The Sea in Winter

by Christine Day

My knee throbs slightly as I climb the ladder to the main viewpoint. It’s a steep, short set of steps leading to a balcony with a wooden guardrail, which overlooks the ocean and Tatoosh Island.

  And as I stand in the middle of it, surrounded by the wind and the water and the sky, the swishing briars and hushed fir trees and the conversations my parents and Connor are having, I realize this balcony reminds me of a set piece. From Romeo and Juliet.

  The balcony.

  The thought makes me smile.

  I close my eyes and feel the air move around me. That weightless lift of my fingertips. That familiar restless energy in my toes.

  “Is Maisie sleeping?” Connor moves closer to me. He pokes me in the side. “Maisie, are you asleep?”

  I open my eyes. Bite back the annoyance. “I’m awake, Con.”

  “Oh. It looked like you were taking a nap.”

  I turn my back on him. I go down the ladder, ready to go off and find some other quiet place. Some viewpoint where I can be alone.

  My feet touch the ground, and I lift my face to the sky, to all those bending branches and drifting clouds. And I’m daydreaming again about returning to the studio. About standing in my sanctuary. That bright, open space. The wide windows. The mirror-lined walls.

  And then the impossible happens.

  My foot catches on a root. There is a split second of unstoppable momentum. A white-hot zing of pain.

  And I catch myself too late.

  29

  End of the Road II

  February 19

  I cry out as the pain crumples me. I sense my family in a flurry behind me, Mom’s and Jack’s voices pitched in panic as I lift my foot and try to hop to the nearest tree trunk to support myself. But the roots jutting out of the ground form a perilous web, and I trip again, catching myself on my hands. Jolting my elbows. The fingers of my fuzzy pink mittens dig into the damp soil, the cold seeping through to my skin.

  And the pain. How can it be so intense? How is this even possible? One second, barely nudged at the wrong angle, and it’s like all my months of physical therapy and recovery and carefulness have been erased. The pain is searing. It empties the air from my lungs. Tears well in my eyes. I gasp and croak. The muscles in my knee throb and tighten to excruciating uselessness.

  “Maisie?” Jack appears at my side. His arm tightens around my waist, holding me up. His eyes scan my face, my body. “Maisie, what happened?”

  But I can’t speak. I can’t form sentences.

  My mind is racing, speeding through the hours and days and months ahead, and my heart is pounding, and I can’t even bring myself to stop or wipe away the burning tears on my cheeks. A ragged sob rips through me. My right foot is still lifted, dangling helplessly. I swallow a breath and try to hold it behind my sternum as I gingerly tilt and try to put weight on the leg, but I can’t. The pain ripples all the way through me. My leg nearly collapses. Bright spots form along the edges of my vision.

  Mom is in front of me now, and she’s saying, “It’s okay, sweetheart.” She’s saying, “It’s okay, keep your weight off of it. Don’t press down. Just lift your foot—yes, that’s right. That’s my girl.”

  A pathetic mewling sound rises in my throat. Terror grips me by the jaw. My teeth are clenched so tight, I briefly fear they might crack and break. But even that wouldn’t be any worse than this.

  I’ve already had the surgery. The surgery that was supposed to fix everything. I’ve had the surgery, and I’ve been in physical therapy for months, I’ve been hitting every milestone. And for what?

  How will I ever return from this?

  I won’t. I won’t.

  “I need you to put your arm around my shoulders,” Jack says. “We’re going back to the car now, okay? And I’m going to help you. But I need you to lean on me a little bit. I need you to trust me.”

  I’m hiccuping sobs. And I’m reaching across his shoulders, accidentally smearing bits of dirt on his black winter jacket. My fuzzy pink mittens are smudged in filth. Probably ruined. Like my knee.

  Like me.

  Jack helps me hobble a few steps back up the trail. But the roots seem to suddenly be springing up everywhere. Blocking me in. My foot on the ground is cramping, the arch of it burning.

  “Here,” Jack says, bending to pick me up. “Here, let me carry you.”

