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“Dad and Vi brought me out to see you.”

“Dad?”

A long cardboard box appeared under my nose, and when I looked up, I saw my father. He had aged. He had more gray hairs, and his face sagged a bit, like he was tired. He was wearing a brightly patterned, short-sleeved shirt, tan khakis, and docksiders. He could have fit into a catalog for a company like L. L.Bean or J. Crew—except for the shirt, which had a little too much personality.

I analyzed his appearance to avoid hugging him, I guess. I was too shocked to move. Bringing up the rear was his girlfriend, Vi. Her highlighted hair was pulled back in a low ponytail and held with a clip. She wore pink pedal pushers, a sleeveless white blouse, and sandals with delicate straps. Her toes sloped down at a steep angle—she would definitely have a hard time with pointe work—and her toenails were painted silvery mauve.

“Hi, Natalie,” Vi said. “That was fantastic.”

“What are you guys doing here?”

Vi resettled her purse. (It had short straps and sat more or less in her armpit, which looked uncomfortable.) I expected to hear about a business meeting or the wedding of one of Vi's friends, but apparently they came out on purpose to see me. Dad found a pair of tickets on eBay and changed Paige's return date.

Vi nodded at the box. “Aren't you going to open it?”

A dozen pink roses lay in a bed of baby's breath.

“Thank you. This is—such a surprise.”

It was all I could muster. I hugged Dad and then Vi, silent tears welling up. Dad felt almost as alien to me as his girlfriend did.

He said, “Should we have warned you we were coming?”

I shook my head, then ducked to smell the bouquet. I slung my arm around Paige's shoulders. “Did you help to pick these out?”

She nodded. “I knew pink roses were your favorite.” She reached into the box and pulled the flowers to her nose, then looked past me. “Mom!”

Mom's sandalwood scent reached me just before she did. She hugged me with Paige clinging to her other side. “Well done, Natalie! Hello, Paige, you monkey!” Mom wore a long skirt and flat, wide sandals with thick straps. Her hair was loose and a little fuzzy, the gray hairs undisguised.

Marine offered her hand to shake. “A beautiful performance, Natalie. Such tremendous emotional depth.” She was wearing a handmade, multicolored shirt and a funky pair of jeans. Her square shoulders made her look confident.

Dad said, “Hello, Denise. You remember Vi.”

Mom said, “Of course. Hello, Vi.”

Dad and Vi looked at Marine expectantly. Mom didn't pick up on the cue—she must have been extra nervous—so I jumped in. “Dad, Vi, this is Marine,” I said. They shook hands, and in the mix, Mom shook hands with Dad and Vi, too. Mom and Vi had met before, but only once, and Mom and Dad—well, maybe they were renewing their acquaintance, or else reconciling their differences. It felt like an impromptu ceremony. The sort of broken-family reunion that normally only happens at weddings.

Things warmed up when Marine complimented Dad on his shirt. He mentioned a tailor he has discovered in Mississauga, and Marine egged him on with questions that only someone who sews would know to ask. It was kind of cute. I wondered whether Dad and Vi grasped the
nature
of Mom and Marine's relationship. Was it obvious just from her presence? Whenever Mom took a breath or cleared her throat to speak after a pause in the conversation, I half-hoped and half-dreaded that she was going to make a “coming out” announcement. It hasn't happened yet.

Saturday, August 28th—night

We peaked the second night. Synergy: we held each other's gaze, tightened our timing, upped the intensity. “You electrified the audience!” Petra said to us afterwards.

I sailed into the lobby on endorphins. My family must have noticed how much better I'd performed. I imagined Kevin's eyes on me, too. He might have heard about the show from Sasha and come to surprise me. Anything could happen.

I stationed myself next to the concession. Dance enthusiasts streamed past, but no one greeted me. Not Mom or Marine, not Paige, not Dad or Vi, and, most definitely, not Kevin. My legs trembled and my upper lip broke out in sweat. I'd barely eaten before the show and my blood sugar was plummeting.

