Fixing His Broken Ballerina: Volume 1

by Sheila Holmes

  The salesman answered, “My name’s Connor, but most people call me Connie.”

  “Connie?! That’s my nickname!”

  “No kiddin’? What’s your given name?”

  “Conyer.”

  For no more than ten or fifteen seconds, they sat staring at each other, with grins on their faces.

  Before Conyer could say anything further, Connor said, “Well, hey… in my whole life I’ve never known another male Connie, have you?”

  His grin widening, Conyer answered, “No, I never have either.”

  Quickly, before Connor said anything else, Conyer jumped back in.

  “Tell you what… Just take another twenty-five bucks off the price and I’ll take it.”

  With his head shaking slightly and a bit of a snarl on his face, Connor stalled, trying to make Conyer think he was going to turn down the offer. The truth was, however, his business was hurting financially. It was one thing to hold out when one could afford to, and it was quite another if one really needed a sale badly.

  When Conyer finally shook Connie’s hand in agreement of the price, he asked him a favor. But, first he offered an explanation.

  “I suspect you know about the car accident that happened not that long ago on that corner,” Conyer said, pointing in the general direction of the intersection.

  “Yeah. I actually heard the crash, but they wouldn’t let the public get close. But even from the door here, I could see it was really bad.”

  “It was,” Conyer responded, nodding his head, mainly to himself.

  “Ya know…” Connor said, “I read about it at the online local news web site. And, I realized I recognized the girl, but I couldn’t figure out how until I was in bed two or three nights ago.”

  “So…”

  “Well… for several days before the accident, this girl would show up at the window and just stand there,” Connor said, looking beyond Conyer to the window location he was speaking of. She would look at this,” now looking at the sculptured wood piece Conyer had just purchased, “and then walk off. I thought she was so pretty. Kinda looked like she could be a ballerina herself. You know… slim, long arms and legs.

  Conyer felt an immediate twinge of jealousy at the phrase, “… she was so pretty.” He wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like they were dating. She wouldn’t even talk to him, much less date him. He gave himself a quick mental equivalent to a ‘good swift kick in the pants’, telling himself to get a grip on reality.

  Connor continued. “She looked like she was daydreaming when she stood and looked at it. Then, she’d just walk away… like she’d just come out of a trance or somethin’.

  “When I read about the accident, I saw her picture, and read that she was a ballerina.

  “Weird, huh?”

  “Weird?’”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Just that she was a ballerina, and according to the article, she was pretty messed up. Like she’d probably never dance again.”

  Conyer’s thoughts drifted back to his first sight of Giselle after the accident. It was in the hospital, and he knew she probably wouldn’t ever dance again, or possibly even walk. It made him shutter.

  Connor’s voice interrupted Conyer’s thoughts.

  “Why’d you ask if I knew about the accident?”

  “Well, she’s still in the hospital, and I thought maybe it would cheer her up to get this as a Get Well gift, or at least let her know someone was thinking about her.”

  Connor asked, “Oh, you know her. Is she here at Clayton Memorial?”

  “Yeah, she is. Why?”

  “Well, I offer a delivery service. No charge. I figured I could get this over to her easier than you can. It’s probably hard for you to walk in the hospital halls. And, I’m already going out on another delivery in about thirty minutes.” He knew it was a lie. He had no delivery, but this was his opportunity to go see the pretty girl that loved this sculpture.

  “Oh, man. That would be great!”

  Connor handed Conyer a card from the stack of greeting cards at the cash register. This was the first purchase that had been made where someone would actually use them.

  “Just write a message of your own and sign it. I’ll deliver it right to her hospital room. And, speaking of which, how are you getting back to wherever you need to go? I didn’t see a car out front.”

  Conyer was jerked into reality by the question.

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot I have to get back to my car. Hey, could I get you to drop me off on the southwest corner of the intersection. I walked from my car here, but I don’t think I can make it back too easily.”

