Page 5 of The Breaking Pointe
She’s getting better at accepting my care, but there’s still a small inkling of her that wants to fight it. Unfortunately, I can visibly see the fight becoming weaker and weaker as the days progress.Cancer is a thief.Sucking you dry of every ounce of life and energy that you have left. I’ve been watching the color leave her skin more and more, her body becoming bonier with each visit.It’s a miracle she’s even still walking around.
Stage three stomach cancer, and she’s behaving as if she’s fine. Hiding the fact that she’s constantly nauseous, refusing help when she bleeds every time she uses the bathroom.Most of the time she’s in pain, and lately, she hasn’t been very good at hiding it.Saying it scares me minimizes how I truly feel.I’m developing an ongoing worry streak, thinking about how one of these days it might slip into something worse. She knows it, I know it—and I pray to God that Steven knows it.It’s something we have to inevitably prepare ourselves for.
Nobody ever knows how to properly prepare for it—and I don’t know a rule book that aids in lifespans and sicknesses. BythetimeImakeittoherbedroomwiththepiping hotcup,she’salreadyfastasleep.Isetthemugonher
nightstand, watching her cuddle up to her pillow. She didn’t even have the energy to turn her TV on, though the remote is clutched in her hand. This happens a lot, recently. And I understand her being so tired, but it’s almost frighteningto know that she falls asleep at the drop of a dime.Who knows where she’s fallen asleep, and what things could be left running when she’s alone.
I turn the TV on to create some sort of background noise for her and cover her with a blanket before shutting her lights off. The rest of the house is so quiet that it’s eerie, making me question what Steven could possibly be doing.I make it a point to pass his bedroom on my way to the stairs. The door is closed, but still I let a few of my fingers knock, out of curiosity.
“Steven, can I come in?”I ask, waiting for his voice on the other side.
Nothing.
I push the door open, slowly.He’s on his laptop with a pair of headphones in, watching what looks to be a skateboarding video. He’s deep in concentration, not budging one bit.
My lips part to say something, but my brain tells me it’s pointless already.So I reach into my pocket, pulling out a bit of money to give him. It’s the one thing I try to do every single time I come over.He’s never going to have to want for anything, as long as it’s up to me.
Itossthemoneyonhisbed,swiftlyexitingrightafter.
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fanmail
NOELLE
I never liked confrontation, even when I was a little girl. I still feel like a little girl, but I keep getting reminded that twenty- fiveisn’taslittleasitfeels.Tome,atleast.It’sactually similar to a bomb that could go off at any given moment,sending your life into an overturning tsunami.That is, ifyoudon’tfindawaytodetonateitintime.Ineverseem to get it right.I’m married to my karmic outcomes at this point.
If it weren’t for me prancing in circles in pointe shoesand having rhythm, I’m convinced I’d be a goner. Dancing has brought me every last bit of joy that a little girl could want—specifically, being a ballerina. It doesn’t matter how blistered and bruised my feet are, or how many days I have to teach myself a routine, I will never stop. If I’m not dancing, I’m dead.
That’sthebrutal,honesttruth.
Atruththatoftenfeelslikeonlymyroommateunder- stands and respects. She doesn’t have a rhythmic bone in her body, not even an ounce of desire to do a twirl. Yet she listens and devotes so much time to coming to see me perform.She even seems to remember the songs to my routines. It’s too bad we’re both strictly heterosexual women, otherwise she would make the perfect romantic partner. It makes me all the more grateful that platonic relationships exist in thisworld.
Lauren has been my biggest supporter since the day we met six years ago, a year after I moved to New York.It started as a school journey, and now I’m somehow renting a dance studio and teaching young girls. Which wouldn’t be possible without dancing for New York City Ballet. The people who pay me there have no idea what they’re contributing to. They aren’t contributing much to me, aside from buildinga repertoire and bettering my moves—but they’re helping other people who mean a great deal to me.
Thirteen lovely little ladies, who have big dreams.
I have every intention to make those dreams come true.My parents did it for me, and so did every contributing teacher and mentor that I had.While they all taught me a list of valuable lessons, the biggest lesson of all happened to be that people help people.You have a choice in this life to either be a natural-born helper or need help long enough to see what it is like to be a helper. In some ways, this was my number one motto in life because it initially made sense to me. Then over time, I finally discovered that I do have one question.
Can you be a helper who needs help themselves?
I often ask myself who I am.Mostly if I want to be more
than I am now—or sometimes if I can have more. That feels impossible after allowing someone to tarnish your being for years in your life. For every step forward, they manage to make me take two steps back. I can never seem to move forward.
Pushing the front door open, I can see that Lauren has begun her nighttime ritual.She is sitting on the sofa with a lime-green, slimy-looking mask sticking to her face as she watches something on TV. Closing the door behind me, I drop my bags next to my feet, pushing them to the side for now, and walking past the back of the sofa to go to the kitchen.
“Hey,” I say to her in passing, “any mail for me?”
“I put it on the counter. Your food is right beside it. You got something from you-know-who,” she says, turning to look at me over the back of the sofa.
I look at the pile of mail, shuffling through a few bills and some junk, until I get to a smaller envelope labeled with fancy, black ink and a red seal. The more my eyes roamed over it, the more the red label stood out. It isn’t just any old label. It’s engraved with the letter D.
For Daniel.
I set it down next to the wrapped plate of food that is waiting for me, my stomach tightening at the sight.
“I don’t care—I’m not going to see him fight anymore.We broke up a long time ago. I don’t know why he proceeds to send me things as if it will change my mind. If I haven’t responded to him in the past few months, he should see that.” I broaden my shoulders, looking through the plastic film on the plate to see peas, rice, and salmon.
