84 Ribbons (28 page)

Steve remained silent for several moments. “Okay. I got it.”

Marta inhaled, then sank down in her chair. “Is there anything else you need?”

“It would be nice if you were happy to talk with me.”

Marta pulled in her lips to hold back her words.

“Marta? Are you there? I miss you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll be back soon. Maybe I can distract you from your cast. How’s that?”

“Good. But I need to go. I’ll talk to you soon.” She hung up the phone, gathered up her tote and crutches, and returned to her room, feeling the weight of their conversation twisting in her heart.

Hour to hour. Day to day. Marta’s energy lagged. She staggered from one job to the next. When the low calorie green beans and mandarin oranges didn’t give her enough energy to walk, let alone work, she increased her doses of diet pills and went back to eating peanut butter sandwiches.

As she left the hotel Wednesday morning, she began her free day. She leaned against the entry wall of the hotel waiting for Mrs. B.’s cousin to drive her home, anticipating a long nap.

In the late afternoon, she got up to work on dinner for the boarding house. Every step around the kitchen was a chore. She craved sleep even after her five hour nap.

Dinner conversation tonight only required head shakes. She pushed food around, ate small bites, and stifled several yawns. After clearing away the dinner dishes, Mrs. B. set a cake before James. “Tonight we have a celebration. James got a promotion to project manager.”

James smiled. “Thank you. I even get an extra week’s vacation starting this fall. Might go to Alaska, find out what’s so special they’re making it a state.”

Everyone clapped as Mrs. B. cut the cake and passed out slices. “And soon we’ll have more to celebrate when Marta gets that cast off for good.”

Marta put on a performance smile as she accepted a paper-thin slice of cake. “Not long now.”

Dish after dish she washed, rinsed, and set to dry. Her kitchen partner, Mrs. B., had left earlier for a guild meeting. The kitchen felt too quiet. After draining the sink, Marta retreated upstairs to repeat her evening ritual: exercising, rocking, thinking about everything and nothing, then trying to fall asleep. Why did sleep refuse to come when she dragged herself around exhausted all day long?

Each morning as she shut off her alarm, she struggled to remember the day of the week. Monday? Saturday? Did it matter? Today was Sunday, March 16. She crossed out the date. Her cast came off next week. Then she’d begin putting full weight on her leg.

Hobble, step, hobble, step. The smell of bacