For ten years Jane had lived alone, which meant for ten years there had been no one to blame but herself for the stray socks on the floor, the empty coffee mugs left on the counter, or the growing pile of unopened junk mail on the coffee table. It also meant that for ten years if she dedicated her whole weekend to cleaning, then when she woke up on Monday morning everything would still be in its place. For ten years, that had been the rule. It had been a rule Jane had found comfort in even though she didn’t know the rule even existed.
Until she woke up one Monday morning, a little too excited about walking through a clean house barefoot to get ready for her first cup of coffee. Perhaps this would be the time she would manage to keep it clean. She could pick up after herself. Maybe she could buy one of those weird robot vacuums that clean the floor for you. Or maybe even —
Jane stopped in her tracks and squinted at the coffee table. Her arm slapped at the wall until she found the light switch. There, beside the carefully arranged cluster of candles, laid a pair of pink canvas ballet shoes. She ran over and picked them up. She used her pointer fingers to stretch them out. Etched in her mother’s handwriting was the name Jane Durand. Jane hadn’t been Jane Durand in fifteen years. She was Jane Case now, a plain, forgettable name given to her by a plain, forgettable man.
Although she supposed, as she sunk to the couch, tracing the forms of the letters, her mother had never met Jane Case. The only Jane she had known was the Jane she had named. Jane Moriarty Durand, age seven. She considered if she would have been different, if her life would have turned out different, if only she had clung to the name her mother had chosen. She slipped her hand inside the shoe and spread her fingers out. She watched as the canvas gave way.
It occurred to her then, as the elastic strap laid across her wrist that these shoes would not have fit a child. These were for adult-sized feet, and they were new. She flipped her palm up and looked at the unscuffed sole. These shoes had never danced.
She leaned into the soft cushions of the overstuffed couch. She pulled the shoe off her hand and looked again at her name. Surely, it couldn’t actually be her mother’s handwriting. She threw the shoes down and dashed across the room. She yanked opened a drawer with a stack of old cards — birthday, Christmas, Easter, congrats! She flung each open and studied the name. She traced the loop of the cursive J and the way the tail connected to the a. It was how her mother had written her name for seven years. But how had she managed to write this now?
She brushed the heel of her hand at the tears she didn’t want. She hugged the ballet shoes to her chest. More than just her name had changed since that day her mother left. She swallowed and corrected herself. Since the day her mother died. But what she wouldn’t give to be that little girl again, the girl with a safe place to go where a hug was always there.
Jane sat on the floor and bent her knees in tight. She slipped on each shoe and stretched her legs wide. She wiggled her toes and watched each move through the tight canvas individually. She hadn’t danced in years, but she felt herself lean over to stretch, her arms reaching out in front of her. She didn’t make it very far. It had been a long time since she had let her chest fall straight to the ground with her legs reached far apart from one another. She brought her knees back in and pushed herself back up.
“Alexa,” she said shoving a chair out of the way, “Play ballet music.”
Soft piano notes tinkled from the black round Dot. Jane’s arms lifted up and over her head. Her knees bent in plie. She reached up to the ball of her foot and lifted the other into the air. She felt her knee groan in pain, but she focused straight ahead. Her eyes locked on her mother’s in a picture she didn’t remember hanging. Her body collapsed. Her hands reached for the floor. She stayed there, kneeling, breathing, crying, gasping.
Jane rolled to her side and pulled the shoes off each foot. She pulled them close to her heart.
“Mom, if you can hear me, I need you.” She rose to her knees. She raised her voice and screamed, “Not these stupid shoes.”
They flew through the air and hit the hardwood floor, sliding beneath a chest.
“Oh no,” she said, regretting the anger as soon as the shoes disappeared from view. She scrambled on her knees across the room. Her cheek pressed into the floor. The ballet shoes were gone, and she was still alone.
But now the house was just as she expected. No more surprises were to be found.
