This Much Is True Read Online Free PDF

“I didn’t see you there. Don’t dawdle. Are you ready to go? We only have two hours today before the next class. Come. Come.”
    So this is how it is going to go.
    “What are you waiting for?” she asks.
    I struggle to put one foot in front of the other and meet her halfway across the room. I have to will my body to move any further into the room and conquer my fears and the devastation of grief at the same time.
    “What are you waiting for?” she asks again with a more derisive tone.
    I’m waiting for Holly. I want to say this, but I wouldn’t dare.
    At one point, Allaire Tremblay held the title as the world’s most premier prima ballerina; and, almost ten years later, she takes pride in her ability to teach and create champions even here in San Francisco that is still so far away from the seductive offerings of New York City and the School of American Ballet.
    Yet she can help me get there from here.
    And, getting there?
    It’s all I have left to live for.
    Tremblay bites at her lower lip with notable impatience at my slow cautious approach, but she refrains from saying anything more although she stonily glares at my hair. I remain ever defiant and willfully take my designated place at the front of the class. One glance in the long mirror directly in front of me practically undoes my resolve as I stare at the physical replica of my dead sister. After a prolonged moment, I save myself by looking away and catch Marla’s encouraging smile in the side mirror to my left as she scurries into place and barely avoids being cast as the prime example of a late arrival. No one wants to star in that role. I incline my head in her direction but don’t attempt to smile. We’re all just trying to power through it. There’s a vacant spot where Holly normally stood. The class remains subdued while the last of the girls takes their places in the back row. All of us seemingly stare at the empty spot and must think of Holly, until somewhat mercifully Madame Tremblay starts the music signaling the beginning of class.
    Ballet is all about the mastery of repetition and a continual quest for perfection. Somehow, that works for me, even now. I can take in the air again as I dance. I can breathe again. My movements are fairly fluid and almost graceful. I ignore the protest my ribs made. I’ve healed enough. I suck it up and concentrate on perfecting the movements. My legs go higher and higher. Perfection is imminent and holds such a worthy promise for me. And, for the next few hours, I can actually feel myself acquiesce to the possibilities of living without Holly by fully embracing and accepting the almost impossible demands of ballet. It won’t replace my twin, but it’s all I have left. Ballet is all that remains of me.
    * * *
    Madame Tremblay waits by the door after class and touches my forearm in earnest. It’s an unexpected gesture. The woman is as cold as a dead fish, a critical instructor, and nobody’s friend. Her golden-brown eyes gaze into mine reflecting such a dissimilar color, I’m somewhat disconcerted. Even so, I spy the sadness in hers, surely they mirror mine. I involuntarily step back from her upon seeing this, somewhat afraid of how it reflects upon me. “Talia, you did well today.”
    “Thank you, Madame.”
    It seems to pain her to speak. I can see the rush of sympathy before she actually utters the words. I brace myself for them, but still they assault me as she says the obligatory, “I’m so sorry about Holly.”
    I stiffen my upper torso and steel myself against the abrasiveness of these familiar words but like an arrow just glancing off of my beating heart, I feel the briefest of acute pain. I chase the grief away before it can get all the way inside of me. “Thank you, Madame,” I say in rote.
    She nods. Her eyes crinkle at the corners. I’m taken aback by the slight smile upon her lips. Normally, her mouth portrays this taut straight dark-red line upon her otherwise impeccable ivory face or