la jeune fille qui danse avec les étoiles

[Josette Wheeler]

(The following are excerpts from Josie's diary as well as some of her personal experiences in Paris and Savannah)

I do not know why I am starting this diary now. It seems silly. Maybe I want to remember all the moments that made my being here worth it. Maybe I want others to read what stirred my heart when I am gone. Whatever the reason, I find myself compelled to write it down in this diary before I to leave this body. (For longer than brief periods of time)

I want to look back and remember. I want to look back and remember when I am afraid and weak and this human shell is completely unrecognizable. I want to remember something beautiful. I'll read these pages again when I want to remember why it was I came here in the first place. When my thoughts are scattered and I cannot ground myself, I want something tactile to hold on to while I read these words. To feel my fingers trace over the words and the paper. I want to remember what made my heart soar and gave me hope and brought me Joy. When my body is falling apart on me, this is all of what remains. These moments are the heartbeats that keep time with my soul.

The first time it happened it took me by surprise during a trip to New York when I was six. After that, it almost became an addiction; some kind of escape I suppose, or something I used as a coping mechanism for places or situations that I found unpleasant or did not have the tools to deal with at the time. It certainly came in handy in those months at the hospital when I was in so much pain I could not breathe and my hair was falling out and wished to be anywhere but that room.

But that night, it took me quite by the surprise for it was the sheer joy of the moment that accessed the ability within me the first time. It was the first time I was completely overtaken by something bigger than me. I think it was a combination of the music, the dancing and the elation I felt that enabled me to transcend the physical body to be someplace else.

We had come to New York after Fashion Week in Paris under the guise of celebrating the holidays in a new and exciting city (at least for me). In truth, it was an excuse to visit one of Maman's revolving door of lovers (though I hadn't realized it then). She had arranged it perfectly so she could have her freedom, while it was one of the few times of the year I actually got to see my Father.

They made the hand-off with me at the King Cole bar at the St. Regis. I do not remember much of that particular exchange. It comes in bits and pieces. Snap shots of my Father gathering me into his arms, the sight of my Mother removing a hotel room key from her purse over my Father's shoulder and the feel of my Father's fist tightening when my Mother called after him to not allow me to dirty my shoes or my dress.

Whether it bothered him or not, or whether he knew where she was going during that time, I'll never know. Their affair had been very brief, my Mother told me. They had no real claim on the other after all, for obvious reasons. He was married to Isaac's mother. Their only connection afterwards revolved around me and discussions of scheduled visits, treatment options and medical expenses.

I never asked either of them if they loved each other for that brief time. I never asked if they both made the decision to keep me, or if one insisted. Maybe I really didn't want to know? You can't go back and erase truths after they are spoken. That is the beauty and the tragedy of them. They sit inside you like so many echoes and creep up on you in quiet moments to either whisper or shout in your ear depending on the day and its distractions. I guess it does not matter now. I knew that he loved me and I know my Mother loves me... in her way. That is what I choose to carry with me.

New York at that age felt so much like a fairyland at Christmas. There is a kinetic thrill to the energy in the air of that city that cannot be duplicated at any other time of year. Even though the cold stung my nose as I was not used to the bite of New York winters, I hardly noticed. There were too many delights in the air to be enjoyed and a symphony of sounds to hear. The scent of roasting chestnuts from various vendors on street corners, the lights from the stores that lit up the streets in spectacular splendor, the honking horns of taxi cabs, the rush of heel clicks from women who looked like they stepped right out of the pages of Maman's magazines.

My young eyes devoured everything... and it was safe to see such things while tucked neatly against my Father's chest while he carried me. I asked him why he held me a little tighter when we passed certain people and I will never forget his words. "Wolves do not just exist in the woods, my Josie."

My Father was to take me to see The Nutcracker at the David H. Koch Theater and thus began my love affair with the ballet. I remember him carrying me, because there was so much residue of salt, slush and ice upon the sidewalks. He did not want my feet to get wet or to muddy the shine of my tiny black patent leather shoes.

