84 Ribbons (34 page)

After a long series of deep breaths, she started the record to dance the selection one last time. Her hands, arms, and feet merged into the choreography. Her movements covered the entire basement as she forced her injured foot into proper positions. On and on she moved, dancing toward that special place where music and movement merged.

Everyday thoughts disappeared. Friends, family, and events vanished, replaced by Gershwin’s melody. On and on, turning, lifting to
relevés,
and dipping to brush the floor. Over and over, working through her dizziness, perfecting her movements.

Until she felt something pop.

31

M
arta’s right ankle, her stronger one, popped. She felt a sharp pain like a bone sliding out of place.

A gasp escaped her lips as she pinwheeled her arms, trying to regain her balance. The fall off the porch at New Year’s flashed through her brain. She stretched out her hands to break her fall, but it didn’t help. She tumbled to the floor, bumping her head against the corner of the card table on the way down.

Marta lay sprawled on the cement floor, unwilling and unable to move, trying to make sense of what happened. She curled up to support her ankle with both hands. The record player needle circled the inner edge of the disk; its insistence matched the throbbing she felt beneath her fingers. Was her life circling back to her earlier fall? She crawled to the player and settled the needle on its bracket, then lay her head on the chair beside the table.

Her ankle lost its definition as her skin swelled. Her heartbeat pulsed through her ankle and her hands, as well as her chest. She needed ice and she needed to elevate her ankle. No one was home. She’d heard them share their plans to be out all Sunday afternoon. Could she crawl up the stairs? No. She felt so dizzy she thought she might vomit.

Marta lay back on the floor and put her injured foot on the chair. She replayed her moves before she heard the pop. She’d done two
balancés
and a reach forward. Did the reach stress her ankle? It didn’t matter now. Maybe she should try to crawl up the steps. She inhaled and started moving.

The cement floor made her bony knees ache, but she ignored the pain and managed to open the door. While she rested, she heard the front door open. She shouted, “Help! Help! I’m in the basement. Please! Help me!”

Shoes clomped down the stairs. Carol appeared. She bent down next to Marta, examining her like she might be a biology specimen stretched on the floor in front of her.

“What happened to you? Your face is white.”

“My ankle. I need help getting up the steps.”

Carol straightened. “Well, I can’t lift you.”

“I know. Could you go see if Mrs. B. is in her room or either of the men are home, please?”

Carol tromped up the stairs. When she returned minutes later she carried a tea towel filled with ice cubes. “No one’s home. Put this on your ankle. I’ll send someone down when they come in.”

Marta sat alone on the floor icing her ankle after uttering a thank you to Carol, of all people.

The house remained so quiet Marta heard the sounds of cars passing on the street. When would everyone get back? It must be close to Sunday supper time. She leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. If they didn’t return soon she’d try to climb the stairs. Could she still audition tomorrow, or should she cancel?

Within the next half hour James and Mrs. B. returned and helped Marta to the common room. She ate dinner off a tray with her foot elevated and thanked Mrs. B. for the steady stream of ice packs and for retrieving her crutches from her upstairs closet.

Mrs. B. accompanied Marta up stairs and turned back the bed covers for her. “It was a good thing Carol got back early. Starting the ice right away may be keeping the swelling down.”

“Yes. I think it did. I’ll need to thank her again for her help.”

“Do you need anything else?”

“No. I’ll just rest and call the doctor first thing in the morning.”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, dear.” Mrs. B. patted her shoulder and left.

Marta lay on her bed and replayed the move when she felt her ankle pop. Two
balancés,
just two; nothing dangerous or difficult.

By nine thirty the next morning, Marta sat in an examining room with her crutches tucked in beside her. Doctor Wycoff finished wrapping her ankle with an ace bandage and gave her pain pills. “This is just a strain, but since you are a dancer you’d best stay off it for a week; give your ankle a rest. Then we’ll start a new therapy plan.”

“What if I need to dance sooner than that?”

