Call Me (2 page)

“Ellie, dear. Doctor Robinson will see you now. Please wait in Room 3.”

Tick tock, tick tock…

Ellie

“W
hat do you
mean, you don’t think I’ll be able to run again?” I yelp, like a wounded dog.
What?

“Let me explain, Ellie,” Dr. Robinson says placatingly, like he knows I’m about to go off like a firecracker.

“I’m almost positive I didn’t hear you correctly.” I shake my head in disbelief.

I can’t accept this answer.

I won’t.

“Now, I didn’t say ever again, Ellie. I said competitively, and no longer for the Varsity Blues, that’s for sure. No real running, not for a long while yet. You might still be able to run in the future—but more in a more leisurely fashion than you’re used to, per se. Some light jogging…” Dr. Robinson says, bending my right knee backwards then forward again, causing a painful twinge.

I’m sitting in his office, which is located on the University of Toronto campus. A campus where I’m both a master’s film student and star of the Varsity Blues track team. Well, I
was
a star, anyway, until almost nine months ago when my knee gave out at Nationals. Within the blink of an eye, my life changed, and apparently it was going to change again.
So much for bypassing the drama…

I register the doctor’s words while trying to mask the wincing his mobilization of my knee is causing. Of course, he catches it nonetheless. Dr. Robinson is the university’s best sports medicine doctor, who holds not only my knee in his hands, but also my future.

“So, let’s do the resection surgery,” I plead.

“The surgery isn’t a guarantee, Ellie. I’m not sure I want to risk it at this point, and it seems like your left knee might need some work too. From what I’m seeing here.” He looks down, tapping away on his iPad’s keyboard, scrolling between my x-rays and the Thomas test results. Results that ruled out a hip flexion contracture and psoas syndrome, whatever the hell they were. Apparently they are good things to have ruled out, but that still left me with a lot of discomfort in my hip and knees.

“So fix them both. All the stats I read said there was an eighty-four percent success rate after surgery. I say we go for it. Please, let’s keep trying, at least,” I huff.

I’m so angry right now, I could strangle the guy. The idea is actually appealing to me, so much so that I’m forced to keep a tight hold on the examination bed for fear I might reach out and choke the good doctor.

“You’re right, Ellie. Most cases do have reasonably good success,” he says, sliding his chair over to type something in my file before reaching for my leg again. “I’m sorry, but in your case, that resection surgery isn’t going to fix it. There’s more going on. The constant swelling, the clicking sound when I bend it—and the pain in your hip—concern me, I’m afraid. I think you’re eventually going to need full knee replacements, but at twenty-four, you are way too young for that. I hate telling you this, believe me,” he sighs.

“But, Doctor Robinson,” I plead, “iliotibial band syndrome is supposed to be treatable. I mean, I feel like it’s getting better, I—I can even jog a bit more regularly…sometimes. Please, we can’t stop treatments. Let’s try a few more weeks and then assess it again? I’m not taking this as the final prognosis. I won’t.” I cross my arms like a disgruntled toddler, staring down at my stupid right knee, the same one he’s holding in his hands, feeling around like he has the right to tell me to quit. To give up my life. But it’s the same prognosis my second-opinion doctor gave me too, after seeing the x-rays and the MRI. A simple surgery isn’t going to cut it.

They don’t get it though.

I’ve been a runner since forever.

Movies and running: those are the things that make me—
me.

I love the feeling of my feet pounding the track, that feeling of nirvana as I cross the finish line before the others. I feel like the wind, I know no bounds when I’m running.

No. This cannot be happening.

It’s what I live for, and they think they can take it away with a
snap?

“I’m sorry, Ellie, but I don’t think it’s ever really going to feel much better than it does now, not until you’re older and have the knee replacement. It’s been months of regular treatment—I mean, we’ve tried NSAID’s, stretching, physiotherapy, cortisone injections, and the pain isn’t easing. And you’re still feeling the pull in your hip and pelvis area. We still need to sort that out too,” Dr. Robinson says in a slight scolding tone. I assume it’s for when I tried to minimize earlier how much pain I’m feeling in my right hip.

