by Ellie Hall
I never unpacked from the trip north. Haven’t so much as aired out my hockey gear. I know, gross. I do so now and find a romance novel written by someone named K.C. Flynn. I vaguely recall Lottie mentioning the author was a friend. She must’ve stashed it in my bag when we were at the rink.
The spine opens to where she’d dog-eared the page. The first lines read He left her because he had something to lose. He missed her because he loved her. He returned to her because she was home.
The cover is of the back of a person standing in front of a map. Reminds me of my blog that I’ve abandoned. The last post was Where in the World is the Word Nerd?
Where did I go? Where did I land? Do I want to be here?
The answer comes in black and white like the words on the page. No, I want to be with Lottie. I miss her. I love her. She is home. I’ve never felt lonely when I’m with her.
My roots are in Seaswell. Yet I left. What’s holding me back from returning? Fear? The death of my mother and best friend?
What about hockey and my career? They’ve held me together, but are they enough? What will happen if I cut my past out of my life entirely?
I’ll no longer be truly living. I won’t be free. I have to face the past if I want to live now and in the future.
In the next days, the stuck, silent, and scared parts of myself shrivel up, letter by letter, word by word as though I’ve finally faced them.
At work, I lean heavily on the doorframe by the blood donation station, feeling as though I’m disintegrating, but still, I continue to breathe. My heart beats. It leads me home. It leads me to Lottie.
My thoughts spin as I fall in and out of thought, the memory of bird calls overlap with the shushing of the ocean and Oma’s comment to Lottie when they first met. “In case no one told you, life isn’t always easy. Or fair. I’m telling you that now. Don’t forget it, especially if you’re dating my grandson. He’s selfish and neglectful. Be prepared for disappointment. Don’t expect anything more than that.”
Lottie said she wasn’t promised she wouldn’t get wet.
My mind refuses to quiet.
Can I write a new story where I’m not so stubborn, lonely, searching? Can I write it with Lottie?
I glance up at the sign by the doorway to the room. Next to the words Blood Donation Station is a red heart, a symbol for life. For love.
But I don’t need a sign because everything between Lottie and me was more than symbolic. I discovered not fear but curiosity. Not loneliness but connection. Not regret but daring. And all of that comes back to love in all its forms.
Venturing north with a broken arm as if I were on a quest and meeting Lottie who’s beautiful, fierce, and funny made for an epic spring break. An adventure. Secret kisses. Games won. A heart healed until I broke it all over again...and hers.
I have four days off after pulling a few ten-hour shifts. I grab my bag from my apartment, still not unpacked, and head to the car.
As I drive north and into the dawn, through the windshield, a soft amber glow winks above the purple line of the horizon. I watch it patiently, inch by undiscernible inch, as it illuminates. Molten liquid meets the ocean as though for the first time. The first time every time, every day. And just a little bit, my heart melts, with the beauty of wonder.
A memory of my mother filters back. We were watching the sunrise. I was little. Turned out it was the last time she’d see it. I’d see her. Didn’t understand. I’d asked, “What do you see?”
She’d looked to me and whispered, “I see wonder.”
I continue to drive as if I’m drawing closer to the period at the end of the sentence, I want to string out as many minutes and seconds as I can with Oma and Lottie...before it’s too late. See as many sunrises as I’ll be given. I wonder if there’s a future for us. I hope. I pray.
23
Pairs Skating
Lottie
I spend most of my waking hours with Oma, Magnolia, and baking. Cookie & Cupcake have won the collective sweet tooth of half the town.
Yet, the pieces of my heart took off that stormy day and have yet to return.
On the upside, we’ve turned the Cookie & Cupcake operation into a well-oiled machine and have orders for birthdays, anniversaries, and parties. We built a website, but I still haven’t decided if I want to commit to opening a storefront.
My weeks with Oma are almost up. She’s made it clear she doesn’t want Magnolia but would keep the both of us if we came as a package. Taking care of the dog doesn’t interest her even though they’ve become friends.