I found a payphone near the bathrooms and called Mom's hotel. She was shocked to hear I was alone.

“Aren't Paige and your dad there?”

“No.” I bent back my knee and let my foot swing so that my toe stubbed the wall.
Thwunk.
Pull back.
Thwunk.

“I spoke to her earlier and she said they were going. Marine and I decided to let the Ontario folks have you to themselves. They must have had the same idea.”

Translation: no one wanted to repeat the encounter from the night before. Let me guess who's to blame:
Vi
probably felt exposed as an airhead in the face of artists and teachers. Either that or she looked down on the West Coast hippies. And
Marine
probably felt uncomfortable since Mom hasn't had the guts to come out and introduce her as her girlfriend. I bet she has been out as a lesbian for years and doesn't want to go back into the closet. Or, maybe those two wanted to have a final night of
“love” before Mom resumes full-time motherhood.

It didn't matter why: I was alone. Again.

I hung up and wandered back into the lobby, tracking the pattern of triangles inside circles on the carpet. I kept my eyes on the floor to hide my tears.

“Natalie?”

A male voice startled me. I brushed the back of my hand across my eyelids before raising my head. Kind blue eyes met mine: Lance Irving. “That was a beautiful performance. Your movement has matured so much in the past month. You must have gone through a growth spurt.”

I gulped and nodded.

“Are you all right?”

Normally, I would have answered, “I'm fine.” But I couldn't lie to Lance. He was too sincere. “My family are all in town, but none of them bothered to come a second time. They're obviously not interested in my dancing, or they would have come back.”

I expected him to disagree, but he surprised me.

“Sometimes the people we're related to by birth, we don't have much in common with. They care about us, and we care about them, but we don't always understand each other. Fortunately, as we get older, we find other supporters and role models who share our passion, and who can understand and appreciate what we do.”

He clasped his hands behind his back and turned his head away from me. I could tell he was debating whether to add something because I do that too. Usually, the person I'm talking to turns to see what I'm looking at, but I'm only gathering my thoughts. When Lance faced me again, he gave me a look that said:
Are you ready for this?
I nodded, and he carried on.

“My family disapproved of my dancing because I was a boy and it wasn't manly. I come from a long line of auto mechanics. They expected me to carry on the family business, never mind that I couldn't tell a wrench from a screwdriver. That was hard enough, but when I came out as gay, my family disowned me altogether. I had to find a new family in the dance community. And that worked,” he said with a smile, “up until—” He lowered his head and cut himself off. I bet he was thinking of AIDS. Last year, at the benefit concert for people living with HIV, one of the emcees said the virus had taken a great toll on the dance community. “It won't be that hard for you, Natalie. You'll always have your family—you're lucky they were all here last night. But from now on, there will also be people like Petra, and myself, who validate you in a different way—as a fellow artist.”

Something burst open under my sternum when he said that. I laughed a little bit, but tears spilled out too.

My lonely journey across the stage in Petra's dance summed up my
life.
Shutting myself into my room during the long months it took my parents to divorce. Yelling, “Go away! Leave me alone!” anytime someone knocked at the door. Once, it was Paige, and I felt so terrible for shouting at her that I grabbed my most trusted companion—a penguin with enormous, floppy wings and patient eyes—and darted after her. “You can carry Penny.” I thrust the stuffed toy at her. The two almost matched in size, and Paige had to waddle like a penguin herself as she carried Penny down the hall.

All this time, I've longed for my parents to
see
me,
love
me,
get
me. What they offer is never enough, even now: Sure, Dad flew all the way to Vancouver, but he ditched me the second night. He breaks my heart over and over. I'm continually let down.

Lance's words didn't make the sadness disappear. But for a second, I saw my life through a wider lens. I don't need my family quite so much if I have other ways to belong.

