by L. J. Hamlin
"Any other injuries? Your parents told me you were having surgery, but didn't tell me what for." Thomas's frown deepens.
His parents had probably been told he would no longer be able to dance. He should feel relieved that he doesn't have to tell them, to see the first shock of disappointment, but he doesn't feel better. He dreads seeing them. They've been so invested in his career, so proud. He's a ballet dancer in New York. He's been in big shows. He's a star. It's hard to believe that life is over. It doesn't seem real. It was his dream to dance, and he made it happen. Now it's gone, and he can't even remember how, if he did something wrong. The doctor said it was a freak accident, but did Arkady somehow cause it?
"My knee is badly damaged." Arkady doesn't meet Thomas's eye. Thomas has been his manager since he was sixteen. Thomas got him his first paying job, and every job since. And, oh God, his job. It hadn't even crossed his mind. He was the rising star of an off-Broadway ballet company. They were known for being cool and independent, and Arkady was known as the bad boy ballerino: trouble, but worth it for his skill.
"We'll get you a good doctor, the best. You'll hardly miss any shows. The company won't dare fire you. It was their ropes that snapped. They can't fire you, even if it takes a month," Thomas says, fiddling with his cell phone, the perfect stereotype of a manager, and he still thinks he can fix this, like he's fixed things for Arkady before.
"I've seen a doctor. She said the damage... I won't be getting better in a month." Arkady's mind grabs on to the word ropes. He remembers now he was going to be up in the air for a photo shoot. It'd been planned for weeks. He'd been worried about the bruise from the fight at the party. He'd gone to sleep with Lou, but he can't remember a thing after that. It's blank, like a book telling a story, and he's turned a page, and suddenly there's nothing, no words to tell him the story of what happened.
He's worried about Lou, but won't ask. Thomas has never liked his dog. He's afraid of Lou, even though he's a loving animal who's never bitten anybody. Arkady hopes his parents have been looking after Lou. They like Lou. They like him having a big dog for protection, and despite not being a violent dog, Lou is protective and will chase away anyone who gets too close to Arkady with a bad attitude.
"So, what are you saying? What? Like six months?" Thomas asks.
"She says I'll walk with a limp and a cane the rest of my life." Arkady can't bring himself to say he can't dance. Maybe because it hasn't sunk in fully yet. He wishes Thomas had given him time to get used to it before he came to visit, but then, he's not sure he can ever get used to this. With the medication, he feels like he's at the bottom of the ocean, and the pain is on the surface. He can still feel it, but it's distorted.
"Are you telling me you're a cripple?" Thomas asks, and Arkady flinches at the word. He's been called a lot of things he didn't like before, but damn, there's something about that word. He's never been called a cripple before. He's always been healthy. He doesn't think he's ever called someone a cripple before, either. He wasn't raised like that. He was taught to respect people, unless they disrespected him first.
"Don't call me that." Arkady manages to get the words out evenly. He's so angry, but his whole body feels like one big bruise. He doesn't think he could stand on his left leg right now. He's in too much pain, and too doped up to be getting into a fight. Thomas is the kind who'd press charges and sue anyway, even in a fair or deserved fight.
"Don't get sensitive. We need to be clear here. Will you be coming back to dancing?" Thomas asks.
"They say I won't." Arkady doesn't want to give up, but he's pretty sure doctors don't tell you things are that serious unless they're one hundred percent sure.
"Well, I guess just call me if you get back on your feet," Thomas says, standing up.
"What? Are you dropping me? Just like that? You've been my manager for nine years." Arkady can't believe this is happening. It's like a nightmare, but he can't wake up. He's never going to wake up, and that reality makes him feel like sobbing, but boys don't cry—and men certainly don't. It was one of his father's rules.
"I've spent nine years dragging you out of trouble and scandals, and it's been worth it. You've made me a lot of money." Thomas shrugs.
"I'm... I was just a pay check to you?" Arkady had thought, he's not sure, but maybe that they were friends after all that time. Thomas had been there for so long, encouraging him to take on more work, bigger rolls, to train harder.
