“You’ve never heard of a pinky-swear? Ok, take hold of my pinky here with your pinky.” The little girl obeyed.
“Now, we snap them apart…” Giselle spoke while they did it, “then a hand movement like an explosion.” The little girl didn’t know exactly what Giselle meant, but the very second Giselle’s “explosion” was executed, the girl copied. And finally, Giselle said, “Then, make it rain.” She used her fingers, pulling them down as they wriggled.
“Ok,” said Giselle, “are you ready? Let’s do the whole thing together once slowly.” They did.
“Ok, now let’s do it faster.” When they completed it perfectly, both the girl and Giselle laughed.
“Wow, you learned that so fast…, uh, what’s your name?” Giselle asked.
“Tawny. Tawny Burnette.”
“You learned that so fast, Tawny. And, my name is Giselle.”
Once they’d done their pinky-swear hand movements one last time after promising not to tell anyone how goofy Giselle looked when she fell on the floor, Giselle became more sober.
“Tawny, I got hurt in a car accident. How’d you get hurt?”
Imitating Giselle’s seriousness, she responded, “I didn’t get hurt. My legs were kind of like this when I was born. That was nine years ago, in case you were wondering. But, the doctors said I had some things they could fix some if I had a couple operations. This is my second operation. I had one last year too. And, this one…” pointing to her partial leg, “they took off some more this operation. And, when it heals, they’re gonna make me a pros-te-dic so that I can walk.”
Giselle knew Tawny meant “prosthetic,” but didn’t correct her.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ll be able to walk.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Giselle figured she might be wearing Tawny out by this time, so she told her that this was a wonderful visit and that if Tawny was going to be here a while, maybe she’d be able to come back and visit her again.
As Giselle was exiting Tawny’s room and turning the corner of the door frame, she slipped slightly and almost fell again. She looked back around the frame, swiped her brow, and mouthed, “Whew!” to Tawny. Tawny grinned and said out loud, “It’s a good thing you didn’t fall again, ‘cause I only made that promise for the first time you fell. If you’d done it again, I’d just have to tell somebody. I couldn’t stand not to.”
Giselle just grinned, removing one hand from its crutch long enough to wag her index finger at Tawny and shake her head, then she continued back through the hall to her own room.
*****
Lying in her bed all afternoon was going to be boring. Boring, boring, boring! She had nothing to occupy her time other than tv, which didn’t particularly interest her.
Looking over at her bedside table, Giselle saw Conyer’s Bible resting easily on its surface. For the briefest of seconds she considered picking it up and reading some in it, but actually scowled at it when she thought how God had betrayed her.
Her mind gave voice to things her mouth would never say.
God, you let me go through all those years of training, allowing me to think You not only were giving me that schooling as a gift of grace, but made me think I was actually going to be able to put it to use. You know how much I love dancing and that I could hardly wait to go on the European tour, then You turned it into some kind of game that You could watch, and laugh at me when it was all taken away!
When Giselle realized what she’d been thinking, she looked over at the Bible and slightly grimaced, expecting God to strike her, maybe not with lightning, but just as fatal would be a heart attack. Or the ceiling collapsing, and crushing her. She knew it was ridiculous, that the Lord didn’t get some kind of thrill by “zapping” His kids. And, it was this realization that gave her a brazen desire to continue ranting.
You talk in Your Word about being a loving God. Well, frankly, I don’t see anything very loving about You at all right now!
Like, what’s up with Tawny? That little nine year old girl hasn’t hurt anybody, but You let her be born all messed up. There’s no reason in this world that you couldn’t have made her with strong good legs, or healed her at some point. I used to hear in Sunday School about Your Miracles all the time when I was a kid. But, to tell the truth, since You’re so keen on truth, I’ve never ever experienced one first hand, or even known of anyone who has. Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if this whole “Christian thing” is bogus.
