Angel: Counsel Series

by Shenda Paul

  I wore a cast for four and a half months and then a brace for another before being cleared to start physiotherapy. Samuel Beauvais has an enviable reputation for having achieved success with several high-profile athletes and came highly recommended by my consulting surgeon. He’s been tough when pushing me to my physical limit and supportive when, on many occasions, I’ve broken down. I regard him as a friend now, not that I’d admit that to him today.

  After the required number laps, I submit my exhausted body to his ministrations before making my way home.

  “In here, Angel!” Mom calls out as soon as I shut the door. “I’m getting lunch. We have leftover chicken; I could make you a chicken and avocado wrap, or—” she turns around as I drop my cane to the floor. Yes, I’m using a cane, yet another thing on Samuel’s never-ending list of requirements. I argued with him, of course, but that man’s more stubborn than any mule that’s ever been born. He stated, emphatically, that while I’m under his care, he’d be deciding what was good for my recovery.

  “There’s pasta salad,” Mom finishes. “Hi, sweetie, how was therapy?” she asks.

  “Grueling, painful, frustrating, I could go on forever. I nearly committed a murder today!”

  She giggles, and I frown. I think Mom has a secret crush on the irritating man. “Samuel’s just doing his job, Angel, and you’re making such good progress with him.”

  “I’ll never dance again, Mom,” I remind her petulantly.

  “Sweetheart, that’s not exactly true. You may never be a professional again, but you could dance. There are other options open to you.”

  I don’t respond. We’ve been through this so many times that it’s become exhausting. I love Mom’s optimism, and she’s right; I do have options, but after nearly twelve years of holding onto and working relentlessly to achieve a dream, it’s hard to simply let go.

  “I’ll have the pasta, thanks, Mom,” I change the subject, and she gives me a long, hard look before busying herself with our lunches. I squeeze her shoulder, an apology, as I reach into the refrigerator for our drinks.

  We’re quiet as we eat overlooking the pool. I know she’s got something on her mind, but I choose not to ask. Mom lets out a short, exasperated sigh. “Have you heard from Luke lately?” she asks. And there it is. Mom’s aware that he called a couple of nights ago. She always knows when it’s Luke because I switch my phone off the moment I check the caller ID. I can’t stand listening to it ring out, knowing he’s on the other end of the line.

  I miss him, dreadfully. I’ve lost count of the number of messages Luke’s left in the last six months. In the last, he practically begged me to return his calls. I know from what he’s said that, as soon as the company’s run of Giselle finished, he made a quick trip home. He called from there to try and make arrangements to visit, but I didn’t return his calls. I’d purposely not given him Mom’s address when I left, promising to let him have it once I got home, instead. I certainly hadn’t anticipated that he’d keep calling for so long. I’m still torn up about the way I left and by not answering when he calls, but we both need to move on. In my mind, a clean break is best, and I just don’t trust myself to hold out if I see or speak to him.

  “You know when he last called, Mom and that I haven’t called back. I know you only want what’s best for me, but trust me; it’s better for both Luke and me this way. He deserves to move on, and I have to as well. I can’t do that with one foot planted in the world of professional ballet.”

  She stares at me with sad, resigned eyes. “All right, Angelique, I won’t push you, but that young man loves you. You haven’t treated him well.” Mom’s extremely unhappy with me, I can tell by the use of my full name, and she’s right about my behavior, but Luke doesn’t love me. He could have loved me in time, and I him, but that ship has sailed—for both of us.

  “Bain, looking good, moving good,” Samuel greets me enthusiastically.

  “Thanks to you,” I smile at my friend as I slide into the chair across from him. Yes, friend, because that’s what Samuel and I are, despite the frequent urge to do him bodily harm.

  The reality is that I couldn’t have achieved what I have without him. Just over a year after my accident, I can walk normally again. It’s still possible for a trained eye to detect my barely noticeable limp, especially when I’m tired or when I’ve over-exerted myself, but, generally, no one else notices I’ve even started working at the barre at a local ballet school again. I still enjoy the training routine and spend at least an hour each day practicing. I’ll never be able to work on pointes for long periods, and I’ll certainly never be able to execute the ill-fated jeté that caused my accident again, but I can still enjoy ballet. One day, I might even bring myself to pursue ways of incorporating it into my working life.

