Free Slow Moon Rising by Eva Marie Everson Page B

period?”
    â€œMmmhmm.” Sometimes, in the middle of my cycle, it washed over me. Overwhelming me. Like a wall of water I could not get away from, out from under.
    â€œPeriods regular?”
    â€œYeah. For me.”
    â€œListen, I can prescribe a mild antidepressant if you’d like. Just something to take the edge off while you’re going through the grieving process.”
    I buried my head in my hands. “I’ll think about it,” I mumbled. I looked up. “Oh, man. What am I going to tell Dad?”
    She placed the coffee mug on the table, reached over, and patted my hand. “Don’t worry about Dad. Let me talk to him. Daughter to father and doctor to doctor. Okay?”
    â€œNo, Jaymes. I don’t want him to know that Mom said anything to me. Anything crazy.”
    â€œWhy not? He’s a doctor. He understands.”
    â€œBut then he’ll ask me what it was about, and I . . . I don’t really want to go there.”
    My sister stared at me for longer than I was comfortable with. “Was it that bad?”
    â€œYeah,” I said. “It was.”

8
    I had another dream that night, like the kind I’d been having since Mom died.
    In the dream, I’m dancing in a large auditorium. I imagine I am performing with the Atlanta Ballet, which is my true dream. My goal would be a more accurate word.
    I’d been in love with the idea of dancing with the Atlanta Ballet since I was eight. Mom and Dad had taken me to Atlanta; Dad for some pediatric association conference and to see a Braves game, Mom and me to shop and see the ballet. From the curtain’s rising, when the lights reflected onto the oak slats of the floor and I saw the dancers glide onstage, I’ve worked toward dancing on that same stage with the company. In this dream, I am.
    It is the Christmas season, so we are performing The Nutcracker , of course. And I am Clara. The scene is familiar to me; I should be able to perform it without any rehearsal whatsoever. I am dressed in a flowing white gown, the hemline brushing and billowing along my calves. My tights are white; my pointe ballet shoes are a satiny pale pink.
    Onstage, Clara’s beloved nutcracker has come fully tolife, and he is dancing, before the other live toys, toward her. Toward me. He stops, extends his hands, which is my cue. Until now, I have been—like the audience—transfixed by his graceful movements.
    Mine are equally flawless. I come closer to him. I arabesque. I reach the nutcracker, slip my hands into his, tilt forward for an arabesque penchée. It is time for our much-anticipated pas de deux, the dance of two. Though I dance with him, I must remain focused on something out in the distance, visible only to me.
    But instead, for a reason only understood in dreams, I look out into the crowd. I cannot see the faces of those who have come to enjoy the ballet; only the crowns of their heads are illuminated. Brilliantly capped, as though they are angels and I have been summoned by God himself to perform for a heavenly audience. Perhaps, even, for him , I decide. I cast my gaze upward to the rounded box seats draped in red velvet curtains held back by gold and silver entwined cords.
    I have a curious thought. So strange for this time and place in the performance. The curtains, I decide, should not be red. They should be purple. The deepest, most royal of purples. I run forward, as though to look for God, to seek his crown, and to right this wrong. I throw my arms out, whip my head from side to side, but I do not see him.
    The audience is laughing. A giggle at first, but then raucous laughter. I turn to where the other dancers should be—and my beloved nutcracker—wanting to know where we are now in the dance. But they are all laughing too.
    I look back at the audience. Now I can see their faces. Eyes tightly shut, mouths wide open, cheeks blushing as they pointand cackle. I must do something to