And, what about Mom and Daddy? They’ve barely had enough support while ministering on the mission field, and they’re doing all that for You! But, if it hadn’t been for scholarships and financial aid, I couldn’t even have gone to a performance arts school!
It’s just not fair! You just seem to never come through for us!
At this very moment, she felt rebelliously empowered as she reminded God of something.
Remember when Jesus was on the cross and He asked You why You’d forsaken Him? Well, I know just how He felt. I feel like You’ve done nothing but betray me!
Thinking she’d run out of things with which she could indict God, she was actually, and perversely, pleased when she realized she had one more thing to accuse Him of.
You allowed that Conyer guy to destroy my body, my car, and my life, and then You let him show up right here… not once, mind You, but multiple times! And when he did, he never even apologized for ruining my life, but somehow seemed to think that we were going to be some kind of bosom buddies. And then he comes up with that ‘liking my nails’ thing! Who cares if he likes my nails or not?! Not even did he have the decency to apologize or ask my forgiveness… No! He needs to actually ask me, “Will you forgive me?” In fact, he needs to do both! But, I don’t think what he’s done is even worthy of forgiveness. Look at all the damage he’s done! All of it irreparable! And yet, You let him walk away almost unhurt at all! That tiny little limp he has isn’t worthy of any sympathy. In a few weeks his limp will be gone, but not mine! My wounds will be around for a lifetime! God, what are You doing, anyway?! You’ve protected the one who caused it all! It’s just not fair! You’re not fair!
Unable to think of any other fuel with which to batter God, His plans, purposes and methods, Giselle wadded her hands into fists, shook them toward the ceiling and now said out loud, “It’s not fair and You can’t be trusted!”
Immediately upon those escaped words, Giselle turned her head and buried her face in her pillow. Hoping no one would hear her, she screamed into the pillow. It muffled the sound, of course, but at least she’d been able to vent. Now, with a sense of sadness, helplessness, and hopelessness, she turned her face to the side, closed her eyes, and fell into the fitful, nightmare-ish world of what seemed like ghosts and goblins… or perhaps demons? Giselle’s hardening heart gave her no peace, and all aspects of her ‘slumbering rest’ were anything but restful.
Chapter 9
After his release from the hospital, Conyer disobeyed the doctor’s and staff’s admonishments to go home and get plenty of rest for the next week to ten days. He was only supposed to transport himself to the physical therapy location, then back home on a bi-weekly schedule, where he was to continue re-cooperating. The doctor didn’t care if he stayed at his own residence or his Aunt Tierney’s, as long as one or the other didn’t keep him from his therapy, or his much needed rest.
Conyer had no appointments or paperwork that demanded his attention right at that moment, so instead of going into Aunt Tierney’s house and making himself comfortable for a few days, he slowly meandered from the taxi that had delivered him to his aunt’s house straight to his car, which had been sitting in her driveway ever since the morning they’d taken off to town together with Tierney at the wheel of her Lexus.
His destination? The “scene of the crime.” He’d run over the happenings of that day until his brain was almost fried. In every scenario, however, the same thing happened. Aunt Tierney clutched her chest, and ultimately rammed directly into the car carrying Giselle Danve
rs.
Feeling emotionally down, and certainly tired, Conyer headed toward the intersection in which one person died and one was injured to the point of destruction of her life’s dream. He could have added, “one who was injured, but not irreparably,” but he didn’t feel he himself should even be included in the damage-evaluation. His life would go on relatively unscathed, other than hurting from the loss of his beloved Aunt Tierney, and mourning the bodily damage and career-death of the poor, pitiful… and… beautiful Giselle. Interestingly, Conyer never once considered positively how his previously financially ok life had just been catapulted into realms of wealth that relatively few people would ever experience in their lifetime.
Parking his car almost a block away, down a side street, removed from the intersection itself, Conyer slowly got out of his car. From this fairly great distance, he was going back and forth in his mind as to whether he should even get any closer to the location of impact.
