I know Elyse’s prying eyes and threats weigh heavy on Dylan. Everyone is happy with how Dylan is trying to make everything work except for Elyse, and possibly Dylan. This hiccup with Skye is just that. The woman I met in that club so many months ago seemed so wild and indestructible. With every passing day, I am able to see more clearly the layers upon layers she possesses.
She is as hesitant as she is confident. She needs self-assurance as much as she needs control. She’s harder on herself than anyone else could be. She seeks perfection in the imperfect. I love every bit of her.
I can hear the music as I’m approaching the closed-door rehearsal. It’s heavy and lyrical…even a little angry. Opting to stay in the shadows of the hallway, I watch her from afar. Her hands wring across her neck as she paces from one end of the room to the other. She’ll try part of a move then stop. She’ll shake out her hands then stare at herself in the mirror.
I can see her lips moving. She’s talking to herself. Either it’s a pep talk to try something, anything, or she’s cussing herself out for not being able to live up to the expectation for the day, within these walls that she’s created in her mind. No matter which way it’s going, I know I need to sit on the sideline and give her the space to work it out. Dylan lets out a bit of a growl and turns the music up. The base is so deep it rattles the windows. I watch as she shifts her weight from the balls of her feet to her heels. Strike, Viper. Strike.
Dylan punches the air first with her left fist, then her right. She raises to her toes then presses her left leg high into the air. It becomes a new extension of her body. She pirouettes twice then falls into a deep plie, holding her head. Dylan bows her upper body forward then bounds up into the air. Her movements are more robotic than I’m used to seeing, more animalistic. It reminds me of what we saw in the second act of the ballet, fused with my wife’s inherent style. It draws me in, wanting to see what this new chapter might bring.
Her hair is pulled back into a sleek braid. A few stray strands of hair move with her in the same manner as her limbs. Her skin glistens under the overhead spotlights. I’m mesmerized by every move she makes, even as she launches her body in the air. Time freezes as it rotates above the ground and floats back to earth. Her foot firmly plants while her frame continues to rotate. My daydream is broken by my wife’s scream in pain.
Dylan presses her face to the floor while she clutches her knee. I can hear the sobs without seeing them. I force the door open and race to her side. My messenger bag slides to a stop, inches away from me, while my hand gently grips her shoulder.
“Viper. Tell me where it hurts. How bad?” Her nonverbal response follows with only sobs and groans answers that question. I roll her slowly to her back; her hands never leave her knee. “Can you sit up for me?”
“Oh. My. God. Eli. This. Hurts. So. Bad.”
Her pain immediately hits my heart. I want to take it all away for her. “Where are your warmups and your shoes?”
“The studio closet.”
I quickly stop the music. The driving beat no longer echoes around us. It’s only the inhale and exhale of her cries into her curled-up body. I return with her sweatshirt in hand, along with her bag. She manages to sit up and lean into me so I can get the fleece over her head. Once she’s covered, I flip her bag and mine over my shoulder before carefully scooping her into my arms.
Her fingers wrap around the lapels of my suit coat as I cradle her against my chest. Her shoes dangle from my fingers and sway as we leave the studio empty on the walk to my car. “Dylan, I need you to reach in my coat pocket to find the keys. I’m taking you to the emergency room.”
If this wasn’t bad, I know she’d absolutely fight me on it. She doesn’t. Once the car door is open, I slowly lower her to the seat and recline it back. Her left arm crosses over her torso as the right covers her eyes. I can still see the staccato breaths from her chest rise and fall. I always knew there would come a day when I’d see her in physical pain. I thought I’d be ready. I’m not.
If I could take it all away from her, I would. If I could be the one, I would.
Dylan’s hand tenses and releases in mine the entire ride across town. Every bump in the road or jerking movement the car makes with a lane switch brings her back to near tears. I park as near to the doors as I can and scoop her back into my arms. She curls back into my chest, clinging to me.
With a bit of luck and divine providence, Dylan is taken back to a room within minutes. The doctor on duty does an initial assessment as I watch. Every movement she makes with Dylan’s knee sends my wife to either make a hissing sound, a whimper, clutch the side of the bed, or all of the above. Not long after, a nurse returns to place an IV in Dylan’s arm to not only help her with the pain, but to set up for MRI imaging. No one is saying anything definitive, but this doesn’t look good to me, and I know it doesn’t for her either.
I pace the room for the near hour she is missing. When she does return, she seems calmer and not in as much pain as before.
“Hey. How are you doing? Did they tell you anything?”
“No. Not yet. I like IV drugs though. I like them a lot.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “You’re making jokes. That’s a good sign. Can you tell me what happened?”
“How much did you see? I thought I felt you there for a while.”
“I just wanted to watch you from afar. You seemed so unhappy; at least that’s the word I would use. It was angry dancing. I don’t know if you felt you couldn’t do anything right or what it was. Then you did some moves I’ve never seen you do. They looked like they were from somewhere kind of dark and then… bam you were in a pile on the floor. After that it was all about action.”
“I was angry and sad and frustrated. I don’t know. I was trying to get rid of it and in doing so I guess I wasn’t paying close enough attention to what I was doing or how my body was feeling, and I felt a pop then this rush of pain. I’ve twisted this knee before, but nothing like this. For a while I thought I might puke or pass out or something. I’m so glad you were there.”
“Me too, baby. Me too.” I reach over for and kiss her hand. The backs of her knuckles are stained black with the remnants of mascara that once coated her long lashes. My wife closes her eyes and takes a deep breath as my lips meet her skin over and over again in an attempt to comfort her in the only way I can.
Dylan startles at the knock on the door. As the doctor enters, I stroke her hand again to help prepare her for whatever we’re going to hear. “Hello, Dylan. I’m Dr. Forbes. I was able to look over your chart and I have your X-rays and your MRI results back. The good news is that nothing is broken.”
“That means there’s not so good news I’d imagine,” I offer.
He sits down in the chair across from us and pulls up the images on the computer. As the monitor swings to us, Dylan tries to push herself taller in her wheelchair. “The MRI shows something different. You’ve got a moderate tear in your meniscus. That was the pop you said you felt.”
I know this is not good, but the look on Dylan’s face tells me more than that. It’s something I’ve not seen before where her dancing is involved. It’s the look of fear. The tubes of the IV dangle across her lap and the resignation of this news dims the last bit of light in her eyes. “What am I looking at? Surgery?”