84 Ribbons: A Dancer's Journey

by Paddy Eger

  What if Lynne didn’t come straight back? What if she had car trouble or stopped to flirt with a mountain man? What if a prowling coyote or cougar stalked the cabin? Marta closed her eyes.

  The last section of her trek to the steps took every ounce of her energy. She’d lost the protection of the roofline and began crawling through snow. With each move forward, her right hand and right leg broke through sheets of shimmering icy crust.

  She slowed. Shivers changed to a strange feeling of warmth. She craved sleep.

  Marta pulled herself onto her right knee, turned, and sat on the bottom step, as exhausted as if she’d danced an entire ballet. One agonizing scoot at a time, she moved her bruised body up the steps, dragging her left leg like a foreign object tacked onto her body. At the top, she pushed against the door. Locked.

  The door must have latched behind her. She stared at the entry light; she’d never be able to reach the key. She slumped against the door and cried.

  Minutes slowed. Rhythmic throbbing and shivering cycled through her core. She held her injured hand against her body. It felt as cold as an ice pack. Hurry, Lynne.

  “Marta? Marta?”

  Shaking and shouting roused her. “Marta, what happened?”

  She closed her eyes until a slap against her cheek roused her again.

  “Marta. Wake up!”

  Car lights blinded her, but she recognized Lynne’s voice through the fog of coldness that enveloped her.

  “The railing... broke... my ankle...”

  “Oh, no! Oh, Marta! We’re driving straight back to town.”

  After considerable shoving and screams of pain, Marta sat hunched over in Lynne’s back seat, resting her bulbous left ankle on the back of the lowered front passenger seat. The awkward angle caused her to shelter her injured left hand against her chest. She shivered even with two blankets covering her.

  Maybe her ankle wasn’t broken. Could be a strain that would heal in a few days. Deep down, however, she knew that wasn’t true. Heartache crushed her spirit like the fall crushed her body.

  “How is it, Marta? Talk to me. Good thing you’re thin and light; I’d never have been able to lift…”

  Marta woke and slept as the drive to Billings stretched on. Every bump, every slip on the icy road exploded her pain. Three seconds on a porch gathering wood may have shattered her future as well as her bones.

  The garish blue neon emergency sign marked the hospital driveway. Lynne stopped abruptly and rushed away. Minutes later a nurse with two orderlies and a gurney pushed out the door with Lynne following close behind.

  They helped Marta wriggle from the backseat and onto the gurney. Inside, they wheeled her into an emergency room cubicle. She drifted off, dreaming about her first desires to become a pointe dancer.

  She’d walked with her mom to the studio, whirling and twirling down the sidewalk, chattering ninety miles an hour about pointe shoes and tutus. She’d reached the magical age of twelve, the first year pointe shoes were allowed. Today Miss Holland promised to hand out the coveted pink boxes.

  Marta sat on the cool tiled floor beside the other girls sewing satin ribbons onto her first pointe shoes. She stitched from side to side, every stitch tiny and perfect like her mom had taught her. Her excitement grew with each stitch.

  She stroked the perfect pink satin shoes, then struggled to slide her toes inside. They felt too snug. Her left foot ached as she pushed it into the shoe. A hand moved her hand away.

  “Marta? Marta?”

  She startled and opened her eyes to scan the colorless emergency room. A blanket covered her. She lay flat on her back. Lynne stood beside her.

  “Lynne? What—”

  “You were grabbing for your foot. An orthopedic doctor’s coming in. Once I told the emergency doc that you were a dancer, he didn’t want to touch your ankle. How do you feel?”

  “Awful. Every part of my body aches, and I’m thirsty.” Marta moved her head from side to side, swallowing her last bit of saliva.

  A doctor stepped into her white-curtained cubicle. “I’m Dr. Wycoff, the orthopedist. Let’s take x-rays and see what damage has been done.”

  Half an hour later the doctor returned and hung the x-ray film on a backlit screen.

