to move in between words. 

 

Bienvenue au Danse, Megan.

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