“I can’t in good conscience tell you to train, Ellie. Coach told me you can barely run a hundred metres. I’m sorry, but I can’t sign off to let you compete. Hopefully, you’ll be able to run recreationally one day, though. That, I am confident, will come back in time.” With that, he stands, washes his hands, and offers a sympathetic smile. “I’m truly sorry, Ellie. I know how much competing means to you. If I thought surgery would fix it, I’d say ‘let’s do it’. How about you keep up with physiotherapy and strength training, and we’ll book a follow-up appointment for six months? See how things look one last time.”

“Fine,” I agree, despite a heavy feeling in my heart that says he’s only trying to soften the blow. He’s such a nice man, and I believe this is hard for him too.
I can’t imagine being a dreamcrusher is easy.

“Will you still have access to the runners-only gym?”

“Not for too much longer, not if I can’t compete,” I huff, irritated that he’s asking and adding salt to my open wounds.

“Well, I can give you free access to the sports medicine department’s gym, but you’ll be sharing it with both faculty and a mix of students with sports-related injuries. It can be busy, so it’s best to go later at night, if possible. We’re allowed to offer short-term passes to students with mitigating circumstances, so I’d say you qualify,” he says, handing me what looks like a prescription. “Give this to Meredith at the gym’s front desk. She’ll give you your access card.”

“Thank you. I’ll work hard. I’ll show you I’m not out yet,” I say, determined.

“I have no doubts. But remember what I said, it’s both knees and your hip. Don’t go making it worse. Competitions are out, period. We’re working towards leisure running here. Don’t push it.” With that, he gives me his serious doctor face before rubbing my arm in a reassuring manner. “Hope the rest of your day is better for you, Ellie. And I’m trusting you to follow my advice,” I hear him mutter the last bit as he exits the exam room, leaving me alone to fully digest his words.

No more competing.

Might never be the same.

Leisure running, if I’m lucky.

Cue dramatic music…

I sit there in tears for what feels like forever, letting the information soak in.

Without running, I’ll not only lose my right to the private runner’s gym, but also my athletic housing.

And worst of all: my scholarship.

I’m royally screwed.

Ellie

“N
o, Mom. I’m
not coming home. Not yet,” I say, pushing open the door exiting the medical centre, annoyed at Dr. Robinson and also my mom, for once again wanting to give up so easily.

Ever since my dad left when I was five, it’s just been her and me, and I can honestly say she isn’t the most confident person. Silvie can’t deal with confrontation or any type of conflict. It’s a trait I thankfully didn’t inherit. I’m more competitive, resilient, and I’ll fight tooth and nail for what I want. And right now, what I want is for my mom to encourage me to stay and fight, not to hop on the first plane home. I had hoped after she met Tom, a man she trusted enough to let in again, it might lighten her up, but with the way this conversation is going, I’d say I was wrong.

Walking down the cobblestone path away from the athletics centre, I balance my phone between my shoulder and ear, while trying to pull my water bottle that is tangled up in the cables of my ear buds out of my messenger bag. I’m overheating in this late summer heat wave the city’s currently suffering. At the end of August, the Toronto air is muggy and humid, unlike the cooler, drier air I was used to out west in Alberta this time of year. I’m drenched, and feel like I’m drowning. I shouldn’t complain, though. It will be heavy sweater and boot weather before we know it. I glance at the hazy sky and the many trees surrounding the campus. The leaves flap limply like they, too, could use some water.

“Ellie, sweetie,” my mom says, breaking my train of thought, “I can’t afford to help you out financially right now. I honestly think it’s best if you just fly home. Look for a job, save up to go back. It’s not like you don’t already have your bachelor’s degree. You can still get a great job without a master’s. Lots of people only finish their undergrad.”

“Urgh. Mom. You don’t get it. I want to stay here. I have to. There are more opportunities for work here than in St. Albert. What am I going to do there? Work at Tim Horton’s? McDonald’s? Because we both know, I can get jobs there in a second. That’s not even fair. Or, what: St. Albert Centre? I could work at The Bay.”

“You could do a lot worse than working at The Bay in St. Albert, young lady,” she interjects.