"Don't act like a virgin on prom night. You knew what this arrangement was. I kept you out of trouble. I helped make you a star, and you made me a lot of money. But if you can't dance? You're not a star. You're a nobody, and I don't get paid to babysit nobodies." Thomas snorts, like it's all just some big joke to him, like it's not Arkady's life he's shitting all over.
"Fuck you," Arkady snarls, trying not to show the pain he's in, but his body, isn't the only thing screaming. He hates Thomas for making him feel this way, so disposable, so useless.
"Whatever you say, kid. It's just business." Thomas doesn't even seem bothered by the curse, and he leaves without so much as a backward glance.
Arkady slams his fist into the bed in frustration, wishing he had a punching bag to hit, something to work his anger out on, but could he even do that right now? He's not sure. Every tiny shift sends shooting pains through his knee and leg. He's never known pain like it. He lies there thinking of all the things he won't be able to, until thankfully, sleep gives him a break.
*~*~*
"Arkady, wake up." The familiar voice breaks through his doze, and he opens his eyes to see that both his mother and father are beside his bed.
Arkady guesses he mainly looks like his father, though his father is a little taller and keeps his black hair shorter and neater. He's in good shape for fifty, but he's not in the kind of shape Arkady is. That doesn't make him less intimidating, however. His mother is smaller, more delicate looking, like a bird. He has one thing from her though: the same emerald green eyes.
"Oh, Arkady," his mother says softly, reaching out to brush his hair off his forehead. It's probably the most maternal Veronika Alkaeva has been for years, since Arkady was a boy.
"My son, we have spoken to your doctors. I wish they had waited for us to tell you about your injury." His father, Vsevolod, sounds annoyed and worried, but there's not much emotion on his face. There never is.
"Have you guys been feeding Lou?" Arkady asks, because he's worried about Lou, and he doesn't want to talk about his leg with them till he has to.
"We took him to our house. He's eating well and has been enjoying the yard. Have you thought about how you will walk Lou while you... recover?" Veronika hesitates over the word recover.
He hadn't even thought about not being able to walk Lou. He loves walking his dog, and not just because guys hit on him when he's out with Lou even more than usual. Lou loves going for walks. He gets so excited, his tail wagging like crazy. He looks so happy when Arkady takes him to the park to play with the other dogs, and he sleeps so much better.
"I have good savings. I can pay a dog walker until I can do it again." Arkady hopes he's right, that walking Lou will be something he'll be able to do again someday.
"Your insurance is good, yes? You'll be able to pay for your hospital bills? Your physical therapy? If not, we will help you, son," Vsevolod offers, and he's trying to make Arkady feel better. He's being practical, but it just makes Arkady feel awful. His parents are worried he won't be able to afford things. They never ask much about his finances. They know he works a lot and gets paid, but Arkady is pretty sure they think he wastes it all, like he's still a child, when he's actually quite sensible with his money.
"I have money and insurance, but thank you." Arkady shifts, trying to prop himself up more, and when the movement jostles his leg, he grimaces with pain, gritting his teeth so he doesn't make a sound.
"Are you in pain? Let me get a nurse." Veronika gets up quickly to go find a nurse.
"Your mother has been very upset by this
. When the man from the ballet company called us, Jason, and told us you'd been in an accident, she was so worried. When we were told what happened, that you had fallen, had a head injury, everything, she was worried you'd die, or not be the same mentally," his father confides once they're alone.
"I'm sorry for worrying mother. I don't know what happened." At least he knows it wasn't his fault, which isn't much in the way of comfort, but he doesn't have to look at himself or his parents and know it was getting drunk or into a fight that ruined his life.
" From their investigation, they think it was faulty equipment. Jason told us they had contacted the company, who are already offering settlements. If you take it, there will be no investigation," Vsevolod says.
Faulty equipment? So it wasn't his fault or that of the people who put him up in the air. It was some factory error, maybe made by a machine and not a person.
"Can you tell them I'll take the settlement?" Arkady sees no reason for more of an investigation into an accident, and he'll probably need more money now he's not working, so whatever it is will help. And he doesn't want to deal with a legal battle.