  And I know he’s being as careful as he can, but the moment his arm sweeps behind my legs to hoist me up, the pain turns black and twists through me. Leaves me gaping like a fish out of water. Suffocating on oxygen.

  “Okay, okay, that didn’t work.” He sets me down but keeps my arm wrapped around his shoulders. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Take the walking stick,” Mom says, thrusting it into my free hand. “There you go. Is that better?”

  The walking stick. I take it from her. Lean against it. And through my blurry vision, I blink up ahead, where Connor is standing. Watching me with wide brown eyes. He is covering his ears with his hands. His lower lip is trembling.

  “Maisie?” he says. And his voice is smaller, softer than I’ve ever heard it before.

  I hate the fact that I’m the one who made him go quiet like this. That I’m scaring him like this.

  “Come on,” Jack urges me. “Keep moving. Keep leaning on me. You’re going to be okay, Maisie.”

  My lungs are contracting. Squeezing like fists. Oxygen pulses through my gritted teeth. And I’m starting to feel light-headed. I’m starting to realize I can’t slow my breathing down. It’s slipping out of my control. Out of me. Out, out, out—

  “Breathe slowly,” Jack says. “Everything is going to be okay. Just breathe.”

  “No,” I manage to croak. Because it’s not. Nothing is okay.

  Mom and Jack exchange glances. Then Mom swoops in closer, resting a gentle hand on the center of my back.

  “Don’t say that,” Mom whispers.

  Another sound rises in my throat. A desperate cry from somewhere deep in my belly. It builds like a tidal wave and crashes over me, through me, ripping the inside of my throat raw. The sheer agony of it. The pain of it rivals the clenched, burning throb in my knee.

  All my hard work. Years of my life, convinced I knew exactly what I wanted to do. Convinced that I had found my passion. That if I could only continue to practice, to work hard and pour all my love into it, I would persist. Maybe join a major company. Maybe tour the world’s stages. Maybe perform in productions of Giselle or Coppélia or Don Quixote. Maybe become the next Noelani Pantastico.

  The first Maisie Cannon.

  But it’s all over. That much is clear now.

  Jack’s arm tightens around my waist. He half carries me across the uneven ground, back onto the boardwalk. The slick and slanting wooden planks. My family surrounds me as slowly, painfully, we continue up the trail. Tears and snot stream freely down my face. I try to pause and wipe the mess away, but there’s too much of it. And it’s too embarrassing, smearing snot across my upper lip and struggling to hold my balance on one foot, while my whole family is watching.

  And so, I’m forced to let it flow. The tears run hot down my cheeks, cooling as they drip down my chin. And all I can do is shudder through the pain. Watch as my breath forms small clouds in the air.

  And think about everything I should have done differently.

  30

  An Eternity

  February 19

  An eternity passes, and we finally make it back to the top of the trail. My arms are tired from supporting myself on the walking stick and Jack’s shoulders. It reminds me of the soreness and bruised armpits I used to get from using my crutches.

  I’ll probably be back on crutches again soon. Mr. Lawson will probably want to see me twice a week, same as before. And he’ll probably ask me not to go to the dance school auditions this spring. He’ll advise against a summer intensive program. Against me following my dreams.

  I can’t stop sniffling. My eyes feel red and puffy. The tear tracks down my cheeks have g
one cold. Sweaty strands of my hair are stuck to my lips, my face; I can feel them sticking out at odd angles from beneath my pink beanie.

  My knee is still uselessly throbbing. Seizing. Aching.

  That oversized bright blue chair has come back into view. The one Mom wanted all of us to take a picture with when we first got here. As we carry on toward the car, she doesn’t even suggest it, and for some reason, this just upsets me more. Even though I don’t want my picture taken right now. The fact that she won’t ask bothers me more than I care to admit.

  I feel like I’m ruining everything. Like I’ve been chipping away at this whole vacation. And now I’ve blown it all to pieces. This midwinter break. Their happiness. My dance career.

  All of it.

  Mom rushes ahead to open the car door for me. Jack continues to support my weight as we cross the asphalt. I reach for the top of the car and wince as I carefully lower myself to the seat.