  “Your ankle is broken,” he said. “Left hand is sprained. You have a nasty head wound and multiple deep bruises, but your cuts do not require stitches. I’m admitting you. We’ll clean you up tonight, then cast your ankle once the swelling decreases.”

  Marta’s eyes filled with tears that Lynne wiped away.

  Once Marta settled in her hospital room, the nurse placed a metal frame under the covers to lighten the weight of the blankets on her injured leg. She applied ice packs to Marta’s ankle and gave her sips of water.

  When Marta lifted her left hand, the bandage squeezed like an undersized glove. She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry I wanted that dumb chicken,” Lynne said from a seat in the corner of the room. “I feel guilty about this. It’s my fault.”

  Marta turned away from Lynne and focused on the blue neon emergency sign outside her window. It wavered like a ghostly image. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Mrs. B. is calling your mom. Should I call Steve?”

  Marta turned to face Lynne. “No. He’ll not be home until after the trip to the cabin. He’s helping a friend move to Bozeman then heading straight to the cabin. He’ll think we went to Spokane to see the Ballet Russe.” She fingered the necklace he’d given her last week. If only he knew where she’d gone and could come see her, she’d feel better.

  The door opened. Mrs. B. bustled in. Her tight mouth and her furrowed brow matched her worried voice. “How are you, Marta?”

  “Not great. Did you reach my mom?”

  “She’s on her way.” Mrs. B. squeezed Marta’s right hand, sharing her warmth.

  Marta held her breath to keep from crying.

  New Year’s Eve day became an endless loop of empty, painful minutes. Her cuts burned, many of her bruises were the size of dinner plates, her leg throbbed, and she ached from lying in bed. The biology lab smell of the hospital and the squeaky footsteps of the nurses played like a bad dream. If only she could escape and go to sleep in her own bed.

  Evening light filtered through the wide Venetian blind slats. As Marta adjusted her covers, a familiar staccato of steps approached her partially open door. Her mom.

  She rushed to the bed and swooped down, gathering Marta in a gentle hug. “Marta, honey, how are you?”

  A stream of tears slid down Marta’s face. Her mom brushed them aside. “That answers my question. What did the doctor say?”

  “He said I broke the scaphoid. That’s a small bone on top of my foot. How did you get here?”

  “I drove.”

  “Oh, M-mom.” She started to cry again.

  On New Year’s Day the boarders stopped in to visit. They brought a basket of fruit, a vase of yellow roses, and a bottle of 7-Up to celebrate the new year. After they toasted using Mrs. B.’s best wine glasses, they stayed while Marta’s mom recited funny stories of Marta’s growing up years. The embarrassment of those events distracted her from her pain. But she worried about Steve and his friends finding the broken railing and the wood scattered near the cabin. Would he think someone had tried to break in? Would he be disappointed thinking she’d not come? What a mess.

  As visiting hours ended, Marta readied herself for another restless night with the blue emergency light reflecting off the window blind. Perhaps 1958 would be a better year.

  The white-uniformed nurses woke her through the night to check her blood pressure and adjust the tent over her leg. Her mom dozed in the narrow chair by the window. Marta gave up trying to sleep and counted hushed footsteps in the hall until dawn.

&
nbsp; Lack of sleep left Marta feeling fuzzy. While she had a sponge bath, her mom disappeared and returned with a shopping bag. Marta opened the bag cautiously, then smiled as she lifted out a large blue leatherette scrapbook.

  The pages revealed dance photos and recital programs across several years. “Oh, Mom! My butterfly costume and my first solo costume.”

  “I started this years ago. I brought it along thinking we could work on it together; take your mind off your injuries.”

  Doctor Wycoff entered. “Morning, Miss …” the doctor flipped open her chart. “Miss Selbiff. Are you experiencing any pain?”

  “Off and on.”

  The doctor checked her eyes. “Possible concussion. Let’s check that foot.” He slid the bedcover aside and began fingering Marta’s foot and ankle.

