by Ann Warner
“I’m afraid you’ve torn your ACL. We can fix that quite easily. I’m more concerned about your Achilles tendon which you’ve ruptured. With surgery and aggressive physical therapy, you’ll be able to function, but you need to prepare for a long convalescence.”
She’d already resigned herself to missing a few days of rehearsal, but there was no coping with this. Not just the loss of Swan Lake. For although the surgeon wasn’t saying it, she knew that an Achilles rupture meant it was unlikely she’d ever dance en pointe again. She struggled to swallow, but her throat was too dry and tight.
He stood and patted her shoulder. “I’m sorry I don’t have better news for you.”
Clare clamped her hand across her mouth. She didn’t dare let even a single sob escape. The medical entourage moved on except for a nurse who stayed behind to take Clare to be fitted with a temporary brace. Then she was returned to Stephan’s repentant care.
“Stephan and I discussed it,” Denise said as they helped her into the car. “There’s no way you can manage all the stairs at your place. You need to stay with me.”
“What about Mona?”
“Not to worry.” Stephan said. “As soon as we get you settled, we’ll get Mona.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Nope. You know you’d do the same for me,” Denise said. “So no more fussing.”
Was that what she was doing? Fussing? But she needed some way to keep her mind off what had just happened. When they arrived at Denise’s, after stops to pick up hydrocodone and a walker, Stephan swooped Clare up to carry her into the apartment. Damn him! How could he have been so clumsy? So careless.
Stephan deposited her gently on the couch and Denise dug out a notepad and a pen. “Why don’t you make a list of what you want us to pick up from your place?”
A list. She could manage a list. It gave her an excuse to ignore Stephan, whose Achilles and ACLs were all intact and functioning perfectly.
Denise left the room and Stephan sat down, across from Clare. “You know how sorry I am.” He reached out to touch her.
“Being sorry doesn’t fix it.”
He retracted the hand as if he’d been stung. “Yeah. I know.”
“I don’t want to see you again.”
“I figured that, too.”
She bent over her list, and Stephan took the hint and went outside to wait for Denise.
After Denise left with Stephan, the color slowly leached out of the room, and the quiet hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. No longer were there any distractions from the reality of her loss. Her career. The dance—the focus of her life as far back as she could remember...
Clarey, stop jumping around so I can comb your hair. Her mother.
Clare Eliason, if you don’t sit still, I’m going to speak to your parents. Her teacher.
Eventually she’d discovered nobody else heard music in their head the way she did. Music she couldn’t ignore.
“We really can’t afford it, Clarey,” her mom said, when Clare brought home the announcement about a ballet class being offered after school.
Clare pleaded until her mom agreed to use money she would have spent on other gifts for two lessons. After those lessons, Clare was better able to control the movement of her body in response to the music in her head.
“So that froufrou stuff has some value,” her dad said.
Clare continued to practice the little she’d learned, until, finally, her mother spoke to the dance instructor and arranged a trade. Clare, with her mother’s help, would clean the dance studio in return for lessons.
From the first, she worked as long as it took to perfect each movement, beginning to dream of being someone other than ordinary Clare Eliason from Salina, Kansas.
And now. How did one recover from a loss like this? One instant, one quick movement, and afterward everything changed to an unrecognizable shape. Bone and sinew, gut and heart, scraped, torn, roaring with a pain the hydrocodone didn’t begin to ease. Hard to breathe even, as if the air had solidified. Still, as long as she didn’t move, the injury seemed as insubstantial as the twilight. As unbelievable as an evil enchantment.
Her whole career she’d cast protective spells—starting on the same side of the barre for warm-up, lacing the left slipper before the right, seeking out her dancing partner before a performance to press the tips of her fingers to his in affirmation of the connection that would continue onstage. All of it leading up to that exactitude of movement, that still point at the heart of every performance. That moment, an ecstasy of sorts.
How could a single slip in concentration, on the part of someone having a bad day, rob all those spells of their power? Damn it! Damn Stephan! She wasn’t ready for it to be over. It should be years before she had to face this. Years, compressed to minutes, seconds, now gone. Gone.
The second dose of hydrocodone finally kicked in and a blessed darkness rolled over her. At some point, Denise returned, snapping on lights, talking, dumping Mona on the sofa. The little dog licked Clare’s face and whined, forcing her out of her protective slumber.
“I found out why Stephan was so distracted today.” Denise placed a bowl of soup in front of Clare. “His grandmother died last night. She was the one who convinced his dad to let him dance.”