Dr. Wycoff shook his head. “With your history of anemia and now this, I’d wait a week. You need to ingest more calcium and strengthen your bones. Maybe I let you restart dancing too soon after your broken bone in January. We can’t go back and re-examine that decision, so you’d best stay off your feet as much as possible over the next week.”

“I’ll try.” That was a lie. Stay off her ankle for a week? She only had a few hours until her audition. There was no time to sit back and take pain pills. She shoved the bottle of pills into her purse, picked up her crutches, and hobbled out to the waiting room to call for a taxi to take her home.

Ten thirty. She sat in the common room staring at her right leg elevated and iced; the bandage lay in a heap next to her. Only a miracle would help now.

Minutes later Steve arrived and let himself in. “Hey, how are you? Mrs. B. called me at home. I just missed you at the doctor’s office. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Marta shook her head. “Do you have time to sit with me?”

“Anything for you, Miss Fluff. Monday is my light day at school. I don’t start until twelve. I could even make you lunch if you have Cheese Whiz and crackers.”

Marta shook her head and couldn’t find the smile needed to match Steve’s little joke.

“Hey. It’s going to be fine.”

Marta drew up a stage smile buried inside her and plastered it on her face. There was no point in looking as sad as she felt. Maybe everything would be fine.

Steve massaged her calves as he talked about his upcoming newspaper assignments and shared funny stories he’d read off the news wire. Marta chuckled when he told her about a horse that followed a poodle all over downtown New York. They evaded capture until the horse stopped to snack on bushes in Central Park.

Steve pulled out the rough copy of his latest homework assignment: creating three unique pages: a front page, an editorial page, and a local news page. He spread them out on the coffee table beside Marta. “This professor likes us to think in new ways. We’ll display our pages in the student union building so the students can vote on which ones appeal to them. My plan is to…“

Marta’s focus drifted to the audition just hours away. She flexed her ankle and turned her attention back to Steve.

“These pages will be half our grade. I think I’m getting closer to a final idea. What do you think?”

“Guess you’d better stretch your imagination and outfox your fellow classmates.” She knew he wanted to hear more praise, but for the life of her she’d not heard a word of what he’d said about his ideas.

Steve collected his pages and slid them into his briefcase. “The other half is my never-ending mining research. I’m so busy I can barely breathe.” He stared at Marta. “Are you sure you’re okay? Are you worried about your audition?”

She nodded. “I am. Sorry to be such poor company.”

Steve checked his watch, ruffled her hair, and stood. “Sorry I have to go. Can’t miss these next two classes. Each one is torture. Want me to fix you a quick lunch before I go?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Stay off that foot as long as you can. I know you’ll have an amazing audition.” He kissed her forehead, then her lips, and headed for the front door.

“Call me when you finish the audition, okay?”

“I will,” she answered to an empty room.

After a long shower and an apple, she downed two diet pills. Then she sat watching the hour hand creep around the clock. Her ankle continued to throb. At four o’clock she use a shortened ace bandage to wrap her ankle, hobbled out, and checked the bike leaning against the back porch. Pedaling the bike would keep her muscles warm; she’d be ready to dance when she arrived.

She entered through the dancers’ door and inhaled rosin and sweat. It hadn’t been empty very long. She wiped her hands on her skirt, reliving her first day waiting on the steps. Maybe she should have called Lynne and asked her to stay after. No. Today she needed to be independent and do this on her own.

Numbness and butterflies crept through her body; her head spun. She shook out her hands and legs and touched the necklace Steve had given her at Christmastime. Today she broke the rule about no jewelry during practices. She needed a special bit of luck. She kissed it and tucked it inside her leotard.

Damien stood in the practice room, waiting for her. She straightened to walk as normal as possible toward him.

“Welcome back, Marta.” He extended his hand.

She shook hands with him, then removed her layer of street clothes to reveal her leotard. Both her ankles were stiff; her right ankle remained slightly swollen as she pushed herself through a series of
pliés
at the
barre
. Maybe the bike ride hadn’t been the greatest idea.

