Angel: Counsel Series

by Shenda Paul

  “You were brought in last night; this is your second night in hospital, Angelique.”

  “Oh,” I reply listlessly.

  “Your boyfriend was here all day. He left when he had to return to the theater. He asked to me explain when you woke. Doctor Schmidt will come soon, and I will bring you something to eat when he has left.” She bustles out, leaving me to my misery.

  Memories flood my mind. Dieter Quandt in my dressing room, intimidating me from the wings, my mistimed leap, Luke’s look of horror, his mad dash to try and catch me, the excruciating pain and, finally, the blessed relief of the blackness that had followed.

  I vaguely remember waking, crying in pain, being surrounded by medics, and being rushed for x-rays. I think Miss Ingrid was there, and I recall someone saying my leg had to be placed in traction and then, the feeling of calm as whatever they injected into me took effect.

  I remember Luke whispering to me, but I’m not sure if I imagined it or if it happened. Annaliese said he was here, so it probably did. I dreamed of Dad; that I remember clearly. I remember his smile and comforting arms.

  I’m still trying to sift imagination from reality when a tall man with dark, graying hair walks in and introduces himself as Doctor Thomas Schmidt. “I am an orthopedic surgeon, and I supervised your treatment last night. How are you feeling? Dizzy or nauseous?” he asks.

  I shake my head, overcome by nerves, yet anxious for news about my leg. Doctor Schmidt grasps my wrist and checks my pulse, then tells me to breathe deeply.

  “Are you in pain, Miss Bain? I can have the nurse administer medication?” he offers.

  “No, thank you. I just want to know about my leg and how soon I can dance again. And, please, call me Angelique.”

  He folds his height into the chair beside me. “Angelique, you’ve had a very bad break. In fact, you have suffered several breaks in what we refer to as the femoral shaft. This area, here,” he says, demonstrating on my healthy leg. The most serious break is what we call a displaced fracture, meaning the bone ends have separated and are no longer aligned. Your injuries are serious, and we will need to operate to realign the fragments. You also have an incomplete fracture in your tibia. We stabilized the leg last night and obtained x-rays and scans to determine what needs to be done. Now, we need the swelling to subside before we operate. We plan on doing that tomorrow morning.”

  “Will I be able to dance again?” I manage to ask.

  “You’re young and healthy, and I would like to think you would be able to do so. But you need to understand that you have a long recovery ahead of you. It will be at least four to six months before your bones have healed properly. In that time, you will need to undertake weight-bearing exercises, and you will have to undergo strenuous and extended physical therapy to rebuild muscle tone and strength.

  The kind of dancing you do puts a lot of strain on a perfectly fit body; that strain will be magnified with this injury. You will probably be able to dance after therapy, but I cannot guarantee that your leg will be strong enough to resume your career as a professional ballerina.”

  “Oh God,” I wail, unable to stop the tears I’d been holding back.

  “I’m sorry, Angelique. I did not mean to be so blunt, but you are a professional, and I could not lie to you. I’m not saying it is impossible, but, in my experience. it is highly unlikely.”

  I turn my head, trying to stop both my brain and heart from exploding.

  “You are understandably distressed, but in a couple of days and with greater knowledge, you’ll be able to leave the hospital and discuss this with your family. The first step in your recovery is to operate to ensure the bone mends properly.” He presses the call button, and Anneliese enters holding a sheaf of papers. Doctor Schmidt proceeds to explain the surgical procedure and asks if I have any questions. I say no.

  He then explains that Miss Ingrid provided them with my basic information. “I need your permission to operate,” he says. It’s then I realize that I’m truly am an adult, responsible for myself. I’m not too sure how I feel about that right now. What I do know is that I’ve never felt less like a grown up. I sign the necessary papers, and then, tired and miserable, close my eyes.

  “I’ll leave you to rest. The nurse will provide you with light refreshment before she gives you something to make you sleep. Good night, Angelique, I’m sorry to be the bearer of such distressing news,” Doctor Schmidt says, lightly squeezing my limp hand.