I'd been staring into space, and Lance was watching with concern. I took a breath and tried to compress the tangle of emotions into words. All that came out was, “Thank you.”

He hugged me, and squashed up against him, I wondered, what made him so warm? How could he have enough caring inside him to spare for me, just one of his many students, and a new one at that?

He released me from the embrace as Petra and Monique walked up. “We're going to Havana for tapas—want to come?” Petra said. “It's on me.”

“Sure.” I wiped away the last of my tears.

It was warm enough to sit outside and, luckily, a table opened up on the restaurant's terrace as we arrived. The clink of cutlery offset the revving of car engines. Hip people strolled past on Commercial Drive. We joined the Saturday night din and toasted our successful show. I ordered a tomato and bocconcini salad, and we shared yam fries and tiger prawns.

Petra said, “Lance, did you tell Natalie the news?”

I looked up. Lance had just bitten into a prawn. We all waited for him to chew and swallow. “I'm teaching in Victoria at Eastside Dance, starting the third week of September.”

“You're kidding!” I'd forgotten he was considering a move. Training with Lance would change everything. “For how long?”

He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. “I'm trying it out for the fall.”

Petra winked at me. “You'll have to convince him to stay.”

I sat back and took it all in. Monique's French accent, Petra's bell-like voice, and Lance's bass tones made a fugue against the background roar. The evening air was cooling, and hairs bristled on my arms. A vertical line plumbed my center. As the others discussed their next projects, I dreamed up a plan for the following day.

Sunday, August 29th

Dad, Paige, and Vi were suiting up by the rental kiosk when Mom, Marine, and I found them. Under helmets, wrist guards, knee and elbow pads, I barely recognized them—especially Dad. Never much of an athlete, he rarely wore shorts, let alone protective gear. But when I'd proposed a picnic in Stanley Park, he'd said, “Great! We can rollerblade beforehand.” Who knew Vi had inspired him to start blading? I obviously needed to ask more questions during our phone calls.

“You look like you're ready to take on the Oilers!” I said.

He coughed. “I don't know about that.” But he stood at ease on his blades, pushing fingerless gloves down to the webbing.

Paige swiveled 360 degrees. “I've already lost my balance once, and it didn't hurt at all. You're going to try, aren't you?”

“How can I resist?”

Mom and Marine had no trouble resisting. They struck out to claim a picnic spot while I wrestled with equipment. The kiosk faced the park, and we had to cross a busy street to reach it. The other three shot across the intersection as soon as the light changed. I wished I'd carried my blades: I was
not
ready for traffic, even the pedestrian kind. I stepped off the curb and lurched into a man in an electric wheelchair that sported a Canadian flag. I grabbed the back of his chair to steady myself. “Sorry! Excuse me! I don't know how to rollerblade!”

“Hang on for your life! I'll give you a ride.”

I held my legs stiff and my feet together. The bumpy road sent vibrations up my spine and jostled me to the marrow. Had the manufacturers forgotten the shock absorbers on these things? People in cars idling at the light had a front-row seat to our performance. One couple pointed and laughed. I averted my eyes from the rest. Once we reached safety, I shook the man's hand and thanked him.

“Anytime!” He laughed. “Folks on wheels need to stick together. You be careful now.”

A gentle slope led down to the blading path. I took one look at it and headed for the grass. I clumped sideways down the hill, like I was on skis. They were waiting for me at the bottom. Dad and Vi gave me an all-too-quick overview of the basics, and then led the way. I was amazed at Dad's poise. Paige kept pace. They'd obviously done a lot of this in Ontario. Trailing behind, I learned by watching to bend my knees, tip forward at the waist, drop my weight, and swing my arms. Stanley Park sped past in a blue green blur. Every so often we had to screech to a halt when the trail bent or converged or we hit a patch of congestion. When we stopped, Vi gasped, “Those mountains! That water!” We bladed around the perimeter of the park in a fraction of the time it had taken Monique and I to walk it.