"You want to take whatever they offer?" Vsevolod asks.
"Can you deal with it, please? I'll sign what I have to. I just don't want to deal with something that could take months or even years." Arkady doesn't often ask anything of his parents, especially his father, so it's hard for him to do it now, but he's already going to have enough on his plate without lawyers and courts.
"I will talk to my lawyer. If you sign over power of attorney in this matter, I can handle it for you," Vsevolod says, ever practical, never emotional.
"I can do that." Arkady nods. He trusts his father with his money, partly because he trusts his father, but more because he knows his father has plenty of money. Both his parents are professors, teaching in the best universities, and both are published. They've made a name for themselves in academic circles. Their own parents had been wealthy, too, back in Russia. Arkady doesn't know how much, but his parents were both left sizable amounts of money from his grandparents living outside of Russia.
"They have explained everything to you, yes?" Vsevolod asks.
"Do you mean do I know I'm a cripple now?" Arkady spits the word that Thomas had thrown out so carelessly, maybe hours before. Arkady's unsure how long it's been since Thomas visited and left. He still feels like he's living inside a cloud.
"Do not speak that way, Arkady. You need to be strong. Life has taken a big kick at you. You can't just lie down and take it," Vsevolod says, almost angrily.
"I'm not just taking it. What can I do? No amount of positive thinking will heal my leg and get my life back." Arkady doesn't know what to do. He's in so much pain, and he's having trouble thinking clearly because of the drugs.
"I can't fix this for you. I wish I could. If I could take this pain from you, I would gladly suffer in your place. You will heal, and no, you will not be the same, but you are alive. Please don't give up. I'm not trying to take away from how terrible this is, but I'm grateful that my son is still alive, and I want you to have a life," Vsevolod says, and Arkady doesn't have a chance to reply before his mother returns with a nurse who looks harried, like his mother might have been yelling at her.
Arkady knows he should feel grateful that he's alive. He fell from high enough to dislocate his knee and cause the rest of the damage. He could have just as easily broken his spine and been paralyzed, or broken his neck and been killed. But it's hard, lying here, to look to his future and see much of anything, to be glad that he has it better than other people. Maybe when some time passes, he'll feel differently.
"How are you feeling?" the nurse asks.
"Kind of fuzzy, and like I have a bad headache, and my leg is killing me." Arkady doesn't want to say how badly his leg hurts in front of his parents, but he can't bring himself to lie and say he's in no pain. He knows he needs something to help him deal with this.
"I'll ask the doctor to give you something different this time. That'll hopefully not make you feel as fuzzy. Do you think you're ready to try eating something?" the nurse asks, and she injects something into the line in his hand.
"You should eat, Arkady. It will be good for you," his mother encourages, and that's always been one of the things she does when he's hurt or sick. But his grandmother's recipe for kuryniy soup isn't going to cure his leg the same way a good chicken soup seems to cure a cold.
"I'll try something." Arkady knows if he doesn't try and eat, it'll upset his mother, and he doesn't want to worry her by not eating, even though his stomach is in knots.
"I'll bring you back some toast. We asked about allergies when you were brought in, but do you want to rule anything out?" the nurse asks.
"No, anything's fine." Arkady tries to summon up a smile for the kind woman, but he's pretty sure it looks as forced as it feels, and it makes him feel tired, so tired, or maybe that's the new drug flooding his system.
The nurse leaves, and his mother returns and promptly starts fussing with his blanket. Arkady makes awkward small talk with his parents, and once the toast is brought to him, he picks at that while they watch, taking small, occasional bites under Veronika's watchful eye. When he starts to get sleepy again, his parents leave with promises to visit again tomorrow. Arkady feels exhausted, like when he trains all day and then goes out all night, but there's no pleasant satisfaction to go along with it. He feels hollow.
Chapter Three
"Hello, my name is Prisha Bhattacharya. Sorry, I know it's a mouthful. Just call me Prisha. I'm here to start your physical therapy." Prisha is a tall, willowy Indian woman, with a long plait of black hair almost to her waist, the loveliest big brown eyes, and quite dark skin. Arkady thinks that if he weren't as gay as a double rainbow, he'd fall in instant lust with her, for her beautiful warm smile alone.