  Jack’s voice is gentle as he asks, “Got it?”

  I look straight ahead and nod. I whisper, “Thanks.” And I wish I could say more, but that single word snags painfully in my throat.

  Connor opens the door across from me, and is about to climb into his booster seat, but Mom stops him. She pats him on the shoulder. Unzips her wallet. Hands him a crisp ten-dollar bill. “Go put this in the donation box by the walking sticks,” Mom tells him. “We’re going to keep this one for Maisie.”

  Connor immediately dashes off to deposit the money. Mom opens the trunk to tuck the walking stick away. Jack closes my car door and circles around to the driver’s side.

  I close my eyes. Focus on breathing.

  The rest of my family piles into the car. The doors clap shut. Seat belts click into buckles. I hear the jangle of keys, the flick in the ignition, the awakening gasp of the engine. Then we roll backward, the tires peeling across the wet asphalt, crunching bits of gravel.

  Connor is the first to speak: “Does it feel better now, Maisie?”

  I exhale. Shake my head. And that small motion seems to shake loose more tears, because suddenly my eyes are filled to the brim again, and I’m whimpering. Sucking in tight little breaths to hold myself together. Trying and failing to feel okay.

  Softly, my mother says: “Everything will be okay.”

  But how can she know that? How could anyone possibly know that?

  We don’t. We don’t.

  31

  Even Worse

  February 19

  It’s a long and winding drive back to Port Angeles, and Jack takes us straight to the hospital. He pulls up to the drop-off area, and I’m staring at the glowing red letters that spell “EMERGENCY” across the side of the beige building. Short banks of dirty slush are pushed against the edges of the road. It’s dark now, just past twilight, and the pain in my knee hasn’t dulled at all.

  Jack throws the car into park; he and Mom rush to open my car door.

  I’m sitting with my ruined pink mittens and matching beanie in my lap. Both are limp and wet with dirt and sweat. And I know—without looking—that my hair is a mess.

  The car door opens. Jack takes one look at the defeated slump of my shoulders and asks, “Can you walk?”

  “I don’t know,” I croak. “It feels even worse right now.”

  “Can I try carrying you again? Do you think that might help?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Okay,” Jack says. “Turn to face me.”

  I unbuckle my seat belt. Push myself with slow, painful movements, grabbing the seat in front of me for stability. The side of my knee barely brushes the cushion, and it seizes again. The pain rockets through me. Takes my breath away.

  “Easy,” Jack says gently. “There’s no rush.”

  I’m panting. Gasping for air like I just completed a grand allegro combination. Mom is hovering behind Jack, watching me with concerned brown eyes. Connor is still fiddling with the buckles attached to his booster seat, the straps across his chest; I can tell he wants to get out, to find some way to help. “Mom,” he says. “Mommy, I want out. Can I get out, please?”

  “Connor, stay put for now. Okay, sweetie?”

  “But, Mommy, Maisie needs my help—”

  “I’m okay, Con,” I manage to say through gritted teeth. “Don’t worry, I’m—”

  I cut myself off with a sharp intake of breath. Jack leans down; he eases his arms around me, and I loop mine around his neck as he lifts me from the car. A high-pitched sound escapes from me as he cradles me in his arms.

  He murmurs an apology and tries to shift my weight so that he isn’t putting any pressure on my knee. Connor is frantic now, pulling uselessly at the seat belt, kicking his legs out in front of him. “Maisie,” he’s saying. “Maisie. Daddy, wait for me!”

  Jack addresses Mom and says, “I’ve got her. Take Connor and find a parking spot while I get Maisie checked in, okay?”

  Mom nods, several times and fast. She presses close, places one hand on my tearstained cheek, and drops a kiss onto my forehead. She says, “I love you.” She says, “I love you so much, and we’re going to get through this, okay? The doctors will know what to do.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  Jack carries me away, his strides long and brisk as he steps onto the sidewalk. Connor is still calling out, still flailing in the back seat, and I hear the tears in his voice as Mom circles the car and hastily tries to readjust his buckles.