"The tree Papa! The tree!" I squirmed in his arms and pointed excitedly at the Christmas tree that seemed to grow out from the fountain in the middle of Lincoln Center as if it had sprouted directly from it. My Father had chuckled, relented to my squirming and set me down upon the edge of the fountain. I remember the rush of cold air around my legs as I twirled and the feel of his hand in mine as he held it aloft as I spun. I remember the feel of his arms catching me after I had slipped, seconds before I hit the water. It is one of those feelings I love the most. It is something I treasure and that I frequently got to experience whenever I was practicing a pas de deux. There is something so reassuring about the sensation of arms catching you seconds before you hit the ground.

From my youthful perspective, when I entered the theater it looked like it was covered with gold and diamonds. The ornate, spherical chandelier that hung above us had me tugging my father's hand and asking if those were real diamonds as I stared up at the ceiling in awe. The lights nestled within the ceiling looking like so many stars within a golden night sky.

My Father gave me a sideways look and his smile was a bit resigned. "Mm. I fear you may have inherited your Mother's admiration for things that sparkle, my dear." He kissed the back of my hand fondly and I fidgeted along with the other children in their holiday best to the sounds of the orchestra tuning their various instruments until the lights went down and the audience applauded for the seemingly very important man who entered with a spot light tracking his entrance and shining upon him. He bowed to us before he faced the stage again. "That is the conductor, Josette," My Father whispered. "He leads the orchestra."

There is a beat when the conductor raises his arms-- a captivating, magical moment where there is a quiet hush that sweeps across the audience. Every breath is held in anticipation as if waiting for its cue. A magnetic energy pulses in the air seconds before the first note is played and the curtain parts to reveal part of the world that will draw you into its embrace of suspended disbelief for the next few hours. It is a particular high wherever live music, theater and dance is shared between the souls in attendance and those performing that is difficult to match anywhere else. That moment when the curtain rose was the beginning of something even I could not have dreamed of at that tender age, and yet I was forever changed by what transpired afterwards...

[Josette Wheeler]

(Part Deux-continued from above)

As the curtain rose and the overture played with those beginning notes produced by lively violins that stirred excitement in my heart, I will never forget the sight of the painted scene that greeted my wide eyes.

An Angel flying high over the snow covered rooftops of Nuremberg reaching out to a shooting star. What is it about stars and Angels that seem to announce that something truly divine was about to transpire? I loved the angel's face, I loved the kindness and serenity the artist captured there. I loved the magnificence of her wings. I remember the rich pink of her dress, the way the artist played with an array of shades of pink to create a billowing effect that made one feel as if they were floating aloft with her.

The loveliness of that angel flying over sparkling, snow covered rooftops seemed to capture all the mysterious, blood stirring magic of Christmas Eve. The image is something that stays with me in moments when my mind reaches out for something lovely.

There are no words in a ballet and none are needed. Perhaps that is what makes it such a uniquely woven tapestry of the arts. There is nothing extraneous to detract from the beauty of the music, and the story is told through the awe inspiring movement of the body.

The Land of Sweets in the second Act is every child's dream of a confectionery wonderland that delights the eye in an explosion of color. A dream world adorned with sugared lace, great columns of candy canes, adornments of fruit, gumdrops and ribbon candy as far as the eye could see. The sugar plum fairy's introduction accompanied by the sounds of the celesta that tickled along my spine like the whisper of a celestial dream as she tip toed into every little girl's dream of being a prima on pointe with a tutu like a delicate whisper of spun sugar.

Who but Tchaikovsky could compose a moment in nature and capture the flurry of snowflakes with a beautifully mastered flute and glide of a harp? The ting of the triangle timed perfectly with each movement and capturing the delicacy of tiny icicles without words? Or an Arabian dance that hearkened back to Salome's sinuous seduction and a Pas De Deux that made me fall in love with the cello with its mournful opening notes that recall far away love.

To speak a word in any language would almost break a magnificently conjured spell.

I knew nothing of The Nutcracker when I took my seat and it was a testament to Balanchine's mastery of creating poetry with the human form when combined with the transcendent nature of Tchaikovsky's music that the story unfolded magically before my eyes without any prior influence or bias.

