La Folie
By Veronica Randolph
Batterson
The woman danced. She clutched the baby to her breast and
let the sound of the music carry her feet across the room.
Gracefully she
moved and as light as a feather, her toes touched the floor for a split second
before the next step continued the motion. Hips swaying, she arched her back, feeling the song in her
heart as it traveled through her body.
Her movements were effortless and sensual. Those who watched were entranced, unable to take their eyes
from her form.
It had been her
life. Dance. The dream, the classes, auditions and
rehearsals. The hard work paid off
and she’d performed across the finest stages in New York and Europe. Everyone came to see her.
“Yes, they all came
to see,” she whispered.
Pivoting sharply,
the woman shifted the child to one arm while grasping the folds of her skirt
with the opposite hand. The silk,
organza and tulle made soft swooshing sounds as the fabric brushed against her
calves. She danced with abandon,
eyes closed as if in a trance, never loosening her hold on the baby.
Paris had been
her favorite, she remembered. The
city was alive with people; bistros and outdoor cafés bustled with business and
artists flocked to the area to work.
It was the one place she fit in and it was the city in which he’d found
her.
That memory
caused her to stumble, shaking her from the trance and causing her to grip the
child protectively. She refused to
remember, focusing on her movements to help erase all thoughts from her mind. It was the only way. But her thoughts kept interrupting. It was an annoyance that wouldn’t allow
her any solitude.
“What is wrong
with her? Do you think she’s ill?” the voice whispered. Her mind recalled the questions but it
seemed she was just hearing them for the first time. Just dance, she insisted, pushing the voices from her
head.
But her
movements became erratic. No longer
fluid and graceful, the woman‘s motions were shaky and she faltered, all
confidence broken. Her feet felt
heavy and she was suddenly clumsy.
Memories did that to her and she became frustrated. He had no right creeping into her brain
again. She was safe now, they told
her. Just not safe from those
horrid thoughts.
“Poor woman,”
the voice said in English.
“Oui. La folie,” came the French
response.
Madness. She spoke enough French to recognize
what they meant. They thought her
insane. Sometimes she wondered it
herself. At other times, her
thoughts were clear and she could rationalize and process her life and where it
had led her. It was in those times
that she knew he had been responsible for her escape into the folds of lunacy.
She no longer
heard the music. Slowly opening
her eyes, reality returned in a rush, causing her to catch her breath at the
ugliness. Looking down, her baby
stared back with blank button eyes, its vinyl arms extended in a frozen
form. Her feet were bare and
dirty, the cotton of her dress hung limply on her thin body. She touched her face and felt the
swollen jaw. If she had a mirror,
her reflection would reveal a cut lip and black eye and years of faded bruises
that never completely healed, instead marking her face with the shame she’d
endured.
The sting of a
tear fell on her injured lip. A
fist to her face and a stillborn child were images that played through her head
like a movie reel on repeat. Black and white, over and over. She pressed her hands to her temples
and willed it to stop, but other thoughts took over, filling her mind with
sadness. Her memories were real
now, lucid.
She had met him
in New York, a rich man with powerful connections. She was young and naïve, looking for that big break as a
dancer, but struggling to make ends meet.
He came in for coffee where she worked. Before she knew it, he was wooing her with money, expensive
gifts and promises of introductions to famous Broadway producers. She no longer had to worry about rent
or food. He moved her into her own
apartment and, for a while, she was dazzled by his charm and attention. But things began to change after a few
months. He started coming up with
excuses when he couldn’t see her.
And those promises of business introductions never materialized.
Finding herself
alone one evening, she called a friend and they met for drinks. When she came home, he’d been waiting
for her, angry. That was the first
time he ever hit her and if she’d had the courage, it would’ve been the only
time. Instead, she stayed. Months turned to years and all she did
was get older. The control and
abuse extinguished her ambition and will to live, until she discovered she was
pregnant. Knowing if she stayed,
the child could be harmed, she fled to France with the help of a friend.
She lived in
Paris for six months, slowly looking at life a little more brightly, until she
saw him one day, waiting for her outside her little flat. There was no time to scream, as he
grabbed her and barely waited until they were inside before the beatings
started. An intervening neighbor
saved her life. He fled before
authorities could get there.
Her child did
not survive. The despair made her
unable to cope and she retreated into the fantasies her mind provided her. There, she danced and her baby
lived. It was a safe place for her
to be. It was happy.
She clutched the
doll tightly. Her head hurt and
she wished the memories would stop.
If she started screaming, the nurses would give her a sedative to calm
her. But she’d learned that while
drugs removed the pain, they also prevented the descent to her other
world. She didn’t like the
soulless state those narcotics put her in.
Closing her
eyes, she thought she heard music.
Yes, there it was.
Returning to her like a long lost friend. She embraced it and gave in to it, relaxing as she moved. Once again mother and dancer; once
again on the finest stages where everyone came to see.
©Veronica Randolph Batterson
