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  Last Dance

  Renee Fowler

  Copyright © 2018 Renee Fowler

  All right are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author. No part of this book may be copied, scanned, uploaded or distributed, electronically or in print, without the written permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any and all names, character, places and locations are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to places or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  Jack

  “Push. Push. Push,” the nurse chanted.

  Claire’s hand gripped mine with bone shattering strength. She sucked in a huge breath, and pressed her lips together. Her face grew red as she gave it all her effort. After a lengthy pause, she exhaled, and collapsed back on the pillow.

  “Your baby girl is almost here,” the doctor said. “One more big push like that, and you’ll have her in your arms.”

  I smoothed a stray blonde curl off her sweaty forehead. “You’re doing so well, Claire.”

  After five years of marriage, we were finally going to be parents. Claire gave me a radiant smile. “I love you, Jack.”

  “I love you too.” That I love my wife is without question, but in that moment I realize it’s much deeper than I previously understood. One more big push, and it wasn’t going to be the two of us anymore. We were going to be a family.

  “Ready?” the doctor asked.

  Claire sucked in a huge lungful of air, tucked her chin to her chest, and pushed with all her might. I held my breath along with her in anticipation.

  The doctor was right. It only took one more big push, and there she was. He held our daughter up for us to see, plump, wrinkled, covered in gunk. She let out a sharp, alarmed cry. I was suddenly laughing and crying at the same time. “Claire, look at her.”

  Claire’s grip loosened. I tore my eyes off our baby to stare at my wife’s suddenly limp hand. Her pale, porcelain skin crumbled like a sand sculpture. My eyes swept back to see the rest of her disintegrating to dust right on that hospital bed. In the span of a heartbeat, my wife was reduced to ash. She blew away in a cloud of smoke, carried off by some unseen wind, leaving behind the rest of us to carry on without her.

  Gasping for air, I wake up, and bolt upright in bed. Six years to the day later, and I’m still have dreams like this sometimes. The reality of it was so much worse than that nightmare though. No, Claire didn’t crumble to dust in front of me, but I did watch the light go out in her eyes. It happened so fast. One second she was there. The next she was gone.

  I still sometimes wonder if she actually got to see Sarah before she passed. How long does consciousness remain after a ruptured brain aneurysm? Seconds? Minutes? I never did get a definite answer on that one, or why it happened, or how something like that could go undiagnosed. Claire got the occasional headache, but nothing serious. Certainly nothing she would go visit the doctor over. Maybe I should’ve insisted and things could’ve been different, but she was always so stubborn.

  I collapse back in bed, and scrub a hand over my face. A glance at the alarm clock tells me it’s too early to get up, but probably too late to try falling back asleep. I doubt I would be able to drift back off anyways.

  Sitting up again, I roll out of my side of the bed. It’s still my side. Six years later, and I still hold to that ritual. I know it’s pathetic. By this point I’ve been without Claire more years than we were married to begin with.

  It’s not like I haven’t tried moving on. I gave it a go a few times, but eventually I deemed the attempts futile and needlessly cruel. No one was ever going to measure up to Claire. Why bother? Why lead someone on?

  My life is full enough as it is. I have a job that keeps me busy, and I have my daughter to raise. And Sarah has my sister, plus both of her grandmothers nearby. She doesn’t need another female role model. The two of us are doing just fine on our own.

  Not that we’re really on our own, I’m reminded after I get dressed and prepared to work out, then wander downstairs to start a pot of coffee. My sister Jamie has been staying with us for a while after her recent divorce, and she is as big of a slob now as when we were kids. I brush the crumbs she left on the counter the previous evening into the palm of my hand and dump then in the trash.

  I choose to overlook a lot of her slovenly ways though. Jamie was there that first year after Sarah came along. She put her whole life on hold to come and stay with me, to help care for a newborn baby when I could barely take care of myself. We were never extremely close for twins. We’re so different in almost every way, but I guess we’re there for each other when it counts.

  While the coffee is percolating, I wander downstairs. Before I had Sarah, I went to an actual gym. I liked the ritual of it. Getting up early, driving across town when the streets were deserted. The gym was mostly deserted that time of morning too, but it was usually the same handful of familiar faces I encountered when I arrived. By the time I’d get home, Claire would be stirring. She’d have coffee brewing, and would ask me in a sleepy voice what I was in the mood for.

  Claire liked to stay active too, but you’d never catch her in a gym. She enjoyed being out in the world, running, rock climbing, hiking. She used to tease me all the time about my want to run on that hamster wheel, or pick up and put down the same weight repeatedly.

  Now I do those same things in my own basement. I’m there if Sarah needs me. I run on the hamster wheel until my lungs burn. Today I focus on my upper body, and I don’t stop until my shoulders ache, and my arms feel like jello. When I come back upstairs, the kitchen is still empty.

  I can almost see Claire reaching up on tiptoes to grab two coffee cups. She’d be wearing one of my shirts as a nightgown, like always, and it would billow around her, and reach nearly to her knees because she was so damn short, especially in relation to me.