Within the city overseen by the previously introduced Angel, It is Christmas Eve in the Stahlbaum house and young Marie and her brother Fritz sleep peacefully outside two grand double doors to await the unveiling of the Christmas tree by their parents who can be seen within a sheer scrim. The family's guests arrive for their Christmas party and my eyes were over taken by all the vibrant colors of the dresses, a multitude of dancing ribbons and bouncing barrel curls, gallant bows amidst all the dancing revelry and interludes of childhood mischief .

Still, the structure of the dances felt oddly restrained to me. I began to fidget in my seat and my clothes felt itchy against my skin. I was anxious for something I could not name, something to pierce through the stagnation of the "marches" The children almost performed like trained poodles. The curtsies, the bows; where was the freedom? Where was the spontaneity? Did Marie feel the same?

"Papa?" I whispered, desperately wanting to ask him a question.

My Father caught my hand and held his finger to his lips and shook his head. His look told me to be patient.

The ominous notes of the music and lowered light turned my head and announced the presence of Marie's Godfather Drosselmeyer and his nephew. Little did I know at that moment in time that I would meet his mirror in my own life years later.

I remember being slightly afraid of him with his cloak, black eye patch and shocking disarray of wild, white hair, but as Marie threw her arms around him in delight, my body relaxed and I enjoyed his eccentric humor, the way he delighted the children with his magic and of course, his gift to her of The Nutcracker which her brother so unkindly managed to break.

As the party ended and Marie and Drosselmeyer's nephew were each pulled away from each other with arms extended towards the other like two star crossed lovers, I felt just a whisper along my spine, a tingling that drew me up by the top of my head as if connected by an imaginary string.

I watched with a kind of fascinated curiosity as Marie's Mother came down to close the windows and cover her with her shawl as she slept. The tenderness of the gesture had me questioning why my own Mother was not like this. Children can't help but compare what they are used to at home with what they experience outside of it. My Mother had never tucked me in before. She had never swept my hair back from my face as a gesture of tenderness, only as a gesture of annoyance if my hair was out of place. Out of the corner of my eye I could feel my Father watching me closely and to this day I wondered if he was reading my mind in regards to my Mother.

The violin solo that followed in the entr'acte (actually originally composed for The Sleeping Beauty) took my breath away. Drosselmeyer appeared to weave the dream as Marie slept and there was not a sound in the audience as that violin quite literally held each member enthralled till its conclusion. It is to this day one of my favorite violin solos ever performed. The perfect accompaniment to underscore the very foundations of a thrilling dreamscape.

There was something that happened after that violin solo that forever changed my life. Something was different within me. I felt a stirring in my cells that continued on through the appearance of the Shadow Drosselmeyer and the mice that chased Marie.

It started as the Christmas tree began to rise. Already utterly transfixed by the music, I felt a spinning within my very cells as if each had been set into individual rotation amidst the harmonic resonance of the orchestra. My body finely tuned to the exquisite frequency in that simple eleven note scale. I watched the tree climb and as it ascended and I somehow lost the feel of my body. I lost the feel of my clothes, the weight of the chair, the knowledge that I even had a body. I felt as if I was floating upwards and as the strings glided towards that building crescendo, all conscious thought left my mind. I followed the tree upwards as my astral body was pulled over the audience, so close to the chandelier I admired, so close to even leaving the building if I chose to and beyond towards the stars.

With a child's fascination, I felt I could almost reach out and touch that chandelier, but I was afraid. I was afraid if I touched it I would be punished and fall. Maybe it was the first thought of the fear of falling that broke the spell. Maybe it was the crash of symbols or the sudden, jarring vibration of many hands of varied energy clapping together as the tree reached its climax and the audience erupted into applause.

All of a sudden I was hurdling downwards in a free fall until I crashed back into my body. I hated the sensation, my stomach did back flips and as soon as I felt the weight of the chair beneath me, I leaned forward as if I were going to be sick. My Father instantly put my hand on my back and I sat back disoriented for a moment.

"What happened Josie?" My Father whispered, his face full of concern. "Are you alright? Do you want to leave?"

I shook my head adamantly, unable to express what just happened... and too afraid that if I spoke of it aloud, it would never happen again.