Granted the intersection had been cleaned up, cars towed away, and gave no apparent indication that something so tragic had happened that Friday afternoon, but in Conyer’s mind he could only see it as it had looked that day.
Trying to blink away the image of mangled car metal, and worse, mangled bodies, he decided that he couldn’t do it. He just couldn’t make himself walk up to the corner. The memory was still too new, and he ached so desperately for his dead aunt, and even more for the young woman whose life would never be the same. After all, Aunt Tierney had had a wonderful life. God had blessed her with a fun-loving and godly husband, a life of many earthly goods to make them more than comfortable, and given them a nephew who thought they were both two of the greatest treasures of his life.
The point of decision came after crawling back into his car. He was actually closing the door, when in mid-motion, he let go of the handle and pushed the door back open with his still-healing left leg. The pressure of the door against his still damaged leg made him wince. Knowing he couldn’t think too much about it, he quickly got back out of the car, pulled his cane out, propped himself up with it on the sidewalk, slammed the door and began a purposeful and steady pace toward the intersection.
*****
Staring fiercely at the exact place where lives had forever been changed, he could identify two oil puddles, but that was almost all there was to identify the horrendous happening of that infamous day. Conyer thought how strange it was that there were no hints of skid marks. He replayed the scene in his mind.
He knew his aunt hadn’t braked. She was accelerating as they approached impact. But, apparently Giselle hadn’t braked either. Actually, he wished he didn’t know this, because that meant she probably hadn’t had the presence of mind to slam down on the brake, or time enough. She probably had just seen the inevitable coming, closed her eyes and waited. The thought made Conyer involuntarily shudder. He tried to shake away the mental picture, but was having a difficult time succeeding. All he could think was how terrified she must have been.
“Do you need help crossing, sir?”
“What?” Conyer asked, not having expected anyone to speak to him at that moment of mentally reliving the moments of the crash.
“May I help you cross the street?”
“Oh, yes please.”
The older woman had seen him standing immobile at the corner and thought he was struggling to get off the curb to cross the street. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to disappoint her kindness, so he told her yes, he could just use some help stepping off the curb. Once she supported his free arm, he used the cane in his other hand to assist him in stepping down. After thanking her several times, he began the walk across the street.
Where he was going, he didn’t know. He had no need to cross. And, even as he did, he realized he was stepping directly into the exact place where the two cars battered each other. Something about that knowledge made him shiver, as well as unconsciously step more quickly to vacate the area.
Once standing on the opposite side of the street corner, Conyer took a long sweeping glance in both directions. He knew it was unreasonable, but somehow he felt like if he stayed in that stationary position, there would be an actual repeat of the car crash, so he quickly turned and began walking down the street, heading for who-knew-where, as long as it was away from the crash site.
*****
The window of “Whittier’s Wood Whittling” was the only thing that halted Conyer’s walk. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would have mindlessly walked that side of the street if he hadn’t seen the store. He knew it was the image of the crash that had propelled him on this walk. But, he had no idea how much further he would have gone in that direction before turning around and heading back to his car, if the store’s window content hadn’t interceded.
As he stood looking in the window at all the amazing sculpted wood pieces, he realized for the first time since turning his back on the intersection and rushing away that he had no business taking this long constitutional. The doctor had very plainly told him that it would be a very long time before his leg would be in any kind of condition for extensive exercise. He knew this, and yet…
There he stood, taking one long glance back to see that he had covered just slightly less than a city block to this storefront. It had felt like he’d walked for a mile or two… or three. Probably because each step had been so painful, not to mention slow. The cane helped, but it was no cure-all. In fact, not only was his leg in excruciating pain, but his left hand and wrist were throbbing. He realized he’d been gripping way too hard on the cane’s handle, much more than was necessary, but he felt so uncertain about his injured leg while walking, that he had over-compensated by holding the handle of his cane as though if he loosened his grip, a hole in the ground would open up and swallow him whole.