  I don’t respond. It’s rude, I know, but, right now, I can’t be bothered with niceties. Analiese brings me a chicken sandwich and a cup of hot chocolate. I ignore the food, choosing to stare at the darkened window, instead. “Dark like my future,” I dismally think.

  She returns some time later, tuts at my untouched tray, but lowers my bed without saying a word. She fluffs my pillows, leaves, and promptly returns, wheeling a small trolley. Taking a syringe from the tray, she injects the contents into my IV line. She dims the light and brushes her hand over my forehead in a gesture of comfort, then leaves just as silently as she entered. I stare at the darkened window until I my lids grow heavy, and I drift into oblivion.

  The sound of trolley wheels wakes me. Turning my head, I see a buxom, bright-eyed and dark haired nurse enter. “Good morning, Miss Bain, I’m Birgitta. Sorry, nothing to eat or drink; I’m here to prepare you for surgery,” she announces. They must train nurses to be cheerful, no matter how miserable their patients’ news or grave their condition. Usually, I’d appreciate that; today, not so much.

  “I need to go to the bathroom,” I croak.

  “No need. You have a catheter; it only feels like you want to go. I’ll change your bag, and the feeling will soon pass.” Great, not only am I a cripple, but I get to be totally humiliated too, I ungraciously think. I ask Birgitta to call me Angelique. After all, the poor woman has to change my catheter bag.

  She dresses me in yet another backless gown and places, what I’m sure looks like a silly hat on my head. A short while later, an orderly arrives to wheel me to the operating theater. Doctor Schmidt, and another doctor, who introduces himself as my anesthetist, greet me. I really don’t care what he’s saying; I just want him to put me under so I can get this stage over and done with.

  I wake, back in my room, with Birgitta snapping a pressure cuff around my arm. “Welcome back. How do you feel?”

  “Groggy,” I reply.

  “That’s normal. How about a sip of water? We need to make sure you will not be sick before you can have something light to eat.”

  “Tea would be good,” I say, wondering why my throat hurts.

  I drift in and out of sleep; the after effects of anesthetic, I’ve been told. The television’s playing softly in the background, but I’m not paying it any notice. I’m too miserable at the thought of not being able to dance again. The almost crippling hatred I feel for Dieter Quandt, the only thing stopping me from succumbing to a flood of tears, consumes my mind.

  I wake just in time to watch Luke enter. He’s holding a bunch of creamy roses, which reminds me of our opening night. My throat tightens at the memory. He gives me the most stunning smile, and despite my misery, I respond. He sets the roses on the table beside me and leans over to kiss me on the mouth. “Hello, baby. How are you feeling?” he asks.

  “Fine,” I say, but my quivering lip betrays me.

  “Oh, Angelique,” taking great care, he sits on the bed beside me and wraps an arm around me. “It’s going to be all right; you’ll get better.”

  “I’ll probably never dance professionally again,” I blurt out.

  “Don’t say that. It may take time, but you will. We’ll dance together again,” he says, sounding so confident. My heart sinks. No, like my leg, it fractures in several places as I realize that what Luke and I have would almost certainly have blossomed into love. But, a big part of the future he sees for us as a couple, holds the dream of us sharing the stage and becoming professional dance partners.

  And why shouldn’t he? L
ike me, he’s spent over a decade honing his skills, preparing himself for the international stage. The ultimate dream would be to find someone who shares those aspirations, the life you envisage for yourself, to share and enjoy success with the person you love by your side. When I met Luke and found myself attracted to him, I’d fantasized about that too. But I can no longer be that person for him. I’ll only hold him back.

  He’ll, no doubt, do the gallant thing because that’s the kind of person he is. He’ll assure me that a relationship between us can work. He could go on to become a successful international dancer, and I could support him, but I’d be living with the constant reminder of what I’d lost. I have no doubt, whatsoever, that it would, ultimately, put a strain on anything good we may have had. It’s doomed to fail; we’d both be unfulfilled, and I don’t want to witness the light I see in his eyes, the way he looks at me, fade.

