Irina stayed behind to become the ballet mistress at the Phoenix Ballet, and during school holidays I went to stay with her.
At eighteen, I joined the corps de ballet at the New York City Ballet; it was a dream come true. I was a soloist at twenty and already at twenty-two a principal dancer. I had it in my blood, and I’d danced for as long as I could remember.
But it was all over now. I knew it. There was absolutely no question about it, and no matter how long I’d danced, or how much I would train from this day on, I wouldn’t dance again. It had been months since I’d woken up that first time, and nothing anyone had said since had made me think anything but that my leg was ruined forever.
I watched as the doctors started to remove the cast. They had warned me about what I’d see, but once it was all gone, both Irina and I took a deep breath. My leg had not just been broken, it had pretty much been crushed and there had been damage to my hip as well, which had caused injuries to both my femoral and sciatic nerve.
In short: I should count myself lucky if I would ever be able to walk properly again, and not even that was very likely.
But no warnings had prepared me for what I saw. There were scars all over it—like a street map of angry red lines covering it from my mid calf to my hip, and I grabbed Irina’s hand while trying to hold my tears back.
I still couldn’t remember the accident, and according to the doctors it was quite possible I never would. I would actually prefer it if I never did, since it didn’t seem like a memory worth preserving.
I’d been hit by a cab. I’d been in a hurry since I’d missed my bus, and I’d missed my bus because I’d forgotten to turn off the coffee machine and had run back inside to do it.
I’d managed to catch the second bus, but when I ran around it to cross the street after I got off, I hadn’t paid attention and had been hit by a cab at full speed. If I’d simply left the coffee machine on, or had gone off at the back of the bus and rounded it with full view of the street to my left—which is what one is supposed to do—I would’ve been fine. And instead of looking at the mess formerly known as my leg, I would be at rehearsals for Balanchine’s The Four Temperaments.
I’d always known being a dancer was something that would end somewhere in my late thirties, or early forties if I was lucky. It had never been a long-term solution, but I had always figured I would still be able to do some dancing, at least work with dancing—maybe teaching. Judging by the state of my leg, that wasn’t going to happen. Ever. Like they’d said, I should count myself lucky if I could ever walk properly. I would, most likely, limp my way through the rest of my life.
Later that night, I was back in the bed with a new soft cast covering my leg. It felt just as good; I didn’t want to see it. Irina was sitting next to me, just like she’d done from the very beginning. She stroked the hair out of my face.
“I called your parents. They’ll be here in a few weeks.”
They were busy with their work, I knew, and I understood. She seemed scared I wouldn’t, so she continued,
“They want to be here, you know that, but they’re in the middle of training for the new—”
“Irina, it’s okay, I understand. Shouldn’t you be in the middle of training for the next performance?”
“In two weeks.” Irina took a deep breath. “How do you feel about Greenville?”
That’s where I grew up. In what was now Irina’s apartment in Greenville. It had been in the family since the forties; at times it had been empty, but had always been owned by the Dobronravovs since the building was built. Mom and Dad had moved there when I was born, and Irina had come to stay with us when I was three.
“Feels like a good place for a break,” I finally said.
Not like I had much of a choice, and it didn’t really matter to me. At the moment, I wasn’t even capable of going to the bathroom by myself. Irina had room for me, my old room, and it was private. As private as a room in someone else’s apartment could be.
“The town has changed since you left.”
“Yeah. Sure it has,” I chuckled. “You know, I used to come back for most holidays—as in just last Christmas. And unless it’s been a remarkable change in just a few months, it’s just as it was when I was fourteen.”
She gave my forehead a kiss. “Remember what your dream was when you were a kid and spent hours training in our practice room?”
“To be a principal dancer in the New York City Ballet,” I mumbled.
“And no matter what happens, you reached one of your life goals. People grow to be eighty without doing that or even working for it the way you did. Never forget that, Zvezda.”
“Spasibo, Tetya.”
We didn’t speak much Russian, just words here and there. Like my nickname, zvezda, which meant star. ‘Tetya’ was aunt, and on occasion some swearwords sneaked in, too. Mom had always spoken Russian with me, though, since she was born there, so I knew it fairly well. At least a lot better than Dad and Irina did.
“You’ll be fine, my love. You life hasn’t ended, and you have a new interesting future ahead of you.”
-o0o-
The first year after moving back to Greenville was a lot about adapting and learning basic things again. I cried a lot, but slowly my new situation became manageable.
At the end of that first year, I walked into a tattoo parlor in Phoenix. It had been recommended to me by my physical therapist, Brett, who’d said that no matter which one of the artists I ended up with, I’d be in good hands. I was met by a heavily tattooed and pierced woman somewhere in her forties.
“Hi,” I said. I was nervous. I had no idea how these things worked. “I have a vague idea for a tattoo, and I’d like to talk to someone about it.”
“What kind of a tattoo is it?”
“Well, that’s what I need some help with. It should have something to do with dancing, maybe ballet shoes, or... I’m not sure.”