  “You did it; I was just along for the ride,” Samuel brushes off my compliment. “I’m proud of you, Angelique.”

  “Thanks.” I swallow the lump suddenly lodged in my throat.

  “How’s Nic?” I ask, changing the subject. Nicole is Samuel’s long-time girlfriend and soon-to-be mother of their first child.

  “She’s looking beautiful, and now that she’s over the nausea, she’s starting to enjoy being pregnant. We find out the baby’s sex next week, although, I don’t know why we’re bothering. I know we’re having a son.”

  “Wishful, thinking,” I laugh at his male arrogance.

  Our waitress approaches then. Samuel and I have been frequenting this restaurant for months, so we order our usual. Our first visit had been to mark the end of my first three months of physio. My session that day ended in tears of pain and frustration. Sorry for myself, all I wanted to do was go home and curl up in bed. Samuel, however, practically ordered me to join him for lunch. A lot of water’s flowed under the bridge since then. In fact, I’ve probably shed enough tears to flood that river, but today, we’re here to celebrate. I had my last session today; tears, pain, and frustrations are all behind me now, and, thanks to Samuel, I’m walking normally again. And, due to to Peter’s generosity and the plastic surgery he paid for, the ugly scar on my thigh is barely visible. Its appearance will only improve with time, I’ve been told.

  I don’t feel sad at all when, after a long lunch, Samuel and I part company. I know we won’t lose touch because, out of the misfortune and misery of my accident, I’ve been extraordinarily lucky to gain a dear and trusted friend.

  Two weeks later, Miss Ingrid calls. We’ve been in regular contact since her return from Germany, and, by tacit agreement, we never discuss Quandt. She’s moved apartments, away from their shared neighborhood, and teaches ballet at a smaller studio now. We’re both just happy to have him out of our lives.

  She’s preparing to return to Leipzig for the summer, so we chat about the company’s planned production of The Nutcracker. Luke, she informs me, is doing well. He’s been signed as a principal dancer with a French dance company and is reportedly dating his dancing partner. I suffer a momentary twinge of regret and longing, when, after hanging up, I search the Internet and come across a photograph and review of their performance in Swan Lake. I dismiss it. I’m genuinely happy for his success and happiness, that he’s living his dream. I have to bury those longings in the same way I’ve buried the press clippings of my debut performance—at the bottom of a trunk with my other ballet memorabilia.

  I, on the other hand, haven’t dated. I’ve been too busy getting my life back on track. I work at the local library and spend a lot of time at our local ballet school where I’ve entered into an agreement with the owner to use the facilities for three evenings a week in exchange for teaching a beginners’ class. The school could be described as amateurish when compared with what I’ve done before, but, then, nothing I do with dance in the future can or will compare. I am slowly starting to rediscover the joy in dancing, even if it’s nothing like I danced before. And that, in my view, is progress.

  I’m still living with Mom and Peter but hope to move into a small apartment of my o
wn, perhaps in time for my twentieth birthday. I can hardly believe that we’ll all be turning twenty. Bron and Jamie are engaged and plan on marrying after college, while Mandi and Sammy are both in permanent relationships. We last saw each other months ago when they’d left their men to join me in Miami for the Memorial Day weekend. That was our first get together since I left for Germany. I realized, then, just how isolated I’d become and resolved to do better at keeping in touch with my friends. And I have; the girls and I make a point of calling each other every week. Although it’s not the same as seeing each other every day, it’s all so comfortable and familiar, like slipping on a loved and well-worn pair of slippers. I’m starting to feel like my old self again.

  That night, Mom tells me she and Peter will be attending an important business dinner on Saturday. We excitedly discuss dress options and, having decided that she needs something new for the occasion, arrange a shopping trip for the following day.