Moments later, The Nutcracker emerged victorious from his battle with the Mouse King after Marie had tossed her slipper as a distraction. When she collapsed onto the beautiful white bed covered in lace, it was something out of a fairy tale that remained forever etched into my memory. I'm not sure if it was the glide of the bed or the music, but her journey through the snow on that beautiful, cloud-like bed is something I always return to. From that night on, whenever I wished to leave my body, it was almost a trick I would use. I would see myself on that white bed as it moved through the pine forest and I would listen to "Journey Through the Snow" and it took me out every single time.

When the Nutcracker stepped forward, the spell finally broken, the music swelled and his mask was finally ripped away and he took his first steps into his true self. As the curtain came down on Act I, there was unmistakable feeling that I had just witnessed something divine that had taken place with this beautiful union of artists.

Tears rolled down my cheeks as I turned to my Father in awe with my hands trembling, clutching the program to my chest as if it were a piece of the beauty I could try to hold onto. When the words came they were pulled from my heart. "Papa...oh Papa." I turned in my seat, grasping his hand in mine as an ache bloomed in my chest I had not yet learned to name as longing.

"Josie? What is it? What's wrong?" My Father looked almost alarmed at my reaction as the tears rolled down my face.

"I want to dance. One day I will dance this ballet."

My Father smiled, relief spreading over his deeply lined face-- too lined for a man of his age. "Of course you will."

"Papa?"

"Yes?"

"I understand now. We are here to remember who we really are. We are here to awaken."

[Josette Wheeler]

Paris

"Oui." The soft, dulcet voice spoke into the phone as Josie's slight frame propelled itself forward with the rhythmic click of heels upon concrete. A whisper tulle the color of blue smoke fluttered around her legs, as if the fabric itself lived and breathed with her; delighting in the way the fall breeze teased its layers and sent them dancing. The cozy warmth of dove grey cashmere sleeve was twisted within her fingers like a worry stone. " Je suis désolé.... je suis en retard, Maman." Apologizing into the phone a moment before she ended the call and sped up her steps.

Josie was late for tea with her mother and the call had come to remind her of that fact. Oh why couldn't she live in a world where time didn't matter? Where you could merely transport yourself wherever you wished like in so many of her wanderings.

A slight chill had descended upon the "City of Light" just in time for that global bonanza of flashing photogs and couture models. Fashion Week was the biggest week of the year for her Mother and consequently, she was entirely too busy to spend much time with her daughter. Nevertheless, Josie still needed to make a request. She wrapped her slight frame tighter within the warming confines of her sleek trench, the chill affecting her more than others, and increased the rate of those heel clicks.

She crossed one of the countless bridges which spanned the Seine and marveled at how a strip of iron and concrete could beg for midnight strolls and stolen glances amidst the glittering lights. She paused in that distracted way of hers, taken in by the beauty of the city.

Eyes with all the colors of a supernova traveled along with the currents of the water to admire the beauty of it and the way it shimmered. She soaked in the sounds of church bells and traffic. It was always new to her and she reached her senses out to touch the pulse of a living, breathing city of endless intrigue and romance.

And then her phone rang...again. Josie was pulled from her peaceful reverie and hurried forward once more while ignoring her mother's second phone call.

She passed a series of picturesque cafes, thinking with a small smile upon her lips how her brother Isaac might enjoy the feel of such a place as it hearkened back to a slower, sweeter time. One day, she would be able to drag him out for a visit, she hoped, and lure him from his anti-social ways. A moment later, she looked up to spot sign of the Ladurée tea salon. The gilt "L" shone above the door like shining beacon for those seeking the most decadent of distractions. Josie hurried forward and bypassed the growing queue outside, knowing her mother was already well ensconced somewhere within and no doubt holding court.

First opened in 1862, Ladurée had put its stamp on the confectionery realm and had grown globally famous thanks to one of Josie's favorite desserts, the macaron. She slipped inside, with a generous smile for the well coiffed attendant manning the door. Pupils dilated as they raced over all the various delights in a vast array of colors that were a divine palette for the palate--nutty praline, Madagascar Vanilla, Chantilly cream and raspberry coulis.