This was probably stupid. I should’ve had a finished picture, but I just wasn’t sure. The research I’d done made me believe it was better if the artist told me what was possible and what wasn’t. Since I didn’t know much about tattoos, I figured it was for the best.
“Anna?”
I turned and for the first time noticed the other person behind the counter—a young girl with purple hair. I had no idea who she was, and she must’ve noticed my confusion.
“I’m Violet Baxter... or it was Warren, you used to—”
“Of course! Sorry, I didn’t recognize you.”
Violet was Lisa’s baby sister. Lisa and I had been friends through school. Mainly since I had my dancing and didn’t have time for anything outside school, and Lisa’s best friends were two brothers she knew through the biker club her dad was in. The Baxter boys, as my parents used to call them with a huff, were infamous in school, and the younger one was the same age as Lisa and me.
Lisa hadn’t shared any classes with him, so she’d hung with me at school a lot. She quite often helped me with my homework, since she was smart, and I didn’t care much about it.
I smiled at Violet. “You grew up.”
Violet had always been a quiet little sister who hung around and… drew. Was she a tattoo artist? I quickly did the math in my head. She couldn’t be more than twenty-one.
“You work here?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered, and I noticed her looking at my cane.
My parents had bought it for me when it had become evident that I was most likely going to need one for the rest of my life, or at least for a really long time. It was beautiful; black with a silver handle and engraved flowers in an Art Nouveau style—Russian, of course.
“As a tattoo artist?” I asked, and she nodded. “Since when?”
“Since I was sixteen,” she smiled. “I loved drawing and this is a way to make living art.”
“This might sound rude, but are you any good?”
It was half a joke, since she still seemed very young, but if she were an artist, it would be a
comfort to have someone I knew doing the tattoo. Also, I had let Violet watch me practice a couple of times. She’d said she wanted to try to draw dancing. She couldn’t have been more than twelve, but the drawings had been beautiful.
“Yes,” she answered.
“Don’t let her fool you,” the pierced woman said with a laugh. “She’s not good. She’s extremely good. Wins prizes all the time. If she can schedule you in, you’re a lucky woman and in very good hands.”
I noticed Violet looking at my cane again, and I figured she was uncomfortable with asking about it, but that turned out to not be the case.
“Dad told me you were in an accident. I think your aunt mentioned it to him when they met.”
“Yes,” I tried to smile. “I’m sort of stuck with this, but I’m fully healed. This is as good as it gets.”
“Okay. It’s just that, we don’t ink unless…”
“I know,” I said. “I did some research.”
“And it’s not a good way to cover scars,” she said looking rather uncomfortable. “At least not scars that new. They need to have healed a few years and preferably faded.”
“I know, and frankly you’d have to tattoo most of the leg, but I want it on my good leg.”
“I’m so sorry about the accident. I can’t imagine…” She gave me a weak smile. “It must be as if I lost my hands.”
It hit me that she probably understood better than most, and that’s when I decided I really wanted her to do it for me.
“Thank you. If you think you could squeeze me in, I’d love to have you do it. I’ll be in the area for a while, so there’s no hurry.”
“If you come to the back we can see what we can come up with, and if you like it we’ll make an appointment. I need to know what you want so I know how much time we need.”
When she came walking around the counter, I almost fell over. She was pregnant! I had no idea how I’d missed it to begin with, but she had a visible bulge on her belly and the rest of her body was quite skinny, so she had to be pregnant. I did the math again. And yes, she was twenty-one, I was sure.
“You’re pregnant?” I finally managed to say. “I’m sorry, I was just surprised.”
“It’s okay. I’m pretty used to people being surprised about me being young when I do things,” she mumbled. “I’m married.”
“I didn’t... I didn’t mean to judge you. I was just... I mainly remember you as that very young and,” I almost said ‘shy’ but swallowed it. “And you must’ve been twelve or thirteen the last time I saw you.” I smiled. “Congratulations, how far along are you?”
“Seventeen weeks,” she said and gave me a smile back. “And thank you.”
I realized what else she’d said. That she was married, and she’d introduced herself as Violet Baxter. “You’re married to one of the Baxter brothers?”
“Yes. Mac,” she said with a smile. “Not Mitch.”
She probably knew why I’d asked, and I laughed. As I remembered it, Mac had been a calm and pretty nice guy despite his reputation. Mitch, on the other hand, he’d been known as the guy who got around, to put it mildly.
I followed her to the back room, and thirty minutes later I was amazed. Violet was really good at this. I’d given her some vague descriptions of dancing, movement, and in black—and she came up with something really beautiful that looked like the outline of a dancer in movement. Even if I never knew much about them, I had always liked tattoos, but it was not a smart thing when you were a dancer. Irina had come up with the idea of me doing things I couldn’t or wouldn’t do while I was a dancer, so a tattoo was on the list.
Having big breakfasts was already a part of my daily routine. That was something I hadn’t done since I was a kid. I had some other goals, things I wanted to be able to do that I hadn’t before.