So the person who made it possible for Stephan to dance had ended her career? Where was the fairness in that? But no. This wasn’t the end. She mustn’t think that way. Negative thoughts were powerful. She needed to be positive. Upbeat. The surgery would be a success. She would make amazing progress. You’re my miracle patient, Ms. Eliason.
“He feels awful.”
Stephan had no idea what awful felt like.
“Wasn’t it lucky the surgeon was able to fit you in right away?”
“Sure. My lucky day all around.” She stirred the soup but didn’t lift a spoonful to her mouth. “I’m really sleepy.”
“Can’t you at least eat something?”
Clare stared at the soup and nausea nudged at her. She shook her head and tried to stand.
“Let me help you.” Denise jumped up and handed her the walker.
Clare gritted her teeth and accepted the help. She’d dealt with injuries before. Except, every other time, recovery had been a matter of strict adherence to therapy instructions. This time she’d been given no such guarantees.
You’ll see, Clare. Without me, you’re nothing.
The surge of bile in the back of her throat nearly choked her.
Chapter Eight
Ballon
A jump which has a light, elastic quality like the bouncing of a ball
The phone rang as Rob was leaving his apartment, and he answered to find Denise on the other end. “Stephan screwed up a lift at rehearsal yesterday and Clare landed wrong. Ruptured her Achilles.”
He pulled in a breath, trying to wrap his mind around what Denise was saying. Failing miserably. “Why didn’t she call me? I would have come.”
“It was pretty hectic, getting her in to see the surgeon. By the time we brought her back to my place and she took a hydrocodone, she was wiped.”
“Is she okay, though?
“She needs surgery. It’s scheduled for Monday.”
“What can I do?”
“Can you maybe go see her?”
“I have class at nine, but I can go after that.”
“Good. Try to get her to eat something, would you?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“I doubt Clare will open the door. I’ll call my landlady and tell her to let you in.”
After knocking didn’t work, Rob got the landlady to open the door and stepped into an apartment filled with an eclectic mix of furniture sharing space with several bushy plants. A cat sunned itself on the only available window sill.
“Clare? It’s Rob.”
There was no sound except for the scrabble of toenails on the wood floor—Mona, moving much faster than he’d ever seen her move. She gave his hand a quick lick then trotted
back the way she’d come, stopping to look at him and whining as if to say, “This way. And please hurry.” He left the bag of takeout on the kitchen counter and followed Mona down the short hall to the bedroom. Clare was lying with her arm above her head, apparently sleeping.
He spoke softly, not wanting to startle her. “Clare, love? Are you okay?”
When she didn’t move, he knelt beside the bed, and took her hand in his. “Clare?”
“Rob? Wh-what are you doing here?”
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he rubbed her shoulder. “Denise was worried. She asked me to check on you.”
She pushed free of him. “I’m fine. I don’t need to be coddled.”
He stood, struggling not to feel hurt at her tone. She swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her right leg was held straight by a brace. It looked fine. It obviously wasn’t, though.
“I brought something to eat. I’ll let you get dressed.”
He reheated the food, then returned to the bedroom to get her. She was back in bed, turned toward the wall, asleep, or pretending to be. He sat on the edge of the bed and rested his hand on her shoulder. Mona whined. He picked up the small animal, which maneuvered around Clare’s feet to snuggle near her face.
“I’m so sorry you’re hurt. I know it’s terrible for you, but please don’t shut me out. Let me help.” He felt her body shaking before he heard the nearly silent sobs. He lay next to her and pulled her spoon-fashion against him.
“I d-don’t know what I’m going to do, Rob.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
He held her, murmuring it was going to be all right even though he had no idea if it would be until her sobs eased.
“I have one small suggestion. Come have something to eat.”
“I’m sick to my stomach.”
“Probably because you haven’t eaten. How about tea and toast?”
After a moment, she nodded. He moved out of her way so she could scoot over and ease her leg onto the floor. He handed her the walker and she stumped down the hall. In the kitchen he rummaged until he found tea bags and a loaf of bread.
Clare sat on a chair with her leg propped on a low stool, sipping the tea and nibbling a piece of toast.
“You’re looking better,” he said.
She lifted the cup and hid behind it. “I still feel lousy.”
“I am sorry about this.”
“I know.”
“What happens now?”
“Rest and elevate. Ice. Surgery.”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know. Is that what you want me to say? I don’t know. And can we please not talk about it?”
“That’s not what I meant.” He captured her restless hands and held on. “Come stay with me, Clare. Let me take care of you.”
“My mom is coming and Denise said I can stay here as long as I need to.”
He let it go, for the moment, and for the rest of the visit coaxed her into a gentle back and forth on unimportant subjects. It was the only thing he could think to do.