  We looked kind of ridiculous standing together, me being almost a foot and a half taller than her, but it wasn’t always like that. When we were kids, I was a damn runt. In the seventh grade she was taller than me, but I started sprouting up when we got to high school.

  By the time Jamie and Sarah are stirring, I’ve drank two cups of coffee, showered, dressed for the day, and have nearly finished cooking breakfast. I thrust the spatula in Jamie’s hand, and go to scoop up Sarah. “Happy Birthday, Princess.”

  It’s Claire’s same cornflower blue eyes peering back at me. She has her mother’s blonde curls too. Our daughter didn’t get much from me in the looks department, perhaps the shape of her nose a bit, but overall she is my late wife’s spitting image.

  Sarah grins at me. “Do I get to open a present yet?”

  “You can open one after breakfast.”

  Sarah pouts.

  “After breakfast,” I reiterate.

  If Jamie wasn’t there, I probably would’ve let her, but my sister is right. I spoil Sarah rotten, especially on her birthday.

  The day of my daughter’s birth is both the happiest and most horrific of my life, but she shouldn’t have to suffer for the tragedy of it. I usually go way overboard to mark the occasion, and this year won’t be any different.

  First up she has pancakes smothered in chocolate syrup and whipped cream with six pink candles on top. For Sarah, everything has to be pink. She’s very girly, something she definitely did not get from her mother. I have no idea where all that comes from, but I remember my own sister going through a similar phase when we were younger, so perhaps it’ll pass.

  Sarah blows out the candles and gives me another big grin, displaying her missing front tooth. Her smile is contagious, and
I feel the corners of my own mouth turning up as I snap a few pictures.

  Six years old. Can you believe it, Claire? Our little girl is growing up.

  Is it normal that I still chat with her in my head sometimes? I don’t really believe that Claire can hear me, or see our daughter. Sarah believes it, but she’s a child. She still believes in Santa Claus too, probably not for much longer. Right now she believes in magic, and the easter bunny, and that her dead mother is an angel that watches over her from a cloudy perch in heaven.

  Sarah tears into her present, letting the pink wrapping paper flutter to the floor. She holds the large box up for her aunt to see, then poses so I can take another picture. “Thank you, Daddy. She looks just like me.”

  The American Girl doll has blonde curls and big, blue eyes, just like Sarah. Just like Claire. Is it any wonder I can’t forget her? I have that little reminder staring up at me every day. The truth is, I don’t want to forget her. I can’t. Before Claire was my wife, or my girlfriend, she was the girl that lived up the street. We grew up together. We were best friends.

  I try not to let the bitterness overwhelm me as I help Sarah get ready for school. This is her big day. Claire would hate it if I let her death dampen the joy of our daughter’s birthday, so I vow not to. I swallow it back. I hold it in, like always.

  Jamie steps in to clip the small, pink barretts in Sarah’s hair, because my fingers are too big and clumsy. She also talks Sarah out of dragging her new doll to school, and promptly tells her she can wait until her party this afternoon to open another gift.

  My sister is probably right. I can’t give into her all the time otherwise I’m going to have a spoiled prima donna on my hands in a few years. But on the drive to school, when Sarah begs me to turn on the siren and flashing lights, I take a short detour towards River Road, which is barren of houses or any businesses that might be disturbed by the noise this early in the morning.

  Sarah squeals with delight, and claps her hands from the backseat of my cruiser. When we get closer to the center of town, I turn it back off, and she gives me an exaggerated pout.

  “Sorry, Sarah. We’re not rolling up to school with the sirens blaring.”

  She opens her mouth, about to say something, then pauses. Her eyes flash with excitement. She jabs her finger at the window, in the direction of a new dance studio that recently moved into what used to be a vintage clothing store. “Look, Daddy!”

  There are bright, colorful letters decorating the two large windows to either side. To the left, it says, Opening Soon! To the right, Classes Forming Now! The door between has much smaller lettering I can’t make out from this distance, and the silhouette of a twirling dancer in a tutu.

  “I want to be a ballerina!”

  “Is that so?”

  Sarah also wanted to play the piano, and the violin. She wanted to take karate lessons, and play soccer too. I’ve been trying to get her involved in something for a few years now. As a cop I know better than anyone that kids left to their own devices get into all sorts of mischief as they get older. She needs some sort of structure, but Sarah didn’t only take after her mother in the looks department. She likes to try new things, and quickly gets bored with old ones.

  Claire changed her major in college so many times, I lost count. In fact, she never ended up finishing, despite being incredibly bright. Claire could’ve been anything she wanted, but she was content working odd jobs, tutoring children, cleaning houses. She actually enjoyed temp work. She liked meeting new people.

  “Please, Daddy.” Sarah entwines her fingers in a pleading gesture. “I really want to be a ballerina. Please. Please. Please.”

  I can’t help but laugh. I’m not sure if she really wants to be a ballerina, or just dress up like one, and I’m almost positive in a few weeks she’ll be singing a different tune. “Alright. I’ll call and get some information sometime today. How does that sound?”

  But later in the day when I tried to find a number for the place, I come up short. Perhaps it’s too new to be listed yet, and I don’t even know what it was called, so I decided to drive back over during a lull. I park at the curb. There’s a number on the door, but also lights on inside. Beyond the gauzy curtains I see a shadow of movement. Since I’m here, I may as well go on in and see about getting Sarah signed up.

