Pieces of a Life

It was late in the afternoon when the phone call came. Leila didn’t hear the phone ring, of course, because how would she? It was all the way out at the front desk, and she was in the studio. She was always in the studio, even at times like these, when she was the only one there. The only one practicing, although to anyone else’s eyes the moves would’ve been beautiful and practically perfect. It wasn’t that she needed the practice so much as she needed to occupy herself. She didn’t know what to do with herself when she wasn’t dancing; nothing felt right unless she was dancing. And so she was there in the studio all the time: practicing, dancing, working. It was a good thing she was there that time, really, because there was no other phone number to reach her. The rules were that as long as her family ignored her existence, she ignored theirs. It was a polite and fair compromise, considering the circumstances around Leila and her family.

But the rule was broken and she was contacted. The phone rang out on the front desk and the woman attending the desk answered. Leila was ignorant, of course, working alone in the studio. The enormous mirrors reflected every movement she made and she watched carefully for any hint of a flaw, focused on fixing faults that, in all honesty, were absent or at the very least unnoticeable even to a trained eye. But she was comfortable here, the toe of her pointe shoes turning on the polished wood of the floors, the gentle passing of air around her when she moved. Every move she made was fluid and graceful and natural, the way she liked it to be. You couldn’t force yourself to dance, she thought, because that was against the purpose. Everything had to come from inside you. She could dance with her eyes closed if she really wanted to. Sometimes she did.

The woman at the front desk was all in a tizzy. She didn’t know what to do. The rules were that Leila wasn’t contacted. And the rules were broken. The rules were broken! It wasn’t good. What to do, what to do? She flurried around her desk, muttering to herself worriedly “Oh my, oh my,” and scuttling down to the studio. This wouldn’t be good. They broke the rules. Leila wouldn’t be happy. But she couldn’t just ignore the call, it was undeniably important…what to do, what to do? The woman’s face contorted with the thought of what was ahead of her and she opened the door to the studio, her face a complete mask of worry.

The sound of the door opening jolted Leila and she stumbled a little before turning around to see the familiar woman. Leila’s eyebrows fell over her eyes and darkened them with the threat of her annoyance. She said nothing, though, and allowed the desk woman to offer her excuse. The woman, the mask on her face contorted and frantic, stammered to carefully pick the best wording. Leila waited, annoyed as ever.

“There—there’s a…” She hesitated, pursing her lips. Leila would not be happy, no she would not. But she might as well just say it. “There’s a phone call for you, Miss Willows. It’s urgent.” She added. Maybe that last part would help. Maybe it wouldn’t, knowing Leila, but maybe if she understood…

Leila scoffed a snobby “hmph” and glided out the doors, seemingly with her nose in the air. She had gotten good at the prima donna act; she could play a convincing brat, even when she was the antithesis. She liked the security offered by that persona. People got the idea that she was a diva and left her alone, which is how she preferred to be. She was bad for herself in that way.

The distressed desk woman scurried around behind Leila like a lost mouse. She pressed a few buttons on the phone to connect Leila’s phone call and, panic rising, left the girl alone. Oh no, it would not be good. Leila inhaled deeply and tried to remember what it was like to have a conversation. “Hello?” She greeted the caller meekly.

“Leila. It’s your Aunt Katharine.” You could just hear the capital A in Aunt the way she said it. Leila’s nose scrunched up. She hated her Aunt Katharine. Probably calling from her BlackBerry in her shiny convertible, stuck in highway traffic. A bad red dye job and celebrity diet pills. That was her Aunt Katharine. Leila wiggled her nose to stop the scrunching and simply replied, “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Aunt Katharine popped her gum and observed her reflection in her side mirror. Leila shifted her weight, impatient. “I know you don’t like it when people talk to you,” Leila rolled her eyes. “But it was important and I was the lucky one who got to call you.” Her Aunt sighed into the phone. How should she say it? Well, it’s not like it mattered. Just say it and leave it for Leila to deal with. She was lucky they even called her.