We’ve all changed in the last months. Oma for the better as she’s opened up, softened. Magnolia has become a naughty biscuit beggar. As for me? I’ve gotten funky—and not in the let’s get groovy and dance kind of way. Nor do I smell like a towel left on the bathroom floor overnight. Okay, maybe slightly. But more like the funk Oma described.
In the afternoon, while she knits, I update the website and other social media accounts with photos, process orders, email customers, and then create a spreadsheet of what we need to bake for the week.
After Rusty left, it’s like Zoe sensed the only way I’d be able to keep up with my half of the company is if we automated as much as possible. That also increases efficiency and means we can spend more time in the kitchen.
Both women were there for me as my tears came, as wet as rain. Oma in her quiet way made sure I ate and got outside with Magnolia. Zoe in her boisterous way brought ice cream and we watched countless movies, including Singing in the Rain, an old classic where the characters face unrequited love, find romance, and ultimately band together.
I’m using the theme song for my program in the showcase.
Both of them insisted I skate again. Aside from these two unlikely women and the dog, the rink has been my saving grace. I updated my parents about Magnolia without giving them all the details but haven’t decided where to go from here.
The knitting needles go quiet as if Oma senses I dug deeper into my funk. “We should get ready soon.”
When I don’t budge, Oma gets up and snaps her fingers. “The ice waits for no one. Let’s go.”
I follow orders.
Before the Ice Palace fills up, I warm up, It’s almost like my blades are dull—though the Ice Wizard sharpened them only a couple of days ago—or maybe something holds me back, tying me to the past. I push through, trying to gain the momentum to lift off the ice, but my legs are heavy, reluctant. I do a lap, hoping to reset my focus, but my breath is shallow. No matter how hard I try, I can’t draw it deep into my chest.
I stop in the center and close my eyes, imagining the arena filled later, the clapping and cheering, the music, the energy that drew me to performing and competing, to begin with. But it’s as though something smothers the sense, the memory, the sound in my ears.
I slide to the exit, not sure that I have the motivation for the showcase later. Rusty waits on the bleachers, wearing his Storm sweatshirt. I’d like to crawl underneath and take a nap, disappear for a little while or just melt into the ice. Either way.
He gets to his feet.
I resist the magnetic pull that is Dr. Koenig, Rusty, the hockey stud.
“Hi,” he says gently.
“I have to go.” I totter on my skates in the little doorway between the rink and the hall.
Rusty gets to his feet. “Can we talk?”
An unexpected and loud laugh punches its way out of my mouth. “You want to talk? Ironic.”
I brush past, but my blade wedges into a crevice in the floor and I falter. Trying to regain my balance, I knock into him. He grabs my arm, steadying us both.
“I took some time to get my head on straight. I had to do some tough thinking. I realized that I was wrong for leaving you.”
“You think?” The sarcasm in my voice is as thick as the ice on the rink.
“First, I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“But you did. The damage is done.”
I rush into
the warm room, already unlacing my skates in my mind. When he follows me in there, I hurry to the girls’ locker room. I have to perform in front of an audience later. This is the worst possible timing. And that, folks, is just my luck.
Rusty hurtles through the door.
“No boys allowed,” I say, holding my hands in front of myself even though I’m fully clothed.
“There’s no sign on the door. And it’s empty in here.”
I cock a hip. “For now. It won’t be in about twenty minutes when everyone else arrives to get ready.”
He sits down on the bench and scrubs his hand down his face. “I’m sorry. I got scared. I wanted to run, to retreat from the possibility that you’ll leave me too.”
I want his words to stave off the pain I’ve felt all this time. The tears. They don’t.
Then he adds, “By taking off, I did to you what happened to me. I thought I was protecting you when really I was hurting you.”
He brushes his hand down my arm. The stubble on his face would be attractive if my guard weren’t up.