Josette frequently cast off that pouting guise of French ennui and often became genuinely excited and enthralled over something at once as simple and wonderfully complex as sweets. Knowing she had a favor to ask, Josie reigned in the desire to pause and admire, but could do nothing to stop that explosion of starlight in her eyes.

She took the stairs to the Louis XIV-styled tea room swathed in velvet curtains and elegant tablecloths. Dark wood panels formed the walls, while feminine statues held aloft their burden of light; a collection of miniature bulbs beneath miniature shades giving the place a cozy sense of intimacy and privacy amidst the clamoring of Parisians and tourists alike, in an equal quest for bonne bouche.

She found her Mother sitting in the back with her lips pursed as she tapped out an e-mail into her phone. A stack of books set beside her with multiple pages marked. Madeline Batiste soon glanced up as if sensing, with a mother's uncanny intuition, the rhythmic music of her daughter's heels amidst the hushed murmurs of conversation and the tinkling of fine china.

She gave her daughter a swift up and down to take in her appearance with the appraising eye of a jeweler with Chanel frames serving as dual loops. Assessing the lines for every potential flaw, when she decided her daughter's ensemble passed muster, Madeline offered a pale cheek for a kiss as if it was a reward.

Bypassing the air kisses, Josette threw her arms around her mother in a loving, joy infused hug. Madeline looked momentarily startled at the exuberant show of affection. "For heaven's sake, Josette." Her Mother hissed as her glasses were jostled. A lancing of cool blue eyes to glance around to who might be watching.

Madeline had never been able to quell her daughter's innate ebullience, try as she might. Even when Josette agreed to walk in one of her shows, she would always ask her Mother why the models never smiled. "It is about the fashion, Josette, not the model. The eye should always be drawn to the fashion."

Josette had taken in her Mother's words and considered them before answering. It made her sad to see the way certain dresses seemed to hang lifelessly, draped over a starving husk of a woman who had denied herself so many of life's pleasures. To watch the expression of bored indifference to almost everything around her. Everything had a consciousness of its own to Josette--even clothes.

"But Maman," she protested. "The woman breathes life into the clothes. You cannot dismiss her any more than you can dismiss the subject of a painting. A dress is all the more beautiful when framing a woman in joy or in love. It moves differently. Don't you think?"

Madeline had argued, but finally threw up her hands and surrendered when realized her daughter would not be moved. It was impossible to contain Josette's nature during the show. As effervescent as Champagne, she twirled and beamed her way down the runway like a bursting, unapologetic peony in a sea of lean, austere Calla Lilies. Ironically, Josette had been splashed across the pages of French Vogue and several other fashion magazines and it became one of Madeline Batiste's most successfully selling lines to date.

Even now, Madeline found herself reluctantly surrendering into her daughter's hug. Her rigid posture eased and her eyes softened fractionally, before she allowed herself a split second of vulnerability to drift her fingers though her daughter's soft hair. Josette had lost most of it when she was younger due to her illness and had been ruthlessly teased by her peers for her baldness and scrawny frame. The Wheeler boy had defended Josie, getting suspended more than once for beating a few that were the ringleaders, but she worried about the impact upon her daughter's psyche and decided that she would finish her schooling in France. Josette had protested, not wanting to be parted from Isaac, but Madeline had insisted and won.

Though Josette's hair eventually grew back, the experience had gutted Madeline, for she could not control it. No matter how many beautiful fabrics she draped over her daughter's petite frame, no matter how many realistic wigs she purchased to give the appearance of "normality," she could not hide what warred within Josette's very cells. The terror of potentially losing her daughter had caused her to frequently hold her at an arm's length. As if she were always protecting herself from the looming trauma of loss, but somehow--Josette always found a way in.

Severing the moment, Madeline pulled away first and reclined back into her chair before waving a hand of dismissal and removing the Chanel frames from her face before setting them down next to her. "What is this all about, Josette? I have a meeting with Arnaud this afternoon. Some problem with the fabric of course. He knows this line has to be perfect. I hope he is coming equipped with solutions and not just more problems to lay at my feet." She pressed her fingers against her temple as if to quell the coming onslaught of a tension headache before taking a much needed sip of her tea.

