Authors: Ann Warner
Counterpointe (14 page)
Stephan had regained most of his old form, until today when he was obviously once again distracted. Justin, who had little patience with dancers complaining on either their own account or about a partner, was pushing harder than he usually did. Clare kept biting her lip to hold in her irritation.
Finally, during a break, she confronted Stephan. “Hey, I thought we had a deal. Check the personal stuff at the door?”
He stomped away without answering, but after the break, he apologized. He still wasn’t completely focused, though. No longer was he giving her the clear, subtle signals in his breath and touch that allowed her to move confidently in sync with him. As a result she moved more tentatively, something Justin noticed immediately.
He clapped to stop the music. “You’re dancing as if you’ve just met.” He narrowed his eyes and tented his hands under his chin. “Try it again, this time as if you’ve done it before.”
Clare closed her eyes, briefly, then moved into the opening position. Stephan took his position and Justin motioned for the music to begin.
This time, it felt good. The two of them breathing together, moving together. Right up to the moment when Stephan’s grip shifted, causing Clare’s leg to twist as she landed.
She knew immediately it was bad. They all danced with pain at one time or another, but not with pain like this. Pain that overrode everything with a blinding flash of white that blanked her vision.
“God, Clare, I’m sorry.”
Tentatively, holding her breath and steadied by Stephan, Clare tried to put weight on the leg. A fresh bolt of agony spiked from ankle to knee.
It couldn’t be. It had been only a slight twist. The tiniest break in form. Rest, ice, she’d be fine. Had to be fine. She pulled in a careful breath, struggling to overcome a wave of nausea and dizziness. Without a word, Stephan picked her up and carried her to the locker room. Clare clenched her fists to keep from beating them against his chest.
Ice and ibuprofen were brought. Other dancers hovered before leaving to continue rehearsals while arrangements were made for her to see an orthopedic surgeon. Stephan and Denise were excused to accompany her.
Through the next hours, Clare kept her mind blank as technicians took x-rays, did tests. Finally, the surgeon arrived and checked the x-rays before sitting on a stool and bending over her leg. He probed the knee and moved the leg, as two residents and a nurse looked on. Then he did the same with the ankle.
“I’m afraid you’ve torn your
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.
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.