  Connor said the right things, but the truth was, he wasn’t all that concerned about Conyer’s limp and cane, or how he came by the injury in the first place. His thinking was preoccupied with a gorgeous young woman he was going to be seeing in the next half hour or so.

  “Yeah, absolutely. Let me lock the front door, put up the ‘Back Soon’ sign and we’ll go out the back door. You write your card while I lock up.”

  After Connor had locked the door, put up the sign, and walked back to place the Conyer was completing his card, he carefully placed the wood sculptured ballet piece into a store bag topped with crisp white tissue peeking from its top, Conyer had completed his card, sealed it, and put it in the bag with the stunning piece of wood sculpture.

  Chapter 10

  When Connor dropped Conyer off at his car, he told Conyer he’d have the purchased gift to Giselle within thirty minutes. He thanked Conyer again for the purchase, rolled up his window and left Conyer standing by his car. He hoped that Giselle would love his gift, and know that it came from the heart of someone who cared about her, and wanted to be her friend.

  Lord, I don’t know if she’ll even keep it when she reads the card and realizes it’s from me. Please take care of her. Heal her and… help her to see that I’m not her enemy.

  It was time that he got back to Aunt Tierney’s house and started organizing. That included making her house his, organizing her business paperwork, and finding out exactly what was in her Living Trust.

  Given the choice, he’d rather have Aunt Tierney back. He didn’t want her “stuff,” he wanted her.

  He was dreading the whole process that lay ahead of him. And, the tough part was that he’d have to do it all alone. No family to share the work… or the grief.

  As Conyer exited his car in Aunt Tierney’s driveway and looked up at the expensive, lavishly landscaped grounds that in a minute would lead him up to the expensive, lavish house, whose doors when opened, would take him inside to the expensive, lavish interior, he sighed. Lavish, lavish, lavish! Everything about it spoke of wealth! He supposed many people would love to own a home like this, but to Conyer, without people who loved each other living together in it, it was just a big, empty house. Not a home. Just a house.

  *****

  “Hi. I hope I’m not disturbing your rest, but I wanted to deliver this,” he said, as he held out the gift Conyer had purchased for her at his store. “I hope it’ll cheer you up.”

  Connor was thrilled to be the deliverer of this expensive gift to this beautiful young woman. True, it was part of the services offered by his business, but it didn’t hurt being in the presence of Giselle. He remembered her from the several times she’d stood in front of his store weeks ago, mesmerized by the ballerina sculpture.

  This time, however, Giselle looked tired, her face was a bit drawn, and there were deep circles under both eyes. She looked to him like she’d really been put through the wringer. His gaze shifted to one exposed foot that peeked out from under the sheet and two thin blankets that covered most of Giselle’s body. Wow! What must the rest of her body look like since this accident if her foot and leg were in that bad of shape.

  There was bruising that went from the tips of her gnarled toes to almost her instep. The nails were in various stages of bruising. From deep purple to green to yellow. And, there was no nail at all on the big toe. Three of the toe knuckles had what a
ppeared to be red blood blisters on them. They looked as if if one blown breath on them would puncture them, spewing blood everywhere. But, the most repulsive aspect of her foot was the big toe, which was twisted almost completely under the second toe… totally deformed. At least they looked deformed to Connor. He actually shuddered slightly, which drew Giselle’s eyes down to where he was looking. When she realized it was the sight of her foot that had apparently repulsed him to a substantial degree, she yanked her foot quickly back under the covers. Although Giselle knew her feet looked like this all the time, she found herself hoping this appealing young man thought it was from the accident, not her point slippers, and would heal and disappear.

  “Oh, hi. I recognize you, but I can’t remember from where.” She had just finished a long and tedious round of physical therapy and she felt as though she could sleep for a week.

  Her morning session of therapy had concentrated explicitly on her legs. The therapist had quickly learned that Giselle had great arm strength, as she demonstrated on the parallel walking bars. Even though her legs desperately struggled to walk, her arms relentlessly forced her on, then stabilized her while her feet caught up.