  When I pull open the door to The Little Stars Dance Academy, I’m confronted by loud, somber, orchestral music. I’m a bit surprised to find it’s all one big, spacious room, with freshly white walls, and tall mirrors running along two sides. Near the back is a solitary woman dancing.

  She’s wearing black leggings, and a grey top knotted over one hip that falls off the opposite shoulder. She’s tall, and stick thin. In contrast, the top of Claire’s head barely came up to my chest, and she was all soft, womanly curves.

  And this is exactly why I’m no good for any other woman. Each one I encounter gets compared to my late wife.

  This particular woman is different in every regard at first glance. Her dark, almost black hair, is pulled up into a neat bun. She has fawn colored skin and prominent cheekbones. I’m not really a fan of ballet. I doubt there are many thirty one year old cops from the backwaters of Pennsylvania who are, but I stand near the entrance and watch her dance for quite a long while, positively entranced.

  She almost appears fragile thanks to her willowy thiness, but there is strength propelling her graceful movements. She comes up on her toes, in those ballerina shoes they all wear. Hers may have been pink or ivory at one time, but they are dingy and well worn now. The muscles of her calves and thighs flex beneath the thin leggings.

  Her long arms arch overhead as she spins faster. The centrifical force flattens the oversized top against her body, and I see she has a bit of shape to her after all. Modest breasts, slightly flared hips, and an almost generous ass.

  Perhaps I’m still consumed by memories of my late wife, but I’d have to be dead not to deem the one in front of me beautiful. Even her long, elegant neck adds to that beauty. It’s not a body part that usually jumps out to me, but hers is exceptionally… feminine? I feel ill equipped to describe her adequetly.

  It’s not just the way she looks, it’s the way she moves so fluidly. She flows through the space around her like water, or silk, but it’s controlled. Even the shape of her hands as she twirls is practiced. Her long, slender fingers are held just so.

  What the hell is wrong with me? I’m here to sign Sarah up for classes, not gawk at this woman. She clearly doesn’t know she has an audience, and it’s still fairly early. I doubt she was expecting anyone to wander in off the street.

  I clear my throat to announce my presence at exactly the wrong time. She’s just done a short leap through the air, and thanks to me, her foot slips and down she goes. Jesus, even the way she falls is polished. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost swear she meant to do that, but I do know better so I rush over to help her up.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I’m not sure if she can hear me over the music, but I extend a hand down to her.

  Her fingers are warm and smooth in my palm as she raises her face to address me. Her big, honey brown eyes circled by dark lashes are full of question. I’m transfixed by the sight of her tongue darting out to wet her plump lips nervously. She floats to standing, and this close I see I was right. She’s tall for a woman, but still a few inches shorter than me.

  “Sorry about that,” I say, louder this time to be heard over the music.

  Her lips move, but she’s speaking too quietly for me to hear. What does her voice sound like? For some reason I’m almost desperate to find out.

  Chapter 2

  Anna

  Lacing up my pointe shoes with practiced ease, I ignore the twinge in my hip. That twinge transforms into a nagging ache as I rise to standing. The pain increases as I begin to move. It grows and swells, then gradually recedes as I warm up. I avoid my reflection in the mirror as I go from one position to the next.

  Even withou
t the visual confirmation, I know my movements are jerky, not quite as graceful and fluid as they should be. In my head, I can hear the admonishment in Mikhail’s familiar, thick accent. Sloppy, Bella. Again, from the top.

  No one calls me Bella anymore, and Mikhail doesn’t call me at all. He abandoned me as soon as it became clear I wouldn’t be walking out of the hospital a dancer. That hit and run left me so bad off there was a brief time I doubted I would be able to walk unassisted at all, but here I am. I’m dancing again. Perhaps not as well as I once did, but I’m doing it, aren’t I?

  I hate that I still hear his voice in my head. It’s not fair that memories of him should haunt me this long after the fact. I know damn well Mikhail isn’t thinking of me. He’s too busy directing a production of Giselle in New York to give me a second thought. If I had to guess, he’s taken up with the lead, or perhaps a pretty understudy. I sincerely doubt he waited long at all to find a replacement for me.

  It’s not even recollections of our relationship and brief engagement that trail through my mind anymore, but I spent years laboring beneath his tutelage. I started in the corps, and worked my way up to principal.

  I didn’t sleep my way to the top either. In fact, I resisted Mikhail Pavlov’s advances for quite some time before finally relenting. I worked too damn hard getting to the center of that stage to have my grit and determination called into question. Besides, I didn’t have time for a relationship, not when every spare moment of every single day was devoted to my craft.

  We shared that commonality though, a single minded focus. Mikhail understood my devotion better than anyone. He demanded it from me, and he eventually wore me down. He was handsome afterall, and an exceedingly talented dancer in his own time. Perhaps he was too old for me, and maybe he had a bad reputation for taking up with young, naive dancers and casting them aside when they no longer proved useful, but I wasn’t young and naive. Not young anyways.