Rob read the details about Clare’s injury in an article in the Boston Globe that labeled it career-ending.
“Is the reporter right, Clare?”
“The surgeon is pleased with my progress.”
Not an answer to his question but he took the hint and backed off. Since meeting Clare, he’d read everything he could about the ballet, so he knew that although Clare was at the height of her powers as a dancer, she was also nearing the end of her career, even if she’d not been injured.
In the days that followed, watching Clare’s faltering progress with the walker, her elegance and lightness extinguished, Rob felt helpless. This woman who had danced with the fluid grace of a flame, reduced to moving ponderously. It broke his heart. Clare’s heart was obviously broken as well.
Her mother stayed the first week after the surgery, sleeping on Denise’s couch, but now she’d gone back to Salina. It meant Clare was on her own until Denise came home from rehearsals, which she never talked about.
“You can tell me how your day went, you know,” Clare finally said. “Has Justin named my replacement yet?”
Denise walked over and picked up the cat. So she could avoid Clare’s eyes? Then she turned, and Clare knew.
“Would you believe? He promoted me. And, I’m dancing with Stephan. Lisa and Ramon will be first cast, of course, but still.”
Clare had to swallow the bitterness of her own loss before she was able to speak normally. “I’m so glad to hear Justin finally saw how good you are. You deserve the chance.” She stretched her arms toward Denise who set the cat down and bent over to accept a hug.
“Hey, don’t you need to get ready for Rob?”
“I suppose.”
“You better hurry. Isn’t he usually here by now? What kind of food do you think he’ll bring tonight?”
“We’ll have to wait and see. He didn’t consult me.”
“He’s a terrific guy.”
Denise was right. Rob was a terrific guy. And how much longer was he going to hang around someone who spent her days feeling sorry for herself?
Clare needed to get a grip. If only she could figure out how.
“Clare, it’s good to see you up and about.” Justin stood and motioned her to take a seat, then he closed the door and returned to his chair behind the desk. “I hear the surgery went well.”
Her last formal meeting with Justin had been March a year ago, when he’d not only renewed her contract, but given her a substantial raise and told her she would be dancing the lead in Swan Lake. The best annual review she’d ever had.
Today, he looked at her, hands steepled. Trying to ignore the ominous body language, Clare concentrated on sounding upbeat. “The surgeon says I’m making excellent progress. Better than he anticipated. And I’m working really hard on my physical therapy.”
Justin shifted and cleared his throat. “The report we have of your injury. We’re devastated for you, of course. But at your age...it’s not likely you’ll achieve top form again.” He picked up a pencil and fiddled with it as he began to outline the grim financial details of her severance from Danse Classique, a decision he’d been forced to make, “for artistic reasons.” As he spoke, he was unable to look her in the eye.
Clare sat, her face frozen, as his words piled up like blackened slush in front of a snowplow. Her gaze wandered, taking in the bookshelves behind him—messy and stuffed with books and papers except for the one shelf holding a pair of worn pointe shoes, rumor claimed had belonged to Suzanne Farrell.
When the words finally stopped, she focused on Justin’s forehead and spoke carefully. “Thank you for spelling out the situation so clearly.”
“Well, don’t be a stranger, Clare.”
And how, exactly, did he expect her to manage that? She stood abruptly, needing to escape. Not easy, though, to make either a rapid or a dignified retreat with a walker.
Leaving the Center, she longed for somewhere she could quietly fall apart with no one to see. But this neighborhood, with its tired storefronts and triple-decker houses, had no parks, no benches, not even a small café, where she might sit and cup her hands around a mug of coffee for comfort.
She made her way slowly to the trolley stop. With her contract ending in June and no possibility of renewal, she could no longer afford a cab. Nor could she afford the Marblehead house. Even food would soon tax her limited resources. A sob caught in her throat. No. She couldn’t fall apart. Not yet. If she let any of it in...no she couldn’t. She mustn’t.
She barely noticed the stabs of pain as she boarded the trolley. At Denise’s stop, she stepped carefully down. As she stood catching her breath, her gaze snagged on the small shopping center in front of her. In addition to a realtor, a Chinese restaurant, and a combination deli-grocery store, there was a beauty shop.
A beauty shop. Perfect. Exactly what was needed to mark the day that formally ended her career as a dancer.
A middle-aged woman with
big hair greeted her. “My, aren’t you the lucky one. Mariela’s eleven o’clock just called to cancel.” She pointed Clare toward a young Hispanic woman with, thankfully, a more subdued hairstyle.
Mariela fastened a cape around Clare’s shoulders and loosened the French braid she’d worn for the appointment with Justin.