A Songbird That Cannot Fly Struggles to Soar

When I was eighteen, my younger sister pushed me down the backstage stairs to steal the only open spot at the National Dance Company. I suffered a comminuted fracture of my right leg, and yet she put on my costume, danced the choreography I'd created, and became the principal dancer. My mother said she was only carrying on my dream for me. I believed it for ten whole years. Until, at the end of her principal anniversary performance, I sat in my wheelchair and watched my husband, Patrick, walk onto the stage and place the crown on her head with his own hands. The host asked them with a smile what their biggest regret was after ten years together. My sister touched her slightly swollen belly, looked at me with reddened eyes, and said, "The baby is almost three months along, and the father is Patrick." She looked at me again. "Sis, I'm sorry. I don't want my child to have no name anymore." ... I hadn't wanted to go to my sister Fern's principal anniversary performance. My mother called three times, saying Fern had spent a whole year preparing for it, and the closing piece was "Returning Birds," the dance I never got to finish when I was eighteen. "If you don't go, she'll carry the regret in her heart," she said, then added, "You're sisters. You can't hold on to something from ten years ago for the rest of your life." In the end, it was Patrick who wheeled me into the theater. Patrick is my husband, and before I turned eighteen he was the dance partner I was most in sync with. After the injury to my leg, I could never go on stage again, but he never left. We registered our marriage six years ago—no wedding, no public announcement. At first it was because I didn't want the media chasing me about that accident anymore, and he said too that marriage was a matter between two people, with no need to put it out there for others to gossip about. Back then I thought I was lucky enough. The stage was gone, but at least I had someone beside me who truly knew what I'd been through. As we went in, a reporter recognized me and kept pressing, asking whether I was Fern's "sister who retired because of an injury." Patrick blocked the camera for me and said I was only here as family today and wouldn't be giving interviews. In that moment the gesture even warmed my heart—I thought that after ten years, he still understood best what I was afraid of. The staff seated me in the front row, closest to the aisle, and Patrick checked the brakes on my wheelchair before heading backstage. I remember telling my mother that he hadn't changed at all over the years. After the lights went down, Fern rose into view from the middle of the lift platform. Ten years on, she was now the youngest principal dancer the National Dance Company had ever had. When the music of "Returning Birds" began, I still couldn't help gripping the armrests of my wheelchair. The first raised arm, the turn, even the way she deliberately dragged the landing half a beat—these were all things I'd worn smooth, little by little, when I was eighteen. Back then Fern would always crouch at the door of the rehearsal room to watch me, smiling as she said, "Sis, once you become principal, I'll carry your bag for you." Later she pushed me down the backstage stairs. I suffered a comminuted fracture of my right knee, and my pelvis was badly injured too. The next day, the audition that should have been mine—she went to it in my costume. My mother knelt at my hospital bed and begged me, saying she would only stand in for me this once. That one time lasted ten years. After the performance, the host invited Patrick onto the stage, saying he was both Fern's most important choreographer and her most in-sync partner over the past ten years. As Patrick walked up, he glanced back at me, and I even smiled at him. Until he placed the crown on Fern's head with his own hands. The host asked the two of them with a smile what their biggest regret was after ten years together. Fern was silent for a few seconds, then touched her belly. "The baby is almost three months along, and the father is Patrick. Sis, I'm sorry, I don't want my child to have no name anymore." The room went still for an instant, then broke into a storm of camera flashes. I couldn't make out what the people around me were shouting; I only saw Patrick frown and say in a low voice, "Didn't we agree to talk about this after we got home?" I turned to look at my mother. Her face looked bad too, but she didn't ask a single word about whether it was true—she only reached out and pressed down on my wheelchair. "Elise, there are reporters everywhere here. Don't make a scene right now." I looked at her. So it turned out she had known all along, too.