Josie removed her trench, chewing her bottom lip in her anxiety around making her request to her Mother before she caught herself. Madeline was giving her that same moue of distaste that struck fear in the hearts of her entire design team. Although not spoken aloud, she could already hear the tape of her Mother's disapproving tone running in her mind like a loop whenever she bit her lower lip. "It causes lines, Josette."

Glancing down to the elegant spread upon the table, she clasped her hands together in sheer delight as she realized her Mother had already taken the liberty of ordering her favorite, the infinitely lovely, religieuse à la rose. A fluffy, cloud like pâte à choux, coated with the heavenly essence of a rose petal fondant. Upon taking the first bite, the rose creme melted on the tongue while the treasure of fresh raspberries hidden deep inside offered the contrast of a vibrant, acidic bit of tart to balance all of the sweetness. Like so many other things, food was magical to her.

Detaching the top puff, Josette took a moment to admire the heavenly pastry with the silver dragee placed on top like a tiny star. Savoring the moment of the first bite, she allowed herself to float away on a dream with that little pink cloud before pouring some tea for herself. "Isn't the food on this planet divine, Maman??

Madeline arched a meticulously groomed brow at her daughter's statement before frowning. "Stop your nonsense, Josette. When are you starting at the Sorbonne? I have to make arrangements with the driver."

Josette swallowed hard as the subject of her schooling came up, the delicate pastry suddenly feeling like a rock in her throat that was difficult to get down. "I....that is what I wanted to discuss with you, Maman. I thought I might..." She took a deep breath to fill her lungs with courage. "Travel for a year before returning to school."

Madeline had returned to her phone and was only half listening to her daughter while she tapped out yet another e-mail while at the same time taking another distracted sip of her tea, only half listening. "Mm? Yes? Where?"

Josie paused for a long moment before murmuring softly. "I want to return to the States for a while."

There was a sudden hard clang of the china teacup meeting the plate in response to her request that made Josette wince.

"Non." Madeline shook her head. "Josette-- I forbid it."

"Ecoutez... Maman, please?"

"I know exactly where you want to go. You want to go and see that Wheeler boy."

"Stop calling him that Wheeler boy. His name is Isaac, Maman and he is my brother."

"Half brother." Madeline corrected sharply before glancing around to who might be listening. Her indiscretion with a married man with all of the right connections and all of the wrong reasons was still coming back to haunt her. "I don't understand, Josette. Why would you want to go back there? There is nothing for you there."

"Isaac is there. Not to mention my father who I have not seen in over a year and you won't let me and..."

"Your Father is ill, Josette."The words tumbled out of Madeline's mouth before she could stop them. A stunned silence fell between the two women before Madeline's phone rang and broke the spell of tension woven with those five simple words.

"Oui? D'accord Arnaud, j'arrive." Madeline did not meet her daughter's eyes as she disconnected the call. She could not bear to see the look she knew was coming. So instead she focused on placing her phone back into her purse.

"How ill?" Josette felt her pulse accelerate in her throat like the heartbeat of a frightened bird. "Why didn't you tell me?" Josette whispered in hushed shock. "How long have you known?"

Madeline sighed, the throbbing in her temples beginning to hammer its way into a kind of war drum beat. "Two months now. I was trying to protect you. You have blood work coming up. I didn't want to upset you. You know how that family is. They don't need additional reasons to hurt us. I worried you would want to--"

Josie pushed her chair back abruptly and stood up. "Two months?! I don't care about my blood work!" Her petite frame was trembling in rare show of raw hurt and anger. "You should have told me! He is my father. You had no right to keep this from me!"

"Josette, sit down."Madeline was mortified by the scene her daughter was causing, she went to grab for her hand, but Josie snatched it from her grasp as if her Mother had burned her and backed up a few steps.

"I have to see him. I have to talk to Isaac. I have to tell him..." As if in a daze, Josette backed further into the tea room and towards the door before she fled, ignoring her Mother's pleas behind her for her to return.