“Your father, Leila,” Aunt Katharine glanced again at her reflection, now in her rearview mirror. Leila was mollified; her father was the only member of her family who still genuinely loved Leila, despite what she had done. The rest of her family wanted nothing to do with her and for Leila, the feeling was mutual. But her father still kept in touch, at least vaguely and more than anyone else did, and she knew he didn’t hate her the way the rest of them did. For that, she was grateful. She wished he’d called himself, but he was probably busy. He was always busy. “He’s…well, Leila, he’s dead. He’s been less than healthy for a while now, not that you’d know that, but he had a heart attack. He’s dead, Leila. And the rest of the family…well, we figured you should know.” Aunt Katharine spat bitterly, hanging up the phone.

Leila was paralyzed, frozen there with the dead phone in her hand, a flat line beep in her ear. Her mind was blank and she felt like time and everything else around her had stopped. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t cry. She was a statue stuck at the front desk. The mousy receptionist scurried in, her face averted to the floor, and gently took the phone from Leila’s motionless hand. The woman returned the phone to its place and left again, looking away from Leila. She felt like looking at her in that state would’ve been disrespectful somehow; she was so exposed and rubbed raw, standing there, so blatantly broken. She didn’t look at her.

The woman left and someone, somewhere, pressed play on the world. Leila moved fluidly and gracefully again, wide blue eyes watering. She fluttered her eyelids quickly, trying to blink away the tears but knowing the efforts were in vain. Her throat ached. One thought blinked in her empty mind: Shit.



Alex sat at the table and shook his head sadly. The television was telling him the story he didn’t want to hear; it was all over any local news channel you could flip to. It was even a little blip of a feature on national news, it was that big of a deal. He sighed and looked at the television.

“…George Prescott Willows, multi-millionaire business tycoon, tragically passed away yesterday after suffering a massive heart attack. Willows was— ” Alex shook his head again, leaning his face against his fist and looking sadly down at the table. Poor George. His heart had been broken for years now, and just finally gave in. An old Willows family picture appeared on screen and Alex’s stomach dropped. There they were, the Willows family, drowning in money. It was an old picture; they were young, they were happy. George and Caroline were young and beautiful, laughing so genuinely it hurt to look and think of what happened. And there she was. Their precious little princess. Their beautiful little toddler, big blue eyes that glowed and chubby pink cheeks that were scrunched up with her baby smile. He couldn’t look away from that TV screen.

“…his wife, Caroline, tragically died of cancer at a young age. Their only daughter, Leila, was just five.” A picture of that blue eyed little toddler princess appeared on the screen now, still babyish and adorable in a patterned dress and socks with little lace ruffles on the top. Alex stared at the picture. “As George’s only daughter, Leila is now the principal dancer for the prestigious San Francisco Ballet Company and is world renowned as a dancer. She has also danced— ” Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. He looked away from the screen. This, this was too much.

Vanessa wandered into the kitchen then in a baggy t-shirt and a sneer that never left her feminine face. She fluffed her blonde hair with one hand, sat down, and looked at the TV on the counter. Alex was focused on his hands resting in his lap and didn’t pay much attention to the girl. In all honesty, he didn’t even like her. She was not a good person. No matter how hard he tried, though, he just couldn’t get rid of her. He resented Vanessa for that. And right now, he just didn’t want to hear what she’d say.

“George Willows,” she raised her slanting eyebrows. “Damn, can you imagine the size of that estate?” Alex said nothing in reply to her comment. Vanessa eyed him and another family picture was on screen, George and Caroline and baby Leila. They must’ve known Caroline was dying. There were a lot of family pictures, all from around the same time. “Leila Willows…” Vanessa looked at the screen and then at Alex, who had yet to meet her gaze. “Didn’t you know her?”

Alex cringed. “Yeah,” he mumbled, absently scratching his head. “Yeah, I knew her.” He exhaled loudly. This was not the type of morning conversation he liked. Not at all, not even close.

Vanessa’s dark eyes flickered, giving her away. She could really be malicious, sometimes. He hated her for it. Well, for that and other things, but she just wouldn’t go away. “What was she like?” She attempted to look innocent, but Alex knew better.

He thought on her question, though. What was Leila like? He had known her for such a long time. They were family to each other. What was she like? She was a lot of things, he thought, watching the news channel as it documented Leila’s late father’s life. Leila was a lot of things, but Vanessa wasn’t deserving to know any of them. An angry little spark jumped around inside him and Alex looked up at the blonde across from him for the first time.

“Aren’t you leaving, Vanessa?” He stood up and turned off the television.