Returning his attention to the beauty captured in wood sculptures that all but filled the display window, Conyer was immediately lost in their delicacy, intricate designs, and nostalgic shapes. His aunt and uncle had taught Conyer to appreciate the lines, textures, and designs of different art mediums by exposing him to that element of life. And, he couldn’t remember ever seeing such beautiful pieces of art as what he was gazing on, well, other than oil paintings by one or two particular artists with whom he was enamored. And, of course, some glass blown works that always mesmerized him and took his thoughts to far away islands… he didn’t know why. Aunt Tierney always had told Conyer that art of any kind, if worthy of one’s interest, should move one emotionally. And, these wood sculpture pieces truly did just that.
Slowly perusing each piece, then moving to the next, Conyer’s perusal came to a screeching halt when he spied one specific sculpture that all but took his breath away. He didn’t know if it was the piece itself, or that it immediately transported his thoughts into the presence of Giselle Danvers.
There, standing no more than ten to twelve inches in height, were two slender legs, the feet of which were enclosed in a pair of delicate pink laced-up ballet slippers. Both feet were balanced on their toes. The legs at top started perhaps mid-calf. For some reason it made him think of the famous piece of sculpture of a woman whose arms were both missing, and yet it didn’t detract from the magnificence of the work exactly as it was.
While he stood transfixed, examining every square inch of its surface, there was a rapping on the window. When Conyer jumped slightly, the man inside the window saw and realized he’d startled the potential customer… he hoped! Hoped he would be a customer, that is.
The man inside removed the ballerina sculpture from the window and walked with it to the door of the establishment. Conyer followed his lead and joined him in the now-open doorway.
“Hi. I saw you looking at this piece, and thought you might want to see it ‘up close and personal.’ Would you like to hold it?” he said, as he proffered the beautiful piece of artwork to Conyer.
“I’d love to, but I’m kind of unsteady on my feet since my accident,” responded Conyer.
When the man’s smile began tu
rning down, Conyer quickly restored it by asking the man if he could come into the store and either sit somewhere, or balance against the counter and examine the sculpture up close.
“Yes, of course you can,” stated the salesman. “Here,” he said, as he walked away to a small table with a long-legged stool next to it. Conyer would much have preferred to be in a chair with arms and definitely at a lower level, but responded graciously by thanking the salesman and seating himself. It was awkward, because Conyer had to essentially sit on one hip, while letting his injured leg hang straight to the floor.
Totally oblivious to Conyer’s awkward and uncomfortable position, the salesman began spouting an obviously pre-rehearsed spiel on all the virtues of this piece of art. Conyer pretty much tuned the salesman out and silently began touching and turning the piece, using long finger strokes on the ballet slippers and ties.
After the salesperson asked Conyer several questions, none of which Conyer answered, nor even appeared to have heard, the salesman realized he was neither needed nor wanted, and simply walked away. He, of course, left the sculpted piece with Conyer. He was hoping that while Conyer sat alone with the piece, he’d fall more in love with it and would find it harder not to own it.
*****
Fifteen minutes later Conyer Whitefield had just purchased the sculpted wood ballerina feet, standing en pointe. He hadn’t previously known the term “en pointe”, until the salesman educated him. The term jumped into his mental schemata and there it stayed comfortably and permanently.
There had been several tense moments while Conyer and the man haggled over the price. The salesman kept expounding its virtues after each of his counter offers. Conyer, on the other hand, simply stated a counter price each time, and when the salesman shook his head, Conyer would simply push the art piece a couple of inches toward the salesman. Then the salesman would make another lowered counter price, then push the piece back toward Conyer. Had anyone been watching the exchange from outside the business window, they would have questioned if the two men were playing some kind of new-fangled chess game, or such.
After the counter-bid-then-push having been executed four or five time between them, Conyer looked up from the wood sculpture and asked, “What’s your name?”
Fixing His Broken Ballerina: Volume 1 Page 7