  She winced when he added pressure.

  “The swelling’s diminished. We’ll cast it tomorrow.”

  “When can I put weight on it?”

  “Seven weeks to add weight. Total recovery will take fifteen to twenty weeks.”

  “Twenty weeks?”

  “It’s a sensitive fracture. If we rush it, you might never walk correctly or dance again. The time will go quickly.” He lowered her foot, straightened the covers, and hung her chart on the end of the bed as he left the room.

  Marta lay back, inhaling ragged breaths. Twenty weeks! Five months! By then the ballet company would have danced Giselle and Serenade. Only the tribute to American composers would be left.

  “Marta? Honey?” Her mom touched her shoulder.

  Marta heard her and felt her touch but couldn’t reply. Maybe Dr. Wycoff was wrong. What if he was right? What if she could never dance again? Should she go home and see a specialist in Seattle? Dancing was the only thing she knew how to do. She hunched her shoulders and wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shaking apart.

  “Mom, why don’t you take a break. Go get coffee or a snack. I need to sleep.”

  Her mom re-straightened the bed covers, brushed back Marta’s hair, then left.

  As soon as the door closed and she heard her mom’s footsteps fade, Marta covered her face with a pillow and cried.

  The rest of the morning Marta replayed Dr. Wycoff’s timeline through her mind as a continuous nightmare. Twenty weeks without dancing would take forever. Should go home or stay? Did it matter? Maybe.

  Her mom sat in a corner reading a magazine when Marta’s door opened slowly. Lynne entered carrying a bouquet. “Hi, Mrs. Selbryth. Hi, Marta. How do you feel today?”

  “Better.”

  “Good.” Lynne handed a bouquet of carnations to Marta. “I hope you like red. Take a whiff. They smell good.”

  “I love red carnations. Thanks.” Marta sniffed them. “Um-m. Put them in with the flowers from the boarders.”

  Lynne added them to the existing bouquet, then picked up the scrapbook. “What’s this?”

  “Mom brought my dance photo album for us to work on.”

  Lynne sat on the edge of the bed, turning pages. She laughed. “You were cute as a cat.”

  “That’s a lion for Carnival of the Animals. I had a ten second solo.”

  Lynne flipped through the photos and stopped at a hand-written paper.

  “What’s this? You used to write with curly cues. So girly.”

  Marta fingered the notebook paper. “It’s the first page of my sixth grade report on ballet history. She silently read what she had written.

  Ballet started in Italy, in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. At first men were the only ones allowed to dance. They put on wigs and pretended to be women.

  King Louis XIV liked to dance. When he got too fat to dance, he started a dance school. Soon women began dancing.

  “I felt so proud of myself. I brought in my new pointe shoes and a costume.”

  Lynne snorted a laugh. “Guess we can thank old Louis XIV for our careers.”

  Marta stared off in space. “I’ll get fat like King Louis if I don’t dance.”

  “Marta, stop worrying about your weight. You’re thin as a rail.”

  Her mom looked up over the magazine she was reading. “That’s right, honey,” her mom said. “Why should anything change over a few months? You’ve never gained weight in the past when you were sick.”

  Marta closed the scrapbook and crossed her arms over it. “That’s because I watch what I eat. I’ve not eaten all I wanted for years.”

  Lynne backed away.

  “We exercise and attend classes three to four hours every morning and afternoon. You know I’d get sick if I ate a normal meal.”

  “Yes, but Marta, honey. When you weren’t dancing you ate, didn’t you?”

  “Hardly. I spit food in my napkin, then threw it in the garbage when you left the room. Would you have let me eat baby-size portions?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Exactly.”

  Her mom stood and moved to look out the window.

  “I had to do it for dancing, Mom. Besides, the long hours were exhausting. I’d lose my appetite anyway. We talked about that at Christmas.”

  Her mom remained silent with her back toward Marta. When she turned around, her face looked ashen. “When did my sweet daughter stop taking care of herself?”