  We leave around mid-morning and after visiting several boutiques, find a stunning, emerald green silk dress. It’s simple, yet elegant; perfect for Mom. She then uncovers a deep red dress she insists I try on. I’d never have considered wearing such a dress, nor such a vibrant color, but I have to admit it looks good when I hold it against me. The red enhances my skin and adds richness to my brown hair and eyes. Mom hates when I call my eyes brown. “They’re amber, Angel, like pools of light,” she tells me.

  “It’s meant for you,” Mom declares. I argue that I’d never have occasion to wear it, but she insists that every woman should have a ‘drop dead dress’ and says it’s an early birthday present. Not wanting to spoil her enjoyment at being able to buy me something frivolous, something she hadn’t been able to do for many years, I graciously accept. I do insist on paying for lunch, though. On our way out, I notice a spa and decide to call later to make an appointment to treat her to a morning there, so she feels special and pampered for her big night out.

  On Saturday, I wake earIy to find Mom already bustling around the kitchen. I surprised her with the spa treatment over dinner the night before, and she’s been like an excited kid ever since.

  That evening, I help Mom get ready, and, as I watch her apply lipstick, I remind her that I used to do this when she prepared for a special night out with Dad. She’d playfully powder my nose, and when I’d ask for, the umpteenth time, why I couldn’t go, she’d promise that we’d do something special the next day and that I’d have fun with Rachel.

  “You’re as beautiful as you were then,” I tell her as she applies perfume behind her ears. She does look incredible, like a nineteen-fifties movie star, I point out. She smiles and does what she did back then; she dabs perfume behind my ears.

  “Thank you, sweetie, but you’re the beautiful one. You’re a perfect mix of your dad and me, Angel; the very best of us, always remember that.” She kisses my forehead before grabbing her wrap and clutch.

  Peter’s eyes nearly pop out of his head when he catches sight of her, and I giggle when she walks up and cheekily places her hand under his chin to close his mouth.

  “Have fun,” I say, walking them to the door.

  “We will. I intend to show off my beautiful wife tonight. How can I fail to seal this important deal with her at my side?” Peter replies, wrapping his arm around Mom’s waist. She pulls away and embraces me tightly.

  “I love you, Angel. Be good,” she says, a brilliant smile lighting up her face. She used to say that to me all those years ago too. I watch them drive away before making my way to the kitchen to forage for snacks to accompany my movie marathon.

  I wake, feeling disoriented. The noise that roused me, I realize, is the insistent ringing of the doorbell. Mom and Peter must have forgotten their key, I think, smiling. Instead of my parents’ expected apologetic faces, two police officers stand on the other side of the door. I stare at them blankly.

  “Is this the Thompson residence?” the male asks.

  “Yes, but my parents aren’t home right now. I could call my stepdad if it’s urgent.”

  “I’m Officer Jackson, and this is my partner, Officer Atkins. May we come in, please?” the woman intervenes.

  “Of course,” I say, puzzled and, by now, starting to worry.

  “Is there something wrong? Should I call Peter?” I ask as I lead them into the living room.

  “Miss Bain, perhaps you should sit down,” Officer Atkins says, and I do. Not because he suggested it but because my legs, suddenly, appear incapable of holding me up.

  “There’s been an accident,” Officer Jackson takes over. I know the question I should and want to ask, but I can’t seem to find the words.

  “Your mother has been seriously hurt and has been taken to Florida Hospital. We can drive you there if you like,” she says kindly.

  “No!” The word leaves my mouth in a whisper; in my head, it’s the roar of a wounded beast.

  Officer Atkins steps forward. “Miss Bain, we can’t allow you to drive when you’re upset. Do you have any family or friends we can contact?”

  “No. Only Mom and Peter.” Peter, dear God, I forgot about Peter!

  “What about Peter?” I ask and he looks at his partner almost helplessly.

  “Miss Bain, I’m afraid Mr. Thompson didn’t make it,” she says.

  “They took him to another hospital?”

  “Mr. Thompson died at the scene of the accident, Miss Bain,” she says slowly as if explaining something to a child.

  “No! That can’t be right. My mom can’t lose another husband…she…No!” I jump up, waving my arms helplessly. I wrap my arms around myself and sink into the sofa, trying, desperately, to stifle my rising panic.