She’s right. I’m sounding spoiled and entitled, so I try harder to articulate my actual point: “Mom, you’re right. It’s a nice place to live, to make a life. But most of those entry-level jobs require a lot of standing, and I can’t do that with my knee right now. Plus, my doctor and my physiotherapist are here on campus. But the biggest factor in my needing to stay is that there aren’t any major movies being made at home, not many opportunities for me to learn or further myself in the industry like I can here, not for what I want to do, anyway. Everything I want to study is here. I need to be in Toronto.”

She lets out a frustrated breath, and says sarcastically: “Oh, that’s right, I forgot. All of you Easterners think Toronto’s the centre of the universe. Well, fair enough. But you’ll just have to go back and finish your master’s degree once you make enough to cover your tuition and housing. Without the athletic scholarship, I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice. Be reasonable, Ellie, please.”

“Absolutely not. I’m not giving in that easy, and you shouldn’t ask me to either, Mom. You always give in. I can’t.”

“Ouch. I know I do, sometimes. You’re right. But I’m not trying to tell you to give up, Ellie. I’m worried is all. I hate that I can’t fix this for you. I’m supposed to be able to fix this for you…” she whispers, and it kills me.

“It’s all right, Mom. I’ll sort it out. I have a little time to figure something out. I’m covered for tuition for a few months still. I talked to Financial Aid; they’re seeing if I qualify for any type of bursary or other financial help. The athletics department offered to let me stay in housing for another two weeks if I need, but I’m moving in with Courtney. Ruby moved out once she graduated, so Courtney’s got an extra room and she says I can have it. It will work out perfectly; Mrs. Pierce says I don’t need to pay rent until I sort school out. She says we’re family and that Courtney isn’t paying more than the bills anyway. I laughed and said that’s because it’s her daughter. She shushed me and told me not to worry about it, for now. That all I need to cover is utilities and food. So I have a bit of time to look for a job here.”

“Well, I’m calling Vickie and thanking her. That’s awfully nice of them. I hope they don’t think I’m being cheap or that I’m unwilling to help,” my mom adds, and I can hear tears starting to brew by the shake in her voice.

“Mom,” I soothe, “they know you aren’t.” I hesitate, “They know about Dad,” I swallow, telling her softly.

“Oh,” she pauses. “God, Ellie. I’m so embarrassed. I’m an idiot. They must think I’m such a naïve woman.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. But Vickie’s your best friend. I can’t believe you didn’t tell her.”

I hear her sniffling.

“Mom?”

“Sorry. I’m here, sweetie. I’m too mortified to talk about it, even with Vickie. I can’t believe he took all the money, all of it. After all the years we’ve been divorced, I can’t believe he’d drain the joint account we’d had for your schooling. I knew I should have put it in your name. You were just too young. It’s my own fault. I’m an idiot. I never really thought about his name being on the statements. Truth be told, once you got the scholarship back in first year, I didn’t bother checking on the account once I stopped the paper account statements. I hadn’t looked in years. I just figured the money would be there, a wonderful starting off gift for you, a little something for you each year. I’m such a fool, Ellie. Such a fool.”

“No, Mom. He is. He’s the asshole here. I mean of all the low—”

“Ellie. Please. I don’t want to talk about it. I know exactly what that man is. I’ll deal with him, somehow. I won’t let him get away with hurting us anymore. I agree he is an asshole and needs to pay. I will not roll over on this.”

“Good, I’m glad, Mom. This time he’s gone too far.”

“I know, and I promise I will fix this. I’ll call Vic, as well. I’m being silly. Of course I should have told her and Hank. I can transfer a couple hundred dollars to help you while I try to get this sorted at my end. Hopefully, I’ll have more soon. This living paycheque-to-paycheque while trying to fight him in court is tough,” she laughs. “I finally felt we were in a good place. I had a nice little nest egg for you, in case we needed it.” I hear the tears fighting for freedom again.

“I’m okay, Mom. We’re going to be okay. You’re amazing and I love you, but keep the money. I’ve got a little left from my scholarship still. Work on making sure my sperm donor doesn’t still have his name on anything else.”

“Already done, honey. I promise. The lawyers are working on trying to find a loophole that might force him to give it back. Anyway, enough of all the bad, let’s work on the bringing the good back.”

“I love you, Mom,” I sniffle, tears pinching my nose.

“You too, my girl, you too. I love you more. Keep me posted.”