Jenny waited for her windows to defrost before she left.

She was rushing, almost late for rehearsal, and she hated waiting for the defroster. But driving in the snow made her nervous. Everything about driving since the accident made her nervous, and snow was the worst. She kept two car lengths behind everyone, in case she had to brake on ice. She put her snow tires on early, at the first hint of flying flakes. And she refused to drive until every bit of snow and ice melted from her windshield.

She couldn’t control when memories of the crash came, but she could control her driving habits. That was something.

Memories of the crash came often. She would be driving, reading, or talking on the phone when she’d see Tim’s body, slumped over the wheel. She’d hear glass breaking and metal doors crunching. She would feel trapped, as if stuck in that passenger’s seat, pinned by the displaced dashboard and her seat belt. She would see the EMTs ripping off Tim’s door, pulling back his body. She would see his open blue eyes, the lines of blood still dripping on his face, around his open mouth, down his arms, and into his lap.

Sometimes she’d hear voices outside the car, saying, “They took the corner too fast and went right into the tree.” Sometimes she’d see her own door ripping off, a fireman asking if she could talk, and snow falling in the twilight behind his head.

But she always saw the blood.

The only time the crash didn’t haunt her was when she danced. She had to drop her role in last year’s production of The Nutcracker—she was too caught up in dealing with Tim’s death to continue as Clara. But her company did this show each year, and she threw herself into the role now. When she danced, there was no Jenny. There wasn’t even Paul, her male lead, who was playing the Nutcracker. There was just Clara. It was a relief to be someone else.

When the last bit of ice melted, Jenny pulled away from the curb and headed down to Main Street. Her studio was downtown. It was faster to take the expressway, but Jenny hoped to avoid icy roads. Main Street was slow. She got stopped at every light, and her thoughts wandered to her rehearsals. She turned the radio off and gripped the wheel tighter, forcing herself to focus on driving.

By the time she got to the studio, her hands were tired from steering. She was one of the last people there. Everyone was already getting warmed up, and her director, Barb, was hollering.

“Five minutes to places, folks. Get those bodies going. We’ve got to close out Act I today—four weeks left!”

Jenny didn’t need long to be ready. Within minutes, she had her slippers on, hair up, and warm up routine done. When Barb yelled, “Places for battle!”, Jenny was on the left side of the room, ready to be Clara sneaking into the room, long after everyone went to bed, to visit the nutcracker doll that had enchanted her earlier.

Jenny felt everything Clara felt. When the clock struck twelve and the room filled with mice, Jenny got nervous. When gingerbread soldiers stood up against the mice, Jenny cheered. When her beloved Nutcracker came to life to lead his soldiers against the vermin onslaught, Jenny was hopeful.

When the Mouse King pounced on the Nutcracker, Jenny yelled. She turned to the front of the room, where the studio mirrors reflected the entire scene back to her. Wounded soldiers were everywhere; tin dolls and other toys had come out to carry away their bodies. The Mouse King charged, raising his sword, and Jenny’s eyes turned to the Nutcracker. He was jumping, pirouetting, and dancing in and out of every choreographed blow.

But in the mirror, he was covered in blood. The Mouse King had worn him down. The Nutcracker was succumbing, and Jenny could have sworn, when she looked from his bloody lap to his bloody arms to his open mouth, that she saw blue eyes looking back at her in the mirror.

Jenny looked around for anything she could find, anything she could use to help, finally settling on her slipper. She grabbed her right shoe and hurled it across the studio. It hit the Mouse King in the chest, stopping his onslaught long enough for him to turn his face toward her. The Nutcracker lunged forward, stabbing the Mouse King while he was distracted. The Mouse King tumbled to the floor, and in the mirror, the Nutcracker ran to Jenny, putting his bloody hand into hers. As he walked her off stage right and into the safety of Act II, Jenny smiled. She’d saved him.

When the music stopped, Jenny looked at his hand in hers. It was clean. When she looked up, there was no blood on his arms, there was no blood on his face, and Paul’s brown eyes looked back at her.

“Nice work, folks; let’s break for five!” Barb yelled.

The room cleared. Dancers raced to bathrooms, to find water, or to the lounge. Jenny sat on a chair until everyone had left, her eyes on her hands in her lap. After a moment, she realized she needed her slipper to run the scene again. She scanned the room, finding her shoe near the mirror in front.

As she picked the slipper up from the floor, she noticed a small red mark on the toe—a drop of blood. Her eyes darted up to her reflection in the mirror. There, in the mirror, her right hand had red smudges where the Nutcracker’s bloody fingers had clasped hers.

She looked at herself, touched her bloody hand to her chest, and smiled. She wiped the back of her hand across her cheek, leaving a streak of red under one eye.

Then she put her slipper on and took her place at stage left, already Clara again.