Nurse Connie nods. “For a while there, I thought we’d truly turned a corner, that June was getting better—that she wanted to get better. But the downward spiral is starting again.”
My mom nods, but if she’s startled she doesn’t let it show. She waits for them to continue.
“We have to make a tough decision here about whether to dismiss her or not,” Mr. K says.
“You will not dismiss her.” She hands him an envelope, and in it I see what looks like conservatory letterhead. “Take a look, Mr. K. You’ll see, according to the letter from the board, that June will remain at the conservatory through the end of the year, when she graduates. She will audition for Damien Leger, just like the rest of the students, and dance in Swan Lake performance.” She looks at me, her face still firm. “Make no mistake, her weight is a problem, and she will fix it. But Nurse Connie will not be involved. Per my discussion with the board, June will work with a professional counselor I hired, with a custom menu for her meals with Korean food, not American food. She will meet with her twice a week.”
“But—”
She doesn’t let him finish. “What you’re doing doesn’t work. This will.”
When he opens his mouth again, my mom adds: “Also, Mr. K, June has invested lot of time and money into this conservatory. It doesn’t make sense for her to finish elsewhere, whether she chooses to dance or decides to go to college. You see trustee board approvals, correct?” She doesn’t say my father’s name, but we all know it’s there. “Then we should be all set.”
With that, she rises, motioning for me to get up, too. “June, yobo, come now. I’m sure you have class.”
We walk in silence back to the elevators, and she buttons up her coat, ready to leave. But as she turns away, I grab her arm. “Thank you.” I’m trying my best not to cry. I know my dance class will let out any second, and I can’t let the others see me like this. “For everything. I’ll get better, I promise you that. I’ll work with a counselor, I’ll do whatever she asks, I’ll be strong and sturdy and do you proud.”
She nods, silent for a minute. “I want to tell you something, E-Jun.” She’s standing so close to me, we could embrace. But we don’t. “What happened today is not your fault. It’s mine. When you were a small girl, you saw a ballerina for the first time, and your face lit up. And—” She chokes a bit on her words, wipes at her face with her gloves. “And I thought, she’s like me. A dancer. It made me so, so happy. I admit, it meant you were like him, too. We could prove to him that we were good enough—that you were good enough. So I push you. Hard. And realized my mistake too late. You love to dance. You live to dance. But dying to dance? No, E-Jun. This I will not allow.” My mom looks square at me. “So prove you can be healthy. I will not support ballet if you’re not healthy.”
I nod, and for a moment we just stand there, staring at each other. Then she pats my shoulder, and pushes the button for the elevator. When it dings, she watches me as I get into the elevator, pushing the button for the twelfth floor. My eyes stay on her as the doors start to close, and for the first time in months, I feel like I can do this. I stick my hand between the elevator doors just as they’re about to lock shut, and they retract.
But when I step back outside, she’s already gone.
19.
Bette
DAD SITS AT OUR TABLE for the first time in years. The Christmas tree behind him washes his cream-colored sweater in reds and greens. Even though it’s Thanksgiving, the tree has to be up. It’s an Abney tradition. Justina brings him a fresh glass of Scotch and pours my mother another glass of wine. I guess they’re going toe-to-toe tonight. The stress of having to deal with each other is too much for both of them. The puzzle pieces might be too warped to fit.
“It’s nice to have us all here,” my mother says, and I can’t fight the feeling that I agree with her. I almost reach for her, to pat her hand, but she’s still my mother. She’s still untouchable and unpredictable. A server appears in the room, and I realize my mother has pulled out all the stops for tonight. My father looks pleased when Adele finally settles in at the table, across from him and next to me. “Auditions soon. How are things going?”
“Fine.”
“How are your roommates?”
“Great.”
“Are you seeing anyone?”
“No,” she says. She’s here, she’s committed, but if he thinks she’ll make things easy on him, well, he’s in for it.
The server places butternut squash soup in front of us. I watch my dad eat. He spoons soup into his mouth and holds it there for a few seconds longer than everyone else at the table, as if he’s savoring it. I wonder if he likes the Thanksgiving menu my mother settled on. She and Adele fussed over it in the kitchen for days. I wonder if he misses this, misses us.
“How’s Howard?” my mother asks about my father’s business partner. I wouldn’t recognize him if I walked past him on the street.
“Howard is great. Their oldest, Benji, just got engaged. Eugenia is busy helping her future daughter-in-law plan the wedding and driving him crazy. Eugenia asks about the girls, and you, all the time.”
“Does she now?” My mother downs the rest of the red wine in her glass. “Well, she stopped calling after you divorced me.”
Adele drops her soup spoon. The clatter rings out but isn’t loud enough to cover up what my mother has just said.
“That’s a most unfortunate thing.” Dad paves right over it, like she’s just commented that the soup is too cold. “Adele, my secretary called ABC today to purchase a block of tickets for the anniversary performance. Should we invest in one of the sponsor packages as well?”
Adele doesn’t look up from her bowl. She shrugs her shoulders. I guess she’s done talking for tonight. If you could call what she’s managed to say so far actual talking.
“It can’t hurt.” I try to fill the silence. “Every little bit helps.”
“It’s nice for us to show our support for Adele, too,” he says, totally missing the point.
“Yeah, I mean, that’s obvious.” Although you could support me, too, I want to add. But I don’t. “I’ve almost figured out who really pushed Gigi and—”
My father slams down his spoon then, and looks at me. He really looks at me, for the first time in months, maybe even years. I think he’s going to say “Great” or “You’ll be cleared in no time.” Instead, he sighs. “Bette,” he says, like he’s talking about some petulant, six-year-old version of me, “the settlement is done.”
I want to pout. Honestly, that’s my gut reaction. But I can’t. It’ll just make him continue to think it’s okay to talk to me that way, like I’m not nearly an adult who’s been living on her own for almost a decade. We sit in silence as soup bowls are replaced with salads and slices of turkey. No sweet potatoes for me this year, I guess. Then the plates are cleared, and dessert is presented to us.
“So now you’re giving me the silent treatment?” My father laughs. It’s painful.