  “You’re right,” I say to appease him. “Tell me what happened after…” I ask, only then realizing the implications of me not finishing my performance. “I’ve let the Company down—the audience must feel so cheated—”

  “Shhh, baby,” he brushes away my tears, “the audience was fine. They were shocked, like all of us, but Master Gustav reacted very quickly and had the curtain lowered so you could be attended to. He made an announcement and offered the audience members a refund, or if they preferred, new tickets to a specially scheduled performance. The entire house stood to applaud. It was their way of wishing you well, Angelique. You wouldn’t have been aware of it; you’d passed out by then.

  “I tried to get to you before you landed. I tried—” he says, his voice breaking.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Luke. I was distracted and misjudged my leap.”

  “That’s not like you. What happened?”

  “Quandt,” I say, bile rising at the mention of his name. “He was standing in the no-go zone. He moved toward me just as I took off—”

  “That bastard! I knew he was trouble. You should have him charged … I’m not sure with what, but we’ll find something; trespassing at the very least. He’s responsible for this!” Luke paces agitatedly, his normally composed manner a thing of the past.

  Neither of us notices Miss Ingrid until she speaks. “Who is responsible?” she asks.

  Luke answers before I can. “Quandt!” he spits. “He was in the wings and moved just as Angelique was about to execute her leap. If he hadn’t been there—” he waves his arm at my useless leg, “this would not have happened.”

  “Is this true, Angelique?” she asks. I nod. Her eyes ask questions I’m not prepared to answer in front of Luke, and I surreptitiously shake my head.

  “We’ll discuss this later. You must tell me everything,” she says, nodding at my silent request.

  Miss Ingrid leaves after a short visit, promising to return first thing in the morning, to get all the information from me, no doubt. Luke spends some hours with me, during which we discuss the previous night’s performance. Adriana has assumed the role of Giselle, and Amelie, the role of Myrtha. I push down my disappointment and give thanks for the long-held tradition of understudies.

  He’s patient and caring, and I revel in his attention, but as soon as Luke leaves, taking his positivity with him, I return to my depressed state. I doze off again, and some indeterminate time later, I wake to feel soft lips brushing across my forehead. I open my eyes to gaze into Mom’s deep blue ones.

  “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry it took me so long to get here,” she whispers, kissing my hand. “I got the first flight I could.”

  “It’s wonderful to see you,” I say, tears welling over. Mom slips off her shoes, and like she did when I was a little girl, gets onto the narrow bed and pulls me into a tender embrace. I allow my mother’s love and comfort to seep into me while I cry over lost dreams.

  “It’s going to be fine, A Stór,” she soothes. “We’ll fly home in a couple of days, and Peter and I will take care of you until you’re on your feet again.” I’m glad she doesn’t try to gloss over the fact that I may never dance professionally again. She knows, tough, because Doctor Schmidt had, with my permission, phoned to disclose my prognosis. It feels good to not pretend, to just be sad, mad, and to vent my feelings.

  I withhold the full story about Dieter Quandt because I know Mom will blame herself for not seeing through him. The truth is, that since her initial concerns, which had been allayed by the background check, and later, by her calling Miss Ingrid, he’d been careful not to cross the line. Before my accident, his only lapse had been the incident on my thirteenth birthday. So, yes, he’d been careful—careful and cunning as a fox. He manipulated Mrs. Roberts and Mom. And, he played on my innocence as a child, and then, later, my naivety to get away with his plans. Miss Ingrid is the only one who could have known his real character, and I’m dying to know just why she didn’t see fit to warn either Mom or me when I was old enough to understand.

  Doctor Schmidt visits the next day while Mom’s with me and outlines my recovery program, a minimum of four months in a heavy cast, progressing to a lighter one. Weight-bearing exercises, starting with gentle walks and building up, start soon, as early as tomorrow. Then, as soon as the first cast is removed, I’m to start a rigorous physical therapy regimen to regain muscle mass and strength.

