More Than a Rancher. Claire McEwen
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rising, and Jenna’s father and sister stopped talking and looked down the table at them. Her mother seemed to appreciate the audience. “You don’t get to show up at this house and tell me what I should be doing! You ask me what’s wrong? I should be asking the same of you, Jenna. Why don’t you listen to us? We’re family—we want what’s best for you.”
“Because dancing is what’s best for me!” Disappointment had tears stinging her eyes. Her mom was so defensive about her drinking she’d attack her own daughter. “Mom, let’s not fight. I asked you about the wine because I love you and I’m concerned.” Jenna was using her full voice now. She figured her father and sister had probably noticed the empty bottles at their end of the table, too. Maybe they could all work together to find out what was wrong with Mom.
Her mother’s voice was icy. “You may be on one of your newest health kicks, Jenna, but I happen to enjoy a glass of wine with my dinner and I don’t see anything wrong with that. I’m just trying to have a nice evening with my family. I don’t see why you have to come here and cause a scene.”
“Mom, I wasn’t—”
“That’s enough.” Her father’s voice interrupted and it shook with anger. “Jenna, I wish we could just have a peaceful night as a family. Maybe in your life at the ballroom, with all those artsy dancers, this kind of drama is acceptable. But here in this house it’s not okay.”
“It’s not drama, Dad. I am worried about Mom. And maybe if you spent a few minutes paying some attention to her, you’d see that she’s drinking way too much!”
There was a silence at the table so solid that it felt like a wall around her. Jenna waited for her sister to say something. Or her brother. He was a doctor, after all—he should be the one bringing this up. And her father must be able to see how much her mother needed help.
Instead the silence seemed to go on forever before her father broke it up. “How dare you insult your mother like that?” His voice was low and mean and it occurred to Jenna for the first time that he really might hate her. Just for being her. And for being honest.
Shelley shook her head slowly, as if heavy with her displeasure. “Jenna, Dad’s right. This is really uncalled for.”
Jenna stood up. Her legs were shaking. She turned to her mother. “Mom, I’m sorry I offended you. I was only trying to help. I am worried about your drinking and you should be, too. And, Dad, I don’t think it’s drama to be concerned for someone you love. You should try it sometime.”
In the hall she grabbed her backpack and coat from the maid, who’d hustled to fetch them for her, and burst into the foggy night through the giant oak front doors, then closed them behind her—grateful for the thick wood between her and the bizarre evidence of her family’s denial. They truly did not believe, or didn’t want to believe, that her mother had a problem. They truly believed that Jenna was the problem. The cold mist mingled with the hot tears pouring down her cheeks. It was moments like these, when the differences between her and her family were so stark, that she felt the most alone.
Fumbling through the jumbled contents of her backpack for her keys, she cursed herself for opening her mouth. Why did she think that her concerns would make any difference to her family? They had no respect for her or for her work; why would they respect her opinion?
She snapped open the lock on her bicycle, threw the coiled cable into her backpack and shoved her helmet on her head. She hated that her hands were trembling so much she could hardly close the buckle.
Jenna pushed her bike into the empty street of the exclusive Seacliff neighborhood and started pedaling, swiping her sleeve at the tears trickling down her face. As always, exercise was an escape. She covered the two blocks to California Street in what seemed like moments, pumping hard, not bothering to switch gears on the slight uphill, forcing herself to stand on the pedals and put all her frustration into propelling the bike forward.
She swung left and got into the bike lane, thankful that the evening traffic rush was over. She pedaled furiously, the old shame and anger that her family inspired burning like rocket fuel inside. In record time she was turning right onto Arguello Boulevard, heading toward the black shadow that was Golden Gate Park at night. Pedaling around its shadowy edge—no way would she venture into its dark groves at this hour—she cut through the Haight-Ashbury, the famous old Victorian buildings a dim blur as she rushed past.
By the time Jenna got to Divisadero Street, her anger had cooled a bit, the bitterness had tempered and she pedaled at a steadier cadence past the neon marquee of the Castro Theatre. She automatically looked up to see what they were showing, and a small thrill interrupted her gloom when she saw that it was An American in Paris. Gene Kelly and Leslie Caron dancing together—a heavenly duo. Jenna tried to picture her class schedule for tomorrow. Maybe she could steal a few hours and escape to the theater’s vintage red velvet seats and indulge her love of old musicals. That would cheer her up for sure.
A few blocks more and she was pedaling uphill to the top of Dolores Park, close to her apartment now. She stopped on the sidewalk, her breath audible in the quiet of the night, her emotions finally calm enough to let her body rest.
Breathing deeply, Jenna visualized exhaling the last of the turbulence out of her system. It worked before dance competitions—why not now? She’d left the fog behind in the Haight-Ashbury and she inhaled the rare clear summer night, the feel of her body after exercise, the peace she felt up here on this hill, temporarily above the bustle. She exhaled anger, worry and that horrible sense of rejection her family was so good at serving up along with their perfectly cooked meals.
She inhaled the view. The downtown skyline lights were glittering. The familiar silhouettes mixed in with all the new buildings that were going up so quickly that the horizon seemed a little different each time she stopped to look. But no matter how it changed, it was always magical, always compelling her to explore it further, always making her glad she’d been born and raised in San Francisco.
Her heart calmed and her frayed nerves wove themselves back together. She looked up at the few stars bright and brave enough to appear despite the glow of the city lights. And she waited. Slowly a thought crystallized. The frustration and hurt she felt after tonight’s disastrous dinner was there for a reason. It was starkly obvious. There was a lesson in what had happened with her family tonight. She needed to stop hoping that people would change.
She shouldn’t have gone to dinner expecting her family to be supportive of her. They’d never supported her before, so what made her hopeful that they’d suddenly start?
She shouldn’t have expected she could have any influence over her mom’s drinking. All the literature from the Al-Anon meetings she’d attended for months, ever since her mom’s drunk dialing started, clearly stated that you couldn’t make someone else stop drinking.
In fact, at Al-Anon they said the Serenity Prayer, which was all about change. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference. Jenna obviously needed that wisdom right now.
The only person she could change was herself. It was a lonely thought, but it was also oddly comforting. If she stopped trying to change others, it would mean less betrayal and hurt when people didn’t act the way she wanted them to. It might even mean she’d have more energy to focus solely on her own life—her dancing, her performing and hopefully soon her own dance studio.
Jenna leaned on her bike and watched the sparkling lights of the city. When she owned her own business, one or two of those fairy lights would be the lights of her ballroom. Back in Benson she’d vowed to devote all her time and energy to pursuing that goal. She might be on her own, with no family and no boyfriend to lean on, but if the result was that she finally made her dreams come true, then maybe being alone was a pretty good choice for now.
“JENNA, BRENT, CAN I speak with you two for a moment?” Marlene Dale, the owner of the Golden Gate Ballroom, looking elegant in