  Giselle felt as though she had walked back-and-forth on that one exerciser for miles, although in truth she only walked it twice, round trip. She felt discouraged that she wasn’t bouncing back as quickly as she thought she should, but her resolve to dance again made her push herself beyond what the average patient did. As a result, however, she was desperately tired. All she wanted to do was sleep. Just a short while. Change that. She wanted to sleep away the afternoon until she was yet again summoned to another session with Greg, her therapist.

  The sight of the ‘Whittier’s Wood Whittling’ bag brought her around somewhat. She didn’t bounce up with glee and enthusiasm, but it certainly awoke a curiosity within her.

  “You have something for me? What is it?” asked Giselle. Slowly sitting up in bed, she looked back at the cute guy that stood before her with an identifiable store bag in his hands.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed. “I know where I’ve seen you! Inside the store window.” The store logo and name printed on the bag triggered her memory. She remembered that this guy had waved at her once or twice in the few times she’d stood at the window, perusing every curve of that beautiful ballerina sculpture, as it stood poised in the window. He beckoned her to come in, but each time she pointed to her wristwatch, implying that there was no time. In actuality, she could easily have gone in every time, but for what purpose? She had no money. She couldn’t buy even the least expensive item within the store domain. No point in torturing herself. So, her routine had become to wait until he was looking elsewhere, usually talking with a customer, or dusting inventory, then slip away down the street.

  Grinning, seemingly pleased that she recognized him, he walked forward and held the bag out for her to take.

  When she hesitated to take hold of it, he took a couple steps closer until he was standing directly next to her. Again, he offered it.

  For the briefest second, Giselle remembered what her mother had taught her as a young child. She was never to take anything from a stranger. Not candy, not a toy, not a proffered hand. The remembrance made her smile. She missed her mom. And, her dad. But especially her mom. She so wished she was here right now. Giselle knew she would walk through the door, throw both arms open wide and engulf her within the “realm” of her love.

  That smile, although for the memory, seemed an official “welcome” to Connor. He believed she was sincerely glad to see him. Wow, she was really beautiful when she smiled! Well, as beautiful as anyone could be who had just been in a car crash.

  The bag, now in Giselle’s hands, was inviting. Giselle had always loved surprises. And, because of the prize in her hands, another memory was triggered into her consciousness.

  She had been no more than eight or nine. She had been home-schooled through those first formative academic years.

  Her mother would occasionally and randomly interrupt Giselle’s work by saying, “Giselle, spell ______,” inserting the word. If she spelled it incorrectly, her mom would make her stop whatever work she was doing, go retrieve the worn dictionary from the living room bookcase, and look it up. It had happened often enough that Giselle knew the routine. She would look up the word, copy it down on paper, as well as write down its definition. The last step would be to write it ten times on paper and use it in a sentence.

  That process had stuck those words like glue into her head. Mainly because she hated looking up words and writing them down. But because it often interrupted her train of thought on the work she had to return to, she truly hated it.

  But, if she spelled the word correctly, her mother would give her a prize. Usually it was a cookie, thirty minutes delayed bedtime in the evening, or some other little indication that she had succeeded in the spelling challenge.

  One particular day, her mom had walked into the kitchen to the table at which Giselle was working, and said, “Giselle, spell ‘loquacious.’”

  What in the world did that word mean?! She was convinced she’d never heard it in her whole life. Knowing, however, that she was required to respond to the challenge, she slowly began. Her mother usually suggested words that had unusual spellings, so Giselle braced herself for the challenge.

  “L-O-C…” At this third letter, Giselle’s mother never said anything, but Giselle could see the slightest furrowing of her mother’s brow. It was just enough that Giselle knew this letter was wrong.

  “No wait,” Giselle quickly said. “Let me try again.”