  Three days later, we’re waiting to board our flight home. Dieter Quandt offered, through Miss Ingrid, to fly Mom and I first class, but I refused to accept anything more from him or the Institute. Mom, surprised by my vehement response, chose not to upset me by pursuing the matter. We were, in any case, more than happy with Peter’s business class arrangements. Master Gustav, when he found out, however, insisted that The Leipzig Company pays for our upgrade. I graciously accepted.

  I didn’t return to our apartment, choosing, instead, to spend my one night out of hospital in Mom’s hotel room. Luke’s visited every day and arrived this morning to accompany us to the airport. He’s been hovering attentively to ensure my every comfort.

  Miss Ingrid did return to visit me, and I filled her in on my dressing room conversation with Quandt. I explained his threatening presence in the wings during that fatal performance, and how, just as I prepared to execute the grand jeté, he stepped forward. She listened with pursed lips, then swore to do whatever she could to ensure he’d never be allowed backstage at any performance ever again. “Wherever I have contacts and can exert pressure,” she assured me. She also told me she’d resigned from her position at The Quandt Institute.

  She related the story about how, as a budding ballerina, she’d met Dieter Quandt, then the assistant music director with the company. She described how he’d charmed her, won her trust and then taken advantage of her yearning for affection, and when she most needed him, he abandoned her. In an act of seeming compassion, years later, he offered her a job. Other than his inappropriate relationship with her, she professed that in all the time she’d known him, he hadn’t shown further signs of having a predilection for young girls. She believed his behavior with her had been isolated and had been, as he’d told her, due to love and passion for her.

  She’d been shocked to learn the extent of his obsession with me during their confrontation in our apartment. She thought she’d scared him off, and had every intention, after their second confrontation, on the night of my fall, to threaten him with disclosure. I still believe she should have warned Mom, and, later me, but I feel she’d been genuine in her belief that she’d done her best to protect me. The blame, ultimately, lies with Quandt and no one else, I’ve decided. I’ve only seen Miss Ingrid once after that meeting, but we’ve promised to keep in touch.

  It’s about forty-five minutes before our flight, and I can’t bear the thought of prolonging what I know will be a painful goodbye. So I ask Mom to arrange for us to wait in the lounge until we’re called to board. She leaves to find an airline attendant to assist with my wheelchair. Luke kneels to wrap me in his arms and kisses me deeply. “I’m going to miss you, baby, desperately. T
he rest of this season won’t be the same without you, but it’s only three more weeks. I’ll come and see you as soon as we wrap.”

  “I’ll miss you too, so much, and I’m so happy we met and that I shared myself with you.” I pull him into another passionate kiss, and then, clasping both of his hands, I inhale deeply.

  “Remember what you asked me to do at our audition?” I ask. He nods, looking puzzled by the question.

  “Well, now you have to do that for me, okay?”

  Tears roll down my cheeks. He kisses me again, both our cheeks wet now. I cling to him, knowing this is our last embrace. Luke, misunderstanding my distress, reassures me that he’ll be seeing me soon.

  I release him, reluctantly, and only when Mom returns.

  “Dance for me,” I whisper as I’m wheeled away.

  8

  I f I were a cursing person, I’d be hurling every foul word I know at Samuel. The ache in my leg is excruciating, I’m tired, and downright irritable, but he’s relentless.

  Samuel’s my physiotherapist-come-trainer. His incredible good looks, inviting, coffee-colored skin and warm, hazel eyes do nothing to lessen the dislike I feel for him right now. “Come on, Bain, don’t be a wimp. Five more,” he challenges, extending my leg. Agonizing pain shoots up its entire length. “I hate you,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

  “I know you do,” he replies, completely unperturbed. “Three more—come on!” What I’ve just been put through for the past hour-and-a-half would normally have been a walk in the park for me, but, now, I sweat and grunt as he counts down.

  “Well done! See what you can do when you put your mind to it?” he praises, but. I choose to ignore his olive branch.

  “A couple of laps, and I’ll see you on the massage table in half an hour.” He pats my leg and leaves, glancing back to wink at me over his shoulder before loping away, all height and muscles.