  “We’re going to make you something hot and sweet to drink, and then we’ll to drive you to the hospital to be with your mother. She needs you now, Miss Bain,” Officer Jackson tells me.

  I stare at Mom’s comatose body. Her neck and shoulders held by a brace, her face and hair covered in blood, and her beautiful, emerald green dress, stained an ugly brown. She’s so pale; it seems like every drop of blood’s been drained from her.

  “Is she alive?” I brokenly ask.

  “She was conscious when she arrived and able to provide your details, but she’s been drifting in and out since then. She’s been drifting in and out since then. A team of doctors has assessed and stabilized her, and she’ll be going for X-rays and scans in just a bit. Someone will come and see you as soon as they have the results. Can I get you anything; is there anyone else you’d like to contact?” the kindly nurse ask.

  “There’s no one else,” I tell her, and, for the first time since arriving, I remember Peter. I’m ashamed and overcome with guilt that I’ve forgotten him again, but my brain can’t seem to deal with more than one thing at a time.

  “What about my stepfather…” a sob leaves me then, “where is he?” Her eyes soften with pity.

  “He was taken to the morgue, sweetie,” she says. “I can arrange for you to see him. Does he have any other family you need to contact?” I stare at her in bewilderment. I hadn’t even considered Peter having family. He’s never mentioned anyone, certainly not in my presence. No relatives attended his and Mom’s wedding, so I just assumed he didn’t have any. Except, now, I think Mom may have mentioned an aunt.

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll check when I can,” I tell the nurse. “I’d like to stay with my mom until she’s taken for x-rays. Can I see him then?” I dread the thought of seeing Peter lifeless, but Mom and I are all he has—I have to do it.

  When Mom’s wheeled upstairs, I find my way to the morgue. I’ve been asked to formally identify Peter’s body. I feel sick to the stomach and filled with dread as I’m led into the room, where an attendant pulls out a refrigerated drawer. I don’t think I’ll ever forget looking down on the cold, lifeless body of the man I’ve developed so much affection for; a man, once so full of life.

  They’ve cleaned him up, I know, but evidence of Peter’s fatal injuries are still very evident. He
looks peaceful, though, and I try to console myself with that bleak fact. I shudder at the sensation of his cold, unresponsive cheek when I lean down to kiss him. My tears spill onto his face, and I wipe them away, saying a silent prayer for him. I thank him for loving Mom and me before placing the single, red rose I purchased from the gift store on his chest. I’m devastated when I walk out, leaving him alone, surrounded by cold steel. It reminds me so much of leaving Dad in the cold ground.

  I return to the visitors’ room to await Mom’s return and, hopefully, a doctor who’ll tell me more about her injuries and, more importantly, her recovery. For the first time in my life, I feel completely alone. It had always been Dad, Mom and me, and later Mom and me until Peter came into our lives. Despite my family being small, I’ve always had parental support. Now, I feel lost and scared.

  The same nurse wakes me. “Miss Bain, your mother’s back, and the doctor’s ready to see you.”

  I sit up groggily and run a hand through my tangled hair. “Okay,” I say, my voice brittle. “Please call me Angelique. Can I see my mom first?”

  “She needs surgery, Angelique,” she tells me calmly, “and is being prepared now. You can see her when she’s ready, but first, the doctor needs to speak with you.”

  She leads me into a small room. I’m nervously wringing my hands when a silver-haired man enters and smiles at me. The sight of him in scrubs, despite his air of calm efficiency, does nothing to allay my fears. “Miss Bain?” he asks, and I nod. “I’m Doctor Murray Nichols, a neurosurgeon,” he says, offering his hand.

  “How’s my mom? Is she going to be all right?” I ask, placing my cold hand in his.

  “I’m afraid your mother has sustained some pretty serious injuries, Miss Bain.” He sits and angles his body toward me. “I understand you don’t have any other relatives; is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Excuse me for having to ask, but your mother’s still drifting in and out of consciousness, and we need to get her into surgery as soon as possible. Someone, her next of kin, needs to sign the consent forms. How old are you?”