Perhaps she should ask Damien for extra time to recover from this latest setback. Lynne told her Madame was heading out to auditions over the weekend. If Marta delayed her audition, Madame might tell her she was too late. No, it was best to go ahead, take her chances, and dance today.

Marta stepped into a long chiffon practice skirt and hooked the waistband closed. A shyness enveloped her as she looked around the space where she’d been at home a few months earlier. Today it felt hollow and foreign.

At five o’clock sharp Madame thumped into the room and stood by the tall stool. She surveyed Marta from toe to head and nodded ever so slightly toward her. Marta curtsied.

Damien set the needle to the appropriate ring on the record. It scratched along the grooves, then slid onto the selection.

Marta rotated her ankles and stretched tall waiting for the Gershwin music to begin. On the opening clarinet slide she drifted into the music using exaggerated
developés
to match the long, lazy woodwind solo. Though both ankles ached, she kept dancing, ignoring the pain and the cramping, forcing her feet to point and
relevé
at the precise moments the music demanded.

On and on, she danced, alternately sweeping toward the floor and stretching toward the ceiling, transitioning from the adagio to the quick footwork. With the skirt caught up in her hands, Marta executed the series of
relevés
and turns, ignoring the throbbing in both ankles.

Damien lifted the needle off the record. The quiet in the room allowed Marta to hear the throbbing of her heartbeat in her ears. She slowed her breathing, curtsied to Madame and Damien, and straightened to stand in fifth position, fighting the tiredness that pressed through her body. Her audition was over.

“Thank you, Marta,” said Damien. “We’ll invite you back in a few minutes.”

Marta sat on the hall floor too tired to pace or walk to the benches in the women’s dressing room. Did they notice her struggles near the end of the selection, or had she shown enough strength and style to impress them?

How about her
relevés
? Her ankles weren’t as strong as she needed them to be. Would her past strength and stamina be remembered today?

The practice room door opened. Damien approached her, smiled, and reached out a hand to help her to her feet. As they returned to the practice room, she studied his face but couldn’t read his expression.

“Thank you for coming today, Marta,” Damien said. “It’s obvious that you understand the emotion of the music. I wish the others moved with your conviction. Throughout the season we’ve appreciated your ability to nuance each gesture. Your lines are strong and you’ve shown your ability to dance well within the corps.”

Marta swallowed and nodded. Good. They’d noticed her efforts during the season.

Damien crossed his arms and tipped his head. “Here’s our problem. Your feet still lack strength. It’s been five months since your last performance. You’ve struggled with your endurance during recent practices with the company. It’s probably too soon for you to return to the rigors of daily practices, let alone performances.”

Madame leaned against the high stool with her head turned away from Marta. As she turned to face Marta, she lifted her chin, but then her expression softened. “Even if you take the summer and work out every day, there’s no guarantee you’ll regain your endurance or foot strength.”

Marta swallowed hard and nodded. “I followed the doctor’s orders and didn’t practice until he gave me permission. Then I worked every day at home.”

“We know. You’ve been a hard worker.” Damien smiled. “Today you struggled. Did something happen recently?”

Madame nodded. “Today you moved like you were wearing over-sized rubber boots.”

Marta looked away, unable to meet Damien’s eyes until she swallowed down her tiredness. “I had a setback yesterday, but I still wanted to come and try. I knew you were heading out to auditions, and I hoped I could hold onto my position. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

“You didn’t waste our time,” Damien said. “We know how much you want to dance. You’re just not ready.”

Madame leaned forward. “We’ve had our issues, but you’ve been dedicated to the company, and you have worked hard. Recovery from injuries takes more time than most of us are comfortable waiting through. If you rush your return, it may cause a life-changing injury. It has for many dancers.”

“If I get stronger over the summer and the next year, may I audition again?”

Damien looked at Marta with the kind of smile that had encouraged her over the past few weeks. “We know you want to dance, but it’s too risky for you to rush a return. Focus on getting stronger.”

Madame’s face wore a look of concern. “You need to heal and then rebuild your strength slowly.” She paused. “This is a business. We can’t wait on your recovery.”