  “I take care of myself, but I’ve gotten my dream answered. I won’t do anything to ruin my career as a dancer, and gaining weight might end my chances to dance. Who wants to watch a fat dancer?”

  A nurse entered with a tray of food and swung the hospital table over Marta’s lap. “Time for lunch.”

  Marta saw her mom close her eyes and shake her head. “It’s up to you. To mend you need to eat. I’m going to leave you two alone. I’ll be in the cafeteria.”

  Two? Lynne stood pressed against the wall, her eyes focused on the floor. “Oh my God, Lynne. I forgot you were here.”

  “That’s what I figured. Sounds like you and your mom need a private discussion.”

  “I get so frustrated when she brings up eating.”

  “You don’t eat much, Marta.“

  “Not you too?”

  Lynne raised her palms toward Marta. “I won’t say anything more. I’m out of here. See you tomorrow if my not-so-trusty car doesn’t conk out.” The door swung open and drifted closed. Marta sat alone.

  The food on the tray looked hideous: orange Jell-o, bits of chicken surrounded by white flour gravy, six pale green beans, a dinner roll, and a cup of watery tea. Marta picked up her fork in her right hand. It felt so awkward, considering she never ate using that hand. She rescued the chicken from the gravy and took one bite. She shuddered as she stabbed a green bean and began chewing, lonely for her mom’s company and praying she hadn’t damaged her friendship with Lynne.

  18

  As the nurse removed the tray, Marta’s mom re-entered the room, eyeing the leftovers. She moved to the window and peeked through the blinds. “Where’s Lynne?”

  “She left after you did.”

  Her mom sat down on the chair in the corner and opened her Life magazine. The silence in the room hung heavy as a velvet curtain.

  Marta’s thoughts shifted to her dad’s fall. It haunted her whenever she closed her eyes and relived her terror. She’d never asked about it, but now she needed answers.

  “Mom? What do you know about how dad died?”

  Her mom’s head jerked up from the magazine. “Nothing more than I’ve told you in the past. Why?”

  “I wondered if you’d kept anything from me because I was so young.”

  Her mom stepped to the window and used her fingers to spread the slats of the blinds apart. “I told you what I knew. He fell into the empty dry dock when a railing collapsed.”

  Marta shuddered, remembering the sombe
r strangers sitting in her home as she walked in from school. “Did he suffer?”

  Her mom turned to face her. “They said it happened in a flash. They’d just drained the dry dock, getting ready to repair the hull of the battleship. He landed on the metal floor.”

  “When I fell, I thought about him. I wondered if he felt any fear, if he knew he was about to die.”

  Her mom moved to the bed and held Marta’s right hand. Her lips tightened; she blinked slowly. “I don’t know. I try not to think about it.”

  “As I fell off the porch, I wondered if I might die.”

  “Oh, Marta.” Her mom started crying. “I can’t imagine how lonely you felt.”

  “I thought of you, and I knew I had to be brave.”

  “Come home with me, honey. Let me take care of you.”

  “I can’t. I’ve thought a lot about it. If I leave, Madame Cosper may give away my position. By staying, I’ll convince her I’m serious and that I plan to rejoin the company. Can you see why I can’t risk leaving?”

  “Yes. I know you’ve made a life here and--“

  “That’s not all true. Sure Lynne, Bartley, and Steve are important to me, but the big reason is Madame. She doubts their selecting me for the company.”

  “She hired you. Why do you say such a thing?”

  Marta squirmed under her mom’s gaze. “When I first arrived, I made a terrible mistake. I mimicked Madame, and she saw me. When I went to apologize, she told me I wasn’t her first choice. Since then she’s given me the roles no one wants. I’ve done whatever she’s asked without complaint. If I leave, she’ll think I’ve given up.”

  The next morning Marta’s cast extended from her foot to below her knee. The nurse spent half an hour smoothing on layer upon layer of plaster, creating a white log heavier than her entire body. Great. Now she looked broken and helpless.