Then there were the things from my old life that I’d like to be able to revisit, like going to see a ballet, but I was not even close to ready for that yet. I’d accidentally heard the music to Swan Lake just two weeks earlier and had fallen apart. I wanted this tattoo as a symbol for something I had been, that I was proud of, but that was now a finished chapter in my life.
Violet booked me an appointment two weeks later. She admitted she’d squeezed me in on what would’ve been her day off, so I was really grateful. I wanted the ink on my leg, my good one, and she promised to make sure we’d have privacy. If I had to drop my pants, I wanted to make sure no one would be around to see my bad leg.
As I was about to leave I turned around to Violet again.
“If Lisa’s ever in town, think you could ask her to call me?”
“Sure. She’s coming down next week, and she’s going to stay for a while. I’ll give her your number.”
“Please do.”
I hadn’t seen Lisa in years. We’d met up when I went back to Greenville for holidays my first years in New York. Then she went to college, I tended to stay in New York more and more, phone calls became more rare, and letters fewer and further between until they eventually stopped. It wasn’t a big thing. No huge falling out; we just lost track. Irina used to give me updates, and I was sure that she had some reports on how I was doing from her dad.
As I remembered it, Lisa was one of those people who always managed to pick me up from my bad moods, and she’d always been a lot of fun. She was also pretty much the only close friend I’d had who wasn’t a dancer. I wanted to stay away from the dancers.
-o0o-
I had physical therapy the next day. I still had to go, and they had asked me to keep it up for as long as possible, preferably the rest of my life. The limping could cause further problems to my hip, my back, and my good leg. The nerve damage would also eventually make my muscles weaker, which in turn would cause stiffness and more limping. The best way to avoid it was to keep up with the training.
The first time had been kind of fun when Brett was trying to help me stretch. I’d finally told him that I’d been a ballet dancer, and if he wanted to stretch my muscles he would have to make much more of an effort than he was doing.
I liked him, though. He didn’t coddle me, he pushed me hard, and that was what I liked about him. I’d been pushing my body since I was four, and I tried to see this the same way as I had the dancing. It was vital to keep my body in as good shape as possible, even now. I knew Irina and my parents had been worried that I’d just let everything go now, but I didn’t. Brett had given me exercises that I did every morning and often at night, too. My leg was usually even stiffer in the morning, and that could lead to pain as soon as I started walking if I didn’t try to massage and exercise it off as soon as I woke up.
Brett was one of few people I was comfortable with seeing my leg. I didn’t have much of a choice; he massaged it and after the first five times it felt okay. I assumed he’d seen worse––or at least just as bad.
“Figured out what you want to do for a living yet?” he asked as he stretched my bad leg.
“No. Got any ideas?”
He held it out straight to massage the muscles and the scar tissue on the back of my leg.
“Well, any job that keeps you standing up is pretty much out of the question––at least for now. Although moving around a little bit might be good for you.” He had a big smile. “How about receptionist?”
“You do know that I’ve been dancing my entire life? I mean, I have a high school diploma, but that’s pretty much it.”
“Answering the phone and making appointments doesn’t require more than a diploma. And you’ve been a dancer, that requires a lot of discipline.”
“That’s nice of you to say, but people don’t always see it that way. They see an airhead who spent her entire life prancing around in a tutu not giving a crap about anything else.”
He laughed and put the leg down, and started to massage the front of it.
“If you got the opportunity, would you take it?”
“Sure. Sounds like something I could do. Getting pretty tired of walking around at home.
It could be nice, something to take my mind off things.”
-o0o-
Brett called me two days later. A friend of his worked at a small theater in Phoenix and they needed someone in the reception. The pay wasn’t good, but it was something. I still lived at Irina’s, so I didn’t have many expenses, and I had saved all the money from the insurance that was paid out for my ruined leg. My parents had insisted on the insurance policy, and even paid the premium. That was what important choreographers could do, since they actually earned a lot of money. I had found it extremely embarrassing at the time, but considering what had happened, I was pretty happy about it now.
I was at the theater just the next day. It really was small, but it had a family feeling to it, so I liked it. It wasn’t just reception work, but selling tickets, and generally just helping where it was needed. It seemed okay, and it was at least something to do. After living with an extremely strict routine since I was fourteen, I missed having a routine and this would help to get some of that back. It was theater––an environment I missed, but not dance which would just make me sad. Good middle ground, in other words.
That’s when Lisa called. She was in Greenville and was going to stay for a week, so she wanted to see me.
“Can you meet me at the compound?”
“At the compound? The clubhouse?” I laughed. I’d been there but found the place pretty scary. Just like I found her dad quite intimidating as well. I’d been wrong about Bear, though, and once I stopped going quiet and just staring at him whenever he was close by, he turned out to be a really nice man. “Sure, I’ll just wave my cane around if anyone comes close.”
“Oh, Vi told me about your cane, she said it was beautiful.”
“It is.” And that was how I remembered Lisa, always seeing the silver lining—I might have a cane, but it was a beautiful cane. “Gotta have some perks when I’m hobbling around.”
Center of Gravity (Marauders Book 3) Page 2