“Oftentimes, the curses and gifts in our lives exist side by side. It’s in our wounds we have the option and opportunity to do good. Otherwise, we remain stuck and prolong our suffering. It’s up to use to use our gifts instead of letting them curse us because there is always someone else looking for the healing we’ve experienced. That’s the gift. I became a doctor. But that’s not enough. I ran from you. From us because of that wound. Please forgive me.”
I gaze at my skates. “I’ve always been a coper, relied upon to adapt, but this, whatever we had, was different. Then you left. It crushed me.”
He takes my wrist, drawing me close. “What would you say if I promised never to leave you again?”
I wobble, not sure I can trust him.
“Whoa there.” Again, he steadies me with one hand on my hip. The buzz starts, the same one that I felt the first time we touched in the blood bank. This time I don’t fear passing out. Rather, falling into his arms. He’s the one for me, but how can I be sure he’s telling the truth about the way he feels?
I know better and shake my head. “I want to believe you. But—”
“But actions speak louder than words. I know.” He gets to his feet and kisses the top of my head. “Good luck out there. I’ll be in the crowd watching.”
Knowing this and with his lips marking the crown of my head, I stand a little taller. I realize performing in this showcase is bigger than Oma, Zoe, and the Ice Wizard twisting my arm. For me, skating again is a way to heal. To trust again. To regain my confidence.
I peek out the locker room door and watch Rusty cross the warm room where he finds his grandmother seated with a blanket around her shoulders. He joins her and two other people. I squint. Then tilt my head. I blink a few times.
“Mom? Dad?” I whisper.
I shrink inside the doorway as the Ice Wizard greets women and men, young and old, likely former students and friends as crowds fill in the bleachers.
“What’s going on?” I turn in a slow circle as a gaggle of girls in pink cheetah print doing a group performance come in on a chorus of giggles.
The atmosphere at the Ice Palace in preparation for the showcase is different from the hockey games. It’s a mixture of anticipation and reunion. I open my locker, ready to change, but instead of the plain leotard I borrowed, there’s a wad of blue fabric, glistening with silver sequins and crystals. It’s stunning even under the flickering fluorescent light above. There’s a note that says Love, Oma.
Stitched discretely into the side is a little cupcake. I slide into the asymmetrical style, with one long blue sleeve and the other nude, making the crystals on it appear as though they’re part of my skin. I lace up, beaming.
Just before I exit to the arena, Zoe pushes into the locker room. “I just need two minutes. That man out there is crazy about you. He flew your—” She slaps her hand over her mouth.
“My parents. I saw.”
“Okay. The cookie is out of the bag. I guess it pays to be a doctor and know people in high places with private jets. Mr. Fancy Pants.”
“I used think of him as Dr. Cutie McCute Stuff,” I say, resisting the faintest of smiles that threatens to crack through my protective exterior.
She grins. “Okay, but seriously. I made a big mistake once. I made a terrible choice and hurt him badly. Yet, he’s shown me forgiveness. He’s a better man than me.” She snorts.
“You’re not a man.”
“You know what I mean. Anyway, whatever you do, please forgive him. You don’t have to forget or throw yourself into his arms, but please accept his apology.”
“Did he put you up to this?”
She wrinkles her nose. “Definitely not. I just. I have a feeling—” She jitters at the same time the show manager hollers, “Two minutes.”
Zoe and I meet each other with soft eyes of understanding.
“I think I’m past hurt or before it. In the confusion stage and not only because of his mixed messages but because being with a guy is new to me. With him, things clicked and—”
“One minute.”
Zoe holds up her hand. “We can talk about it some other time if you want. I’ll only say that if you hurt him or if he hurts you, you both know who you’ll have to answer to.” She chuckles, steps closer, and places her hands in mine. “What I want you to do right now is go out there and don’t fall. I’d tell you not to break a leg, but I know a good doctor. Just skate your butt off.” Her smile pierces any lingering discomfort over the subject of her shared past with Rusty that I may have had.