I found Patrick backstage after the performance. He had just changed out of his costume. Fern was sitting at the makeup mirror taking off her makeup, and their mother was bending down to swap out her high heels. Patrick set a glass of warm water beside her, and when Fern lifted her foot, he steadied her without even thinking about it. The three of them moved so easily, it was as if this scene had played out many times before. "How long has it been?" I asked. Patrick came over and tried to push my wheelchair. "Elise, let's talk about it at home." I knocked his hand away and kept my eyes on Fern. She lowered her head. "Twelve weeks." Three months ago, Patrick told me the dance company was swamped with a new project, and he slept at the rehearsal hall for two weeks straight. I even brought him clothes twice. Once, Fern came out to open the door wearing his coat, and I just assumed the air conditioning in the rehearsal hall was too cold. "When did the two of you start?" Patrick finally looked uncomfortable. "It wasn't what you're thinking, not at the beginning." But it was our mother who frowned first. "Fern just finished performing, and her pregnancy isn't stable. Do you really have to ask about this now?" "She's carrying my husband's child. When exactly am I supposed to ask?" Fern started crying. "Elise, I'm sorry. At first it really was just rehearsing together, but then my leg injury flared up again, and Patrick took care of me..." "Then why did you announce in front of everyone today that the baby has no name to claim?" She bit her lip. "I never forced you to divorce him. I just can't let my child grow up never even allowed to say who its own father is." When she was done, she instinctively glanced at Patrick. I let out a small laugh. "Your leg injury? Fern, do you know why my leg is ruined?" She went quiet. Patrick frowned. "Elise, stop dragging up things from ten years ago." My head snapped toward him. The night I fell down that staircase, he was the one who carried me into the ambulance. When the doctor said I would never dance again, he was the one who crouched in the hospital stairwell and cried with me all night. Later, when the old pelvic injury got worse and the doctor told me pregnancy would be very risky, Patrick held me and said it was fine, that the two of us could spend a whole lifetime together. "So?" I asked. "She pushed me down the stairs, took my spot, and now she's pregnant with your child. What are you planning to do?" Patrick was silent for a moment. "The baby is innocent." Our mother jumped in. "What else can he do? You can't expect her to get rid of it. Besides, you know your own condition perfectly well. Patrick wanting a child isn't asking too much." I stared at her. That high-risk pregnancy diagnosis, she was the one who went with me to pick it up. "Mom, have you forgotten why my body is like this?" She looked away from me. I turned back to Patrick. "Let's get a divorce." His head shot up. "I don't want to divorce you. I'll take responsibility for the child, but our marriage won't change." I almost thought I'd misheard him. Patrick got a little irritated under my stare and reached up to rub his brow. "After your accident, I stopped for a long time too. Then, when I started rehearsing a duet with Fern again, I felt like life had gone back to normal a little." The words were barely out before he stopped himself. "Normal?" I asked. He didn't answer. I lowered my head and looked at my right knee. Ten years ago, Fern made it so I could never dance with him again. Ten years later, he fell in love with her because she still could.

I didn't go back with them that day. By the time Patrick caught up with me in the corridor, I had already wheeled myself to the elevator. He reached out to block the elevator door and said in a low voice, "Elise, let's go home first. There are so many reporters here. If this gets out, it won't be good for anyone." "Bad for who?" He didn't answer. I suddenly remembered that we'd been married for six years, and we'd never made it public. At first it was because I didn't want to be written up as "the disabled wife behind the principal dancer." Later, as Fern got more and more famous and Patrick became her regular partner, the team said there was no need to suddenly announce the marriage, in case it hurt their commercial deals. Back then I even made excuses for him, telling myself it was fine to keep work and life separate. Looking back now, the only thing that got kept separate was me. "I'll have my lawyer send you the divorce papers." Patrick's face darkened. "I told you I won't divorce. I have no intention of giving you up." My mother had chased out too, and she jammed her hand on the door-open button. "Whatever it is, we'll talk about it at home. Fern only announced her pregnancy today, and now you two are about to blow up into a divorce. What will people out there think of her?" I froze for a couple of seconds. "So you chased out here because you're afraid my divorce will affect her?" "She just got a nomination for the International Dance Festival. If word gets out now that she came between her sister and her marriage, how is she ever supposed to show her face again?" "Mom, I'm the one whose husband cheated on her." My mother frowned. "But you and Patrick never went public in the first place, so as far as anyone outside knows, they're just a normal couple. If you pull out that marriage certificate now, the baby in Fern's belly turns into an illegitimate child overnight. And if the media digs up what happened ten years ago, she's finished as principal dancer. You've held it in this long. Does it have to be today?" She spoke in a frantic rush, as if delaying my divorce a little longer could really make Fern the one who got hurt instead of me. Fern had come out too. Her eyes were red from crying, but for the first time she didn't just say she was sorry. "Sis, if you want the divorce, I won't stop you. I can raise the child on my own. I'm going public today only because I don't want people pointing at the child later and saying he can't be shown in the light. I never wanted to take anything from you." "You didn't take anything?" I looked at her. "The National Dance Company spot isn't mine? 