"Arkady Alkaev, but I'm sure your notes say that, and do not worry. I've had to apologize to people for my name all my life. Some Americans, they are not very good with pronouncing unfamiliar names. I have had people ask to call me Alex." Arkady hasn't said that many words in a row in the last two days of being in the hospital. His parents have visited each day, but Arkady has found it hard to be chatty. There's something about this woman feeling like she has to say sorry that makes him want to reassure her, though. He knows what it's like to be a foreigner in America. Most people are amazing, but some are ignorant and intolerant. Arkady's sure that, being a darker skinned brown woman, Prisha probably gets more negativity than a Russian man with just slightly dark skin.
"Oh, I know that one. I get called Trisha all the time." Prisha smiles, shutting the door behind her. She puts down a bag and a pair of crutches.
"I guess those are for me," Arkady says, nodding at the crutches. The doctors had explained he'd start out on two crutches till his leg could bear his weight. They wanted him to be what they called non-weight bearing on his left leg, meaning he couldn't put it to the ground when he walked—it also meant that he'd been peeing in a jug for two days.
"Can I call you Arkady? We're going to be spending a lot of time together. I'd like you to feel comfortable," Prisha asks instead.
"You may." Arkady isn't formal. His father is Professor Alkaev, as is his mother. So it's not a case of Mr. Alkaev being his father's name. It's just it has never felt right to be called that to Arkady. He likes his first name.
"Now, to answer your question: yes, the crutches are for you. I can tell you're not pleased. But the sooner you get used to the crutches, the sooner you can get out of that bed and out of this hospital and away from hospital food," Prisha says with a smile.
"I do want that." Arkady sighs. He's used crutches for a badly sprained ankle, but that had been for a week, and he was allowed to put his foot down. He has a feeling he's going to be hopping around for a lot longer than a week. Doctor Ali had been back to examine his knee before it was bandaged again. She threw out words like impact injury, crushing damage, extensive bruising. He had seen his knee. It was
hugely swollen and purple, with two wicked looking red raised lines stitched together with black thread and two smaller scars above and below his knee.
Arkady hadn't even thought about scaring until then. He doesn't have any scars on his body. He takes pride in his body. The idea of being permanently scarred... He can't lie and say it doesn't upset him. The thought of anyone other than a doctor seeing them hurts his vanity. He knows it's shallow, but he can't help it.
"Now, I like to start by asking for you to set a small goal. Something you'd like to be able to do that you can't do right now. Not like running a marathon—something simple, but that means something to you," Prisha says, opening her bag and getting out some booklets and other things.
Arkady thinks about it. Dance comes to mind, but he knows his professional career is over. He wouldn't say he's accepted it yet, but he knows in his heart it's the truth. The accident has been described to him. Knowing what happened, and the pain he's in, listening to the doctor, he knows even when his pain reduces, his knee will be weak. He won't be able to do lifts or leap and land. His knee will always be different from what it was before the accident, and so will his life.
"I'd like to be able to walk my dog myself. He's a pit, so he's strong. He's good on the lead, doesn't pull, but if he chases something, I need to control him, so I'd like to be strong enough for that," Arkady says. He loves his soppy dog.
"That's a great goal! What's your dog's name?" Prisha asks, coming over to the bed.
"Lou. He's my baby," Arkady admits.
"Well, we'll get you walking him again. Now, today, we're going to work on getting you out of bed and on your feet. And if you take to the crutches, we'll see if you can make it up the hallway and back," Prisha explains.
"And I'll leave these here for you to read. They have some information on knee injuries, physical therapy, and some basic exercises." Prisha puts them next to his water bottle, where he can easily reach them.
Arkady spends the next hour with Prisha. She checks the strength of his uninjured leg with strong, capable hands, and then she helps him sit up and move to the edge of the bed. He's on strong pain killers, so the pain's dulled enough that he can just about tolerate moving. Prisha doesn't rush him. Once he's on the side of the bed, with his legs hanging down, she chats with him for a little while, massaging his calf muscles.
