The crisp, eggshell envelope sat unassumingly in her hands. Scrutinizing it, tendrils of dark brown hair began to fall around her sharp face haphazardly. With golden lettering, precise stamping, and the logo of Butler University's Center of the Arts in the left-hand corner, the day had finally come: The response to her application for a study abroad program in Paris, France.
Nervous, her fingers tingled with suspense as her throat became thick. She couldn't open such a thing here, next to the rusty mailbox, with dirty, residential cars passing lazily by. In fact, her dorm room did not seem appropriate either. This occasion required dignity, with a drum roll, and the bated breath of an audience.
However, there wasn't such a place on campus, so she decided to seek solitude in the familiar ballet studio, the one she had just returned from after a long day of practice. With a windbreaker on that was two sizes too big for her, a pair of black, elastic pants, a worn gym bag thrown over her shoulder, and hair tied in a messy, unraveling bun, she hardened her mouth into a firm line.
Exhausted and yet resolute, she turned briskly away from the cookie-cutter mailboxes, and whisked out the door.
It was a cool day, spring was right around the corner but winter's jealousy still permeated. Occasionally a threatening gust would make the large envelope waver in her grasp, forcing her to hold on all the more tightly. Hardly breathing, she picked up the pace, passing couples and laughing groups of friends enjoying the windy twilight.
It was her second year at Butler in Indianapolis, but she did not have the good graces to make any sort of long lasting friendship. There had been the glimmer of freshmen year where everyone threw out their nets and hoped to catch a companion, but hers turned out to be old boots. They moved on, and so did she. It was nothing personal, just business.
In class she would form alliances when it was needed, but once the war was over, there was no purpose to continue. Plus, she had never been a great power. There was only one thing that ever piqued her interest: The arts.
She had been raised in it, both her parents had long heritages of musicians, dancers, composers...Hell, her folks had met on the stage. Well, her father had been below it, playing the violin while her mother danced classically. Captivated by her beauty and skill and she, impressed with his dedication... the rest was history.
Her father, Sasha, had been on a scholarship to America from Russia, while her mother, Natalie, came from a relatively wealthy family in Connecticut who had supported her throughout college. Yet, their union was unwelcomed by both families. Sasha's parents forbid him to stay in the States longer than what was necessary while Natalie's were suspicious of the 'Sovs', for the Cold War had only been "over" for a few years.
Smiling as she walked, she remembered how indignant her parents were, how they cut themselves off from everyone they loved and never looked back just because their passion was that strong. They had never been willing to compromise, if their families could not see that, then blood no longer mattered.
From the shiny, glittery East Coast, they moved to the tumbleweeds: Indiana. She had always wondered what had motivated them for such a choice, but it was clear that home was where the family was, and perhaps the east had too many memories of the last one.
Mom's parents never spoke a word to her again, but dad's grandparents in Russia had apparently sought reconciliation. There were a few letters tucked away in her father's old violin case. Perhaps he had reached back, perhaps not.
Thinking of dad, her heart gave a squeeze. It had only been a couple years since his death. It was why she never learned to drive, why she went to a college in her backyard, and why she loved music. A car had taken him away, and so she would never own one. But his spirit remained in the strings of his Stentor, in the lessons he taught her when she could barely walk, let alone read notes.
Although she never developed a skill for instruments, it did not mean that the world of music and arts excluded her. She found another way in: Ballet. At first she was afraid of disappointing her father. From an early start it was clear she had a musical ear, able to judge pitch extremely well, but dad was just as thrilled as mom. In his mind, they could be a trio: he would play and mom and her would dance, around and around they would go.
Sparkling memories crashed over her, this envelope was so much more than just an opportunity. It was a séance, a way to remember and pay homage to her father's spirit. She knew he would be proud of her. She could practically see his crinkled expression as he grinned impishly, dark blue eyes holding a secret but displaying a vulnerable, pure affection just for her.
And they did have a secret shared, one that even her mother had never known.
Nadya could sing.
Not trained, but able to spot talent when he saw it, her father encouraged her and attempted to guide her as she realized that there was an instrument within. It was hidden in the depths of her insecurity, but he managed to coax it out. Although unwilling to believe him at first, he still reminded her over and over that she was special, that in all the impressive generations before there had not been a single singer. She was to be the first.
For many years they would sneak out and find a secluded place, somewhere where her bashfulness would fade. It quickly became a favorite activity for both of them. Even when recitals and work were difficult, they would always make time. The best being at night, under the canopy of stars, where every note seemed enchanted.
The image of the two of them filled her thoughts, so she did not realize she had arrived at the quaint building until it was staring at her. Facing her blurry reflection in the glass of the doors, she shook her head out of the past, and yanked on the handle, crashing back to reality.
She did not sing anymore.
"I got in!" she practically screamed into the small cell-phone.
The once pristine piece of paper was now scrunched excitedly in her fist. After arriving, she had settled calmly on the sleek, wooden floor, unable to bring herself to rip it open. It was technically after hours, but she knew the janitor closed late. In the semi-darkness of twilight, she took a breath and a moment to lower her expectations.
Surgeon-like, she separated the manila from its contents, trying to avert her gaze as it came out. Gold lettering sparkled in her peripheral, the response itself looked long, and she was debating whether that was a good sign or not when her tempted eye spotted the word 'Congratulations'. Not wasting a second after that, she whipped out her mangy phone and speed-dialed her mom.
As it rang, she hungrily read the acceptance letter, basking in its glory. It rambled on about payments and financial aid, things that would not dare to stop her now, and then was signed by the Dean of Performing Arts. When she was just about to tear her hair out, a throaty voice finally answered, and this was when she had shrieked the news.
"Nadya, slow down!" came the reply.
At first her mother didn't even understand her, her fevered pitch too much, but she slowed down and said each word with dramatic pauses. Then it was her mother's turn to yell and the two were largely incoherent as they squealed in victory. Of course, mom wanted her to come home right away, she was only a 15 minute walk, and she did agreed to come tomorrow, for the day was already closing and Nadya's mind and body were worn. Constant pliés and arabesques would do that. She hung up.
A mix of weariness and excited contentment, she un-crumpled the letter, folded it, and tucked into her bag. Everything was lighter, the weight that had sat on her shoulders ever since her father's death began to lift.
They had gotten a phone call. A simple thing that ruined her world. Her mother was not the same, and never would be. Love did that. Even worse, she had taken up smoking again, even though her lungs were irreparably damaged already. But who was Nadya to judge? How could she take away something that may have eased the pain?
The mother and daughter had sat in the tatters of death, but had numbly carried on somehow. Her mother worked, she went to school, but it was done without emotion, without life. It was if they had been hollowed out and were now just relying on the puppet master to guide them, too apathetic to break free from the strings.
Perhaps this would be the opportunity for emancipation, to restore what they had lost, to reconnect with it. Her father had told her when she was young that she was 'blessed' by the heavenly bodies with the voice of an angel, something that would be with her always. When he died, she felt as if that connection had been lost, that the blessing had turned to a curse.
It was foolhardy to stake something like a soul on this, to put all one's hopes in a single basket. But, at this point, it seemed downright logical. She was returning to the home of her father, not Russia, but so very close. Closer than she might ever be, and she would certainly be joining his spirit. Maybe her heritage would speak to her and show her the way out of this labyrinth.
Soul taking flight, she did not give heed to the warning in her mind. Something was waiting for her.