  “L-O-…” she hesitated. She wasn’t sure, but at this point, she only knew that “C” wasn’t right. She could only think of two other letters that would produce the hard “C” sound, and they were “K” and “Q.”

  “L-O-Q-U-A-…” She paused slightly, as she considered whether to go with “S-C” or just a “C.”

  Taking a deep breath, she plunged ahead. Desperately not wanting to have to go through the “looking up” process, and so wanting the cookie she thought she might get if she got it right, she continued.

  “…C-I-O-U-S.” Her face was screwed up in expectation of her mom saying it was time to look it up.

  “Excellent, Sweet Girl. Perfect!” her mother exclaimed. “So, what would you like to have as your reward today?”

  “You mean I get to choose this time?” asked the very excited Giselle.

  “Yes, that word was really difficult, and you spelled it right. I think this deserves something special.”

  “Well, you know that commercial on tv that I was telling you about with the lip gloss? I would love to have one of those. You’ve seen it with me. The girls wearing it are a little older than me, but not much. I really think I’m old enough, Momma.”

  Hoping with all her might that her mother would at least say she’d consider it, that is if her father agreed, Giselle was flabbergasted when her mother abruptly pulled the very gloss container out of her pocket and asked, “Oh… you mean like this one?!”

  Giselle had squealed, grabbed it from her mother’s hand, opened it and applied it to her own lips. She then stole a glance out the kitchen window to see if she could see her reflection. She could. It was shiny and looked a bit different in color than her usual lip color. She was elated. Throwing her arms around her mother’s waist, she sighed, “Oh, thank you, Mommy. I love it!”

  Her mother responded with a hug of her own around Giselle’s slender shoulders, and said, “You’re welcome, Sweetheart.”

  As Giselle’s mother turned and retreated to the kitchen sink, she abruptly stopped, turned back to Giselle, and pulling something from her left side apron pocket, she tossed it to Giselle, who had now returned to her schoolwork. Giselle wasn’t expecting it, so she couldn’t react quickly enough to catch it. It dropped directly into the middle of the math paper she was working on. It stayed pretty much intact, other than some crumbs, which flew all around it on the paper. A big round chocolate chi
p cookie. Her favorite!

  Giselle and her mom both laughed when the dropped cookie hit the edge of the pencil, catapulting it into the air.

  By the time this memory had completed itself, Giselle was almost grinning. For just a split second, she wished her mom was here to comfort her. But, almost as quickly, her heart hardened again, and she knew she wouldn’t let her parents know what happened until she was completely recovered. She knew her mom and dad’s reactions would be to ask Giselle why she didn’t want them to know. And, they’d ask her why she wouldn’t allow them to give her the greatest gift they could give… prayer for healing. They would tell her she’d taken away their blessing and her own.

  In the heaviness of the moment, the Holy Spirit tried to remind her of her worth to God, with or without the use of her legs, but she would have none of it. She cut Him off before He could fully give the message of His Restoration, which was of far more worth, but during that moment of time, Giselle’s heart would not accept it, and her smile waned.

  She looked back up at Connor. When he had seen her smile begin to fade, his smile mirrored hers. Giselle watched his smile turning downward, and re-instated her toothy grin, which in turn brought his smile back. Connor was convinced that whatever had dimmed her countenance momentarily was banished when Giselle looked directly into his face. He was convinced that this beautiful, albeit battered and bruised, young woman was charmed by his presence.

  *****

  Conyer walked through the big and lavish house that Aunt Tierney and Uncle Derrick had built and lived in for many, many years. Succumbing to his melancholy, he talked aloud. He told the structure that it was beautiful, strong, and elegantly decorated as he visually scanned its expanse.

  Walking through the various rooms, he reassured the house that a coat of paint here and there in a more updated color, and some furniture replacements would make it more awesome than it already was. But, no matter where he walked, or what he saw, he knew that although this home was now his, it was of little value to him if there was no one to share it with.

  Trying to imagine any of the three girls he’d ever dated living in this mansion was disastrous.