'The Returning Birds' isn't mine? Patrick isn't my husband?" Her face went pale for a moment, but after a few seconds she lifted her head. "I'm sorry about the spot. But for ten years I've trained more than ten hours a day. The injuries, the competitions, the tours—I got through all of it myself. You can't decide that everything I have now should be handed back to you just because of that one shove ten years ago." Suddenly I felt there was nothing left to fight about. "Fine. Since you don't think any of it was taken, then stop saying you're doing things for me." Fern went still. "'The Returning Birds,' 'Silence,' 'Tides,' and all the pieces I've revised for you over the years—starting today, don't use any of them again." Patrick was the first to change color. "'The Returning Birds' has already made the final round of the International Dance Festival." "Then pull it." "Elise." He softened his tone. "Just this one time. We can talk about the authorship credit after the competition is over." My mother urged me not to be so willful, said it would affect the whole company. The elevator finally arrived. I looked at them. "Do all of you just assume that since I've given way for ten years, giving way one more time won't cost anything?" No one answered. The doors slowly closed in front of me.

I went to Cynthia's place. Cynthia was my closest friend in college, and she was the one who made it to the final round with me back in the dance company audition. After everything happened, she gave up her spot in the company and switched to dance production. Through the hardest years of my life, aside from Patrick, she was the one who stayed by me the most. She opened the door, saw me, froze for just a second, asked nothing, and first set the little ramp board in place by the door. She'd bought that ramp board for me six years ago. She'd always kept a shower chair I could use and a lower bed in her apartment. She didn't even ask whether I wanted to eat; she went straight to the kitchen to make porridge, because she knew my stomach hurt whenever my mood took a bad turn. Only after I was inside did I really break down and cry. Cynthia crouched in front of me, wiping away my tears, cursing Patrick even harder than I did. "Has he lost his mind? Fern did all that to you back then, and now he actually goes and has a baby with her?" That night, for the first time, I felt that at least one person understood just how absurd this whole thing was. Before bed, she set the medicine and warm water on the nightstand like she always used to, worried my legs would hurt during the night, and left the little night light on in the living room. She knew I got leg cramps easily sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, so she even dug the heat pack she'd bought six years ago out of the closet. Those details were so familiar that I actually felt guilty for having doubted everyone earlier that day. When I woke up around noon the next day, there was porridge and a note on the dining table. Cynthia said she'd had to go into the office for a meeting and told me to text her when I woke up. My phone hadn't stopped since the night before; Fern and Patrick were already near the top of the trending list. Because no one knew Patrick and I had been married for years, the comments were almost all congratulations for "a ten-year partnership finally paying off." Some people had even cut together highlight reels of their years of stage performances, saying their child was sure to inherit both of their talents. I read a few and then turned off my phone. Cynthia came back in the afternoon, bringing me medicine and a change of clothes, and said that Patrick had called but she'd chewed him out and sent him packing. I didn't think much of it. That evening, when I was about to borrow her computer to send some materials to the lawyer, a work group chat was left open on the screen. Someone had just posted at the top: How's Elise's mood over there? Registration for the International Dance Festival closes Friday; don't let her go public about the marriage or the authorship dispute yet. The person who replied below was Cynthia. Don't worry, she's with me. She won't be in touch with any media for the next couple of days. I scrolled up a few screens. The group was called "Fern's International Project Team." Cynthia was the project director. She came out of the kitchen carrying fruit, and when she saw the computer, her face changed at once. "Elise, let me explain." Before I could say a word, another rehearsal video popped up in the chat. The opening move in the thumbnail—I recognized it the instant I saw it. It was Echo. My new piece, the one I'd only finished last year, and the only person who'd ever seen the complete version was Patrick. I opened the file details. The uploader was listed by name. Patrick James.