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Rated: E · Book · Experience · #1857024
It marks the emotional roller coaster Irina endures while recovering in a new environment.
    Snow shovelled to either side of the walk sparkled in comparison to the dirty slush piled at the curb.  The grey clapboard house sat in a quiet neighbourhood of older homes.  Through the upstairs window sunlight burst past white organdie curtains and spilled onto the green patterned quilt on Irina’s bed.  A thin shaft of light struck the mirror on the opposite wall highlighting her set of Matryoshka, traditional Russian resting dolls.  Next to it were the silver-framed pictures of her parents and the antique samovar that had been handed down from her great-grandmother; that was her second-most prized possession because it had been a gift from the last Czarina.  Her most prized belong, her doll lay on the bed beside her.  A rather faded blue silk sarafan covered the well-loved doll, its kokoshnik now limp and missing a pearl here or there.  Since Irina’s fourth birthday her precious Ekaterina had slept by her side and had been a comfort when bad things happened as well as when she was happy.



    When she threw back the covers and stood on the plush blue-green carpet, pain shot through her right calf then cut into her thigh like a serrated knife.  “Gospadi!” she gasped,  and fell back onto the bed, tears welling up in her eyes.  She ran her fingers gingerly along her right leg, probing softly though no bruise blemished her fair skin.  This was not the first time she’d had trouble getting out of bed in the morning.  However, the problem seemed to migrate from one spot to another; some mornings when she raised her arms to pull on a sweater, and other times her neck and shoulders hurt so badly the water from the shower felt like needles driving into them.  The doctors Pashenka engaged believed there was nothing wrong with her beyond the normal aches associated with skaters.  The last one had even suggested perhaps she was imagining the pains to compensate for feelings of inadequacy about her skating.  But she knew it was not something just in her mind, the pains were real.



    She grasped the mahogany bedpost and walked slowly to the closet.  Clumsily, she dressed in warm slacks and a sweater, unsure how she would manage to get through practice today.

      “But today, right after practice,” she murmured to herself, “I am going to find a doctor who will listen to me and believe what I tell him.”  She paused as she slipped on one of her shoes.  “What was the name of that doctor Bryan said he knew from summers in Maine?  By now, maybe he is practicing in some big city.  I’ll ask Bryan and call for an appointment, no matter what Pashenka says.”



    Inching her way downstairs and into the kitchen Irina poured herself some orange juice.  She put a bagel into the toaster, waited as the heated bread’s aroma rose when it popped up, and then spread cream cheese thinly over the two halves. She chewed her breakfast hastily; she hadn’t fallen asleep until the wee hours and now she was running late.  The crisp red apples on the wallpaper and the gay red curtains perked up the space overshadowed by the huge oak tree outside the double windows.  The whole house had been redone before she and Pashenka moved in.  Bryan’s great-aunt Euphemia had lived there for nearly sixty years and her bizarre tastes had clearly reflected how she decorated her home in the photos Bryan had shown Irina.  Bryan’s mother hadn’t come to see it, she’d just called someone and all those unique items Euphemia had brought back from her travels disappeared.  Within weeks it became the epitome of other cottages in the area

. 

    Since she’d overslept, Pashenka had already left for the arena so Irina phoned for a taxi.  When she arrived, she saw Pashenka and Bryan in deep conversation at mid-rink.  Their words did not carry to her but must have masked her entry since neither of them noticed her.  She pulled on her skates and laced them snugly.  Once done with that she took out her lip moisturiser;  the constant cold kept them dry and chapped.  Rubbing her lips together to further spread the colourless cream, she leaned against the railing and started her stretching exercises.  A sharp grunt escaped her lips as she leaned forward over her knees.  The sound drew Bryan and Pashenka’s attention and they glanced guiltily her way.  Bryan smoothly moved toward Irina, spraying ice when he stopped.

 

    “All ready to begin?” Bryan asked her cheerfully.



    “Yes, I suppose so.”  She returned the smile he sported.  “What were you and Pashenka talking about so intensely?”



    “What?”  Bryan looked startled at her question.  He’d hoped Irina had not paid any attention to them.





    “You and Pashenka looked as though you were having a very serious conversation when I came in.  What were you talking about?”  She grasped the rail with her other hand and continued her routine stretching exercises.  With her head tilted forward, she grimaced at the twinge of pain in her right leg.  Taking a deep breath, she slowly exhaled and consciously envisioned the pain disappearing as she blew out the air.  She rose, faced Bryan and enquired, “Well, is it some deep dark secret?”



    Bryan chuckled, nervously.  “Of course not, Irina, you know I don’t have any secrets from you.”  He fidgeted and ran his fingers along the wooden rail surrounding the rink.



    Pashenka shouted at them to stop dawdling and get onto the ice.  Bryan grinned in a boyish way then pushed backward toward the ice’s centre.  Irina stretched one last time, walked to the rink entrance, took off her blade guards and stepped onto the ice.



    “Irushka, we will have to work hard today, and you must concentrate.  The last few weeks you have not had your mind on what we are doing; it shows in your timing and coordination.”



    “Pashenka . . .”



    “No excuses, Irushka, you must try as hard as Bryan.  When you skate badly, he cannot do his part and it throws off his performance as well.”  He glided to the rail as he spoke, and then fixed Irina with a baleful stare.  “Enough!  We work now.”



    At his signal the familiar strains of their program music washed over the arena.  Hurriedly, Irina and Bryan took their positions at centre ice, embraced one another and held still.  From the moment they broke apart and began their separate movements, Irina knew she was not doing any better this morning than at yesterday’s practice.  She lengthened her stride trying to make up for her delayed rhythm, attempting to reach Bryan at the rink’s far end.  She turned, prepared to do their synchronised triple Sal chow, extending her left arm in front of her.  She pushed off, leapt into the air and swung her right leg behind her for the rotation.  Although she sensed that her spin was not quite in synch with Bryan, it seemed some improved from the previous day.  As her right skate touched down she spread her arms wide for the jump’s completion and smiled with pleasure.  Just at that moment a loud pop, like a shotgun being set off, echoed through the rink.  Irina collapsed on the ice, grabbed her knee and screamed.

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