I crack a smile, and as I step toward the door, I give an uncharacteristic, and subtle little shake of my sparkly butt. She laughs sweetly as the door swings shut.
I glimpse the spectators filling the bleachers, many of them nibbling cookies and cupcakes. Zoe must have snuck away from the table to talk to me.
“Thirty seconds until showtime.”
I amble on my skates toward the skater area while the Ice Wizard rides the Zamboni, waving to kids in the audience and chucking candy over the Plexiglas wall.
I take a deep sip of the cold air, trying to draw it down to the bottom of my lungs, but it’s still stuck, right around my diaphragm. I spot Oma, my parents, and Rusty seated together in the front row. Mom and Dad must’ve met him. He must’ve told them. This doesn’t help my inability to breathe. A bouquet of blush peonies, snapdragons, and freesias rests in Oma’s lap. Part of me, most of me, doesn’t want to leave her. This town. The Ice Palace. But my two months are up.
I have to make a decision about my next steps. Magnolia too.
Oma must sense my eyes on her or my trepidation. She turns stiffly and gives me a tiny wave.
Rusty catches my gaze and mouths Good luck.
I wait with the other skaters. Perspiration beads my brow, my hands go clammy, and my breath comes short. It isn’t the performance that has my nerves in a bundle. There’s little to no consequence tonight. This is for fun. Not to mention I know my program from front to back. I’m worried about what comes after and after that and then after that.
Shortly after the lights go down. The Ice Wizard slides onto the ice, a graceful yeti. He welcomes everyone to the twelfth annual Eliot Sanderson Showcase, thanks us for watching, participating, and supporting the rink. He cracks a few jokes and then invites the first number onto the ice. A group of five girls, each under the age of ten. Their set is impeccable and darling. A couple comes on next and there is no doubt whether they’re an actual couple in the way they caress each other and the ice. There are a few singles, and then my name booms through the arena.
I glide onto the center of the rink. Before the first notes of my song—Singing in the Rain, perfect given the color of my costume—ring out, I skate toward the announcer’s box. I sense collective confusion from the crowd.
The balding announcer’s eyebrows creep up toward his forehead when I approach.
“Is it okay if I say something to th
e audience?”
He probably thinks I’m a nervous wreck but passes me the microphone, anyway.
I clear my throat. “Thank you all for coming tonight. I’m Lottie and I want to dedicate my performance to Valda, Magnolia, Zoe, the Ice Wizard, and Rusty. In just one month, they’ve taught me more than I dared expect, but especially to live this, right now. Thank you.”
A wave of applause fills the area as I zoom back to center ice.
The music comes up. I cross-step and glide, spin and jump. My landings are perfect. While I gain momentum for my toe loop, I suck air, my breath stuttering. I push and push, exhaling fully and with that last push, I realize I carry around the past along with certain truths that I’d told myself, like a security blanket, knit into the fabric of my being.
I pump my legs harder, charging into my toe loop, and all at once all the tangles and snarls loosen and then unravel, trailing out behind me. I land, triumphantly in an arabesque before raising my arms skyward. The last notes of the song echo across the arena and I take my bow, my breath coming long and full at last.
The lights go down, leaving me stranded, but as I start to make my way slowly to the exit, a spotlight shines on a tall, broad-shouldered figure gliding toward me.
His eyes shine and so does something in his hand.
Time and sound and awareness fade as Rusty lowers onto one knee.
“Words can’t quite capture how I feel, but I will try.”
He gazes at me like he truly sees me.
“All this time, I was searching. Looking behind and ahead and away. It wasn’t until I stopped and looked at what I have that I finally felt complete. Whole. Not busted or broken or lost. I found you, Lottie.”
Remembering the day at the hospital and then at the train station, I say, “Technically, we found each other.”
He smirks. “That’s just it, you take laughter very, very seriously. I can count too many days that I went without it, and when you appeared in my life, I have hardly stopped smiling.”
Whether from skating or the shiny object in Rusty’s hand, when he takes mine, it shakes.