The lettering across the glass door reads: Olympic Sports & Rehabilitation Therapy, Bryce Lawson, LPT. The bell above the door chimes as we walk in. There are leafy potted plants in all four corners of the room. Armchairs with teal cushions. A small table with piles of dog-eared fashion and lifestyle magazines. A coffee bar is set off to the side, below a rustic-looking sign that says: Caffeine maintains my sunny personality.
The receptionist, Marisol, and Mom are friends, because Mom makes friends everywhere she goes. They have long, loud, and sometimes serious conversations during my appointments. Last week, when I came back to the lobby, I found Mom telling Marisol about how many funerals she’s been to.
I have no idea how or why they got into that.
Marisol greets us both, and she asks me how I’m doing, and I kind of smile and shrug and sit in one of the armchairs. Mom goes to the coffee bar, filling a paper cup with steaming, bitter-smelling brew. She and Marisol start to chat; I tune them out. I place one hand to the bare skin of my injured knee, massaging the muscles with my chilled fingertips. I wince and grit my teeth.
“Maisie,” Marisol says. “I have a surprise for you, dear.”
I look up. My hand drops away from my knee. Marisol shuffles through one of her drawers. Then she rises up, placing a stack of three books on her desk. She says, “Fabiana cleared some space from her bookshelves again. She said that you would love these.”
A smile touches my lips. I stand and cross the room. The paperback spines are worn and creased; the titles are printed in matching fonts. I reach the desk and touch my fingertips to the top book: Beyond the Wildflowers, by J. A. Corsair.
“It’s a trilogy,” Marisol says. “Apparently, there’s a show based off this series. My Fabiana couldn’t put the books down, and now she’s glued to the TV every week. I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as my daughter did.”
Gratitude wells up inside me. Ever since I became a patient here, Marisol has given me gifts like this. Books handed down from her sixteen-year-old daughter. I appreciate them both so much. When the injury was fresh and I was still struggling to walk or move at all, books kept me going. They helped me forget my own pain.
It’s been a while since I read anything for fun. Mostly, I’ve just been stuck with that Classic Book for my English homework.
I meet Marisol’s warm brown eyes. “Thank you.”
“You are so very welcome.”
I flip the book over and start to read the description on the back. Thank you doesn’t feel big enough to show how I’m feeling right now. I’m so touched by this surprise gift. As I stare at the small print, I try to think of something more to say. Perhaps a message for her to pass along to Fabiana.
But before I can, the frosted glass door on the opposite end of the room opens. Mr. Lawson peeks out at us. “Maisie,” he says. “Welcome back.”
I take a seat on the exam room table. Mr. Lawson sits in his rolling chair across from me. He has a clipboard on his lap, a ballpoint pen in one hand. He clicks the pen several times as he focuses on my chart. Brisk little flicks with his thumb.
He goes through the usual questions. Each appointment begins with this brief check-in. He asks about how frequently I’ve felt the injury in my knee. He asks about the severity of the pain and discomfort over the past few days. He asks me to give each day a rating between one and ten.
I bite my lower lip. “And today, I’d give it a two.”
He pauses, mid note-taking. “Really?”
I shrug. I mean, sure, I felt the injury a few different times today. But it was never painful or shocking. I was able to ignore it, mostly.
Mr. Lawson resumes his notes. “I believe it.”
I look up. “You do?”
“Yes.” Mr. Lawson wears rectangular black-framed glasses that magnify his gray eyes. He sets his pen aside and says, “I believe we’re making steady progress. I’ve consulted with Dr. Hart, and we both agree. When you come back from your vacation, I think we can cut your visits down to half-hour sessions occurring once a week. How does that sound?”
I can’t help but gasp. “Really? You think so?”
His voice remains soft, contemplative. “I do. I think you’ll be fine with those hikes your mother asked about. And did you notice you’re not limping today? Or at least you didn’t just now, as you came down the hall to this room. Your gait was perfectly steady.”
Perfectly steady.
Those two words fill me up with joy. I’m suddenly giddy and grinning, feeling electric, like a sunbreak bursting through a storm cloud.
I’m making progress. Mr. Lawson doesn’t think I need to come here as often, or stay and work through my exercises as long. This is what I’ve been waiting for. This changes everything.
“Thank you,” I tell him. “Thank you, this is— this is amazing news. This means so much to me.”
“Of course. You’re still in recovery, and we must be extra careful and attentive. I highly recommend you continue to do your exercises with the resistance band at home, just as you have been.”
I nod, over and over. “Right. Totally. I always do my exercises.”
“Wonderful.” He gives me a kind smile. Then he stands, opening the exam room door. “Now, let’s go build up your strength for these hikes. And before you know it, we’ll have you back in ballet school.”
8
Spinning
February 15
Mr. Lawson leads me out to the exercise room. There is a wall-length mirror. The open floor is cushioned with soft black mats. Racks of weights, stability balls, and resistance bands are stocked along the edges of the room.
He instructs me through the usual exercises: repetitions to strengthen my quads, hips, and hamstrings; balance exercises to help with proper alignment; stretches to increase my range of motion. I work through them all with soaring confidence, newly aware of how far I’ve come since October.
I’ll never forgive myself for the stupid decision that led to my torn ACL.
I was at the studio with Eva and Taylor and Hattie, all of us dressed in the same white leotards and pink tights. We were early for our Intro to Pointe class, anxiously waiting for the session to begin. Studio B was open, the sleek metal barres pushed off to the far sides of the room, warm autumn sunlight streaming through the windows. Faint piano music filled the space from the accompanist playing for a different class down the hall. An upbeat allegro. We could hear the rhythmic thuds of the students practicing their petit jetés and changements.
Hattie had memorized a soloist part from Cinderella. She was showing it to us, humming the music under her breath as she moved through the port de bras and piqué turns. Hattie has always been at the top of our class. Some of the girls think it’s unfair favoritism, since her mom is a former principal dancer, but I’ve never felt that way. I just think that Hattie is gifted and passionate. I think she works harder than most people do.
But then again, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little envious of her. Because in addition to being one of the best in our class, she also lives in a beautiful, artsy condo in downtown Seattle, a few blocks away from the big convention center, the shopping district, and the waterfront. And Hattie’s mom had a barre installed along the wall-length window in their living room. So Hattie can practice pointe exercises and barre stretches at home, any time she wants to.