  As Jack walks through the automatic doors, I open my eyes and catch a glimpse of Mom climbing behind the wheel. I see Connor’s worried face pressed against his window as she pulls away from the curb.

  32

  Hurt People Hurt People

  February 19

  The ER nurses and doctors who see me say that I’m lucky. They say that the tendon didn’t detach again, that it didn’t sever or snap like a rubber band pulled too far.

  But it is strained. And it will continue to be painful. And I did damage some of the other tendons and ligaments around my knee, so I will need to wear a brace and use crutches again, at least for a little while.

  The nurse who filled out my paperwork asked, “How did this happen the first time?”

  And Jack answered for me by saying, “Ballet. My daughter is a dance student.”

  “Oh!” The nurse’s face brightened, until she looked at me again and she said: “Oh. Well, I’m so sorry you’re going through this.”

  Ten minutes later, the doctor whisked open the curtain by my hospital bed and said, “So I heard we have a ballerina in today!”

  It made me want to disappear and leave my own body behind.

  Which is kind of what I did, actually. Because ever since that doctor swooped in, with his grand gestures and his medical language and his coffee breath, I’ve checked out. I’ve heard what the adults said as they spoke across my prone body, talking about diagnostic tests and next steps and recovery plans. I was there as they sat me down in a wheelchair and rolled me into the lab for an MRI. I clenched my teeth as they strapped a fitted neoprene brace to my knee, despite how much the pain medication had helped to take away my discomfort.

  It was just the sight of the brace. The reality of it. The fact that this was my life, all over again.

  And now we’re waiting on my discharge paperwork. Jack has gone out to the lobby, to lead Mom and Connor back to this holding area. I think he and Mom didn’t want Connor to see me while I was still in excruciating pain, so they kept him away. Which I’m grateful for. Because I didn’t want him to see me like this, either.

  There is a television monitor mounted to the wall in this room. The volume is muted, and I’m staring at the flickering images. The allergy medicine commercials. The previews for movies coming to theaters this spring. The commercials with smiling families in their bright, gleaming kitchens, wiping spilled juice with paper towels. The side-by-side comparisons of these paper towels, versus some other, more generic towels. How these families keep smiling and laughing, unworried about any potential messes in their lives
, because they have these paper towels.

  Or something. I don’t know. It’s all kind of stupid.

  Then the show comes back on. And it takes me a moment to realize: this is the show Eva has been begging me to watch. Catriona’s Crown. It opens with a blonde girl in a burgundy dress, running across a lush green field filled with wildflowers. There is a grand stone castle in the distance behind her, and she is dashing toward the rustic stables. A man with golden hair and bright blue eyes is waiting for her there. He opens his arms for her as she approaches.

  This is the moment when Jack pulls the curtain back and my family bursts into the room. Connor immediately rushes to my bedside and throws his arms around my neck, burying his face against my shoulder.

  “Maisie,” he says. “Are you okay now? Is it still hurting?”

  “I’m okay, Con.” I clear my throat. Press my cheek against his spiky-soft hair. Meet Mom’s gaze as she stands at the foot of the bed.

  She smiles, but it’s wobbly at the edges. “Ready to get out of here?”

  I nod. There’s a sudden pang in my chest. Connor seems to sense it; he releases me and steps back. He’s staring at me. All three of them are. As if they’re waiting for me to speak.

  But I have no words.

  Jack says, “I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Hart for tomorrow at two. We’re checking out of the motel early and taking the ferry back to Seattle around noon.”

  “Tomorrow?” I glance at Jack. “But we’re going to the Elwha River tomorrow.”

  He shrugs. Stuffs his hands into his pockets. “This is more important.”

  My breath hitches. I don’t know what to say to that. Am I supposed to thank him? Try to convince him not to end this trip early? Tell my family they should go and see the river without me?

  I have no idea.

  So I pretend to focus on the TV screen.

  “What are you watching, Maisie?” Connor asks brightly. He hops up onto the hospital bed and snuggles against my side. I try to ignore how his muddy hiking boots smear the starched white sheets. “Is this a movie?”