Dance, My Angel. Virginie T.

back to get to the door of the restaurant. I am not very far and yet the distance suddenly seems enormous. I feel like someone is following me. I am sure of it. Footsteps. Heavy breathing. I do not like it and a dull anguish squeezes my stomach while my heart beats fast. I quicken my pace, relieved until I finally reach my goal, and I thank the doorman who takes the lead by letting me pass without me having to slow down. In the shelter of the glass doors I turn around, but I only see the deserted and silent street. There is no one on the horizon. My heart resumes a calmer rhythm, but my head is stuck in anxiety. Emotions mix in me, threatening to cause an autistic crisis like I have not experienced in a long time. I take refuge in one of the toilet cubicles, I lock it, I curl up on myself on the floor, and I start to swing back and forth. I need to dance to externalize the fear that consumes me. Only it is impossible to do it right now. So I try to refocus on myself and to clear my mind. Easier said than done!

      There is a click of heels on the tiles in front of my door. I back off instinctively, but I am blocked by the toilet bowl behind my back.

      ─ Caitlyn kitten? You're okay? I saw you in the lobby, but you didn't come back to the table.

      Hearing Grandma's voice makes me feel good. I choose to focus on that, on her and her voice, counting in my head. Inspiration, 1, 2, 3, 4. Expiration, 1, 2, 3, 4. I repeat the exercise five times in a row. My grandmother, after making a round trip along all the cubicles, stops at my door.

      ─ Open up kitten. I'm sure you're here.

      I extend my arm to unlock the lock and Granny opens it gently. Her eyes are sad when she looks at me. She squats in front of me and strokes my hair as she always does when she feels I am tormented.

      ─ What's going on, darling?

      I do not want to talk about it. Not now, and certainly not here. I am going to tell her everything. I need to. But I would do it at home, in the safety of my apartment. If I am still safe there, which I'm not sure about anymore.

      ─ Your parents love you Caitlyn Cat. They just don't know how to behave with you. They can't understand you.

      ─ I know, Granny. It doesn't matter.

      I prefer that she thinks my reaction is due to this awkward dinner, for the moment anyway.

      ─ Come on, come on, darling. Don't stay on the floor, you'll catch a cold on that frozen tile.

      She helps me get up and arranges the bottom of my dress which is slightly pulled up.

      ─ You are past the age of showing your panties, my dear.

      Her comment draws a smile from me and we join our table hand in hand.

      ─ Finally here you are again. What were you doing Caitlyn? Were you handing out autographs?

      I could laugh about it if only I did not want to cry. My mother is convinced that I prefer fame to family life by their side. How wrong she is! What I have chosen is normality, freedom. In the end, I chose to free my mind from all the feelings that bombard me all the time, to live an ordinary life, even if most people do not think it is that ordinary. It is true that a picture of me dressed as a classical dancer is on half of the buses of the city and that I regularly make an appearance in all trade magazines. However, all I see is that I do what I love. And until recently, I was able to ignore all the crap around me.

      — You could at least sit down, so we can finally start!

      — Sorry. Of course!

      Indeed, as usual, I was lost in my thoughts and I remained frozen next to the table. Then I sit on my chair and the meal goes like all the others, in an almost religious silence, only interspersed with phrases from my grandmother who desperately tries to renew the dialogue between all of us.

      — Maybe tomorrow we could visit the city together.

      — Certainly not! Our national star surely has better things to do than spend time with us.

      Definitely my mother will never forgive me for being who I am: independent. When I was diagnosed with autism, she was upset, my tantrums being unmanageable, but she also thought that I would always need her by my side to succeed in life, and she liked that idea. She thought I would be mommy’s little girl forever. The future has shown her otherwise.

      I would rather answer grandma so I do not argue with my mom.

      — I'm not working tomorrow. We are given a day off. I just have to practice in the morning and then I'm all yours.

      — A real miracle! It doesn't have to happen often, because you don't even take the time to call us!

      Grandma intervenes, as always.

      — I'd love to visit Ellis Island. We have never been there before.

      I have never set foot there either. Being stuck on a ferry has never excited me more than that, but walking away with my grandma from the Big Apple and my worries, even for a few hours, is a very seductive idea.

      — That's a great idea, Granny. We will go there after lunch. I'll get the tickets before my rehearsal.

      — And you don't even ask us if we would like to join you, of course!

      I swallow the lump that is blocking my throat. My mother will not spare me anything tonight. Looks like it is time to settle our accounts. Unfortunately, I can't stand it but I'd rather be docile than face it, even if I break the armrest of my chair by clenching my fingers on it.

      — Dad, mommy, would you like to come with us to Ellis Island tomorrow?

      — Well, it so happens that we cannot do it. We are working tomorrow. We are not available when the lady decides to give us some of her time.

      That is what it is all about! And after that they are going to blame me for making no effort. I bite my tongue to avoid screaming, so hard that blood fills my mouth. I cannot wait for this meal to end so that I can finally take refuge at home and get rid of my overflow of tension. I have set up at home a whole room for this single purpose with a mirror and a crossbar on the wall. A mini personal dance hall that will serve me well if I want to be able to close my eyes tonight.

      Finally home! My comfortable income allows me to have this big 3-bedroom apartment in the heart of New York, close to the American Ballet Theater, so I do not have to take public transportation. A real luxury for me. I can walk everywhere and that suits me very well. I open the door and ask my grandmother to come in before me. She may be fit for her age, but I feel she is tired and I am sure she will be looking forward to go to her room. Because she has her own room in my house. I never invite anyone but her, so the third room has been furnished according to her tastes and desires.

      — Look, Caitlyn Cat. A letter has been slipped under your door. Is it that you have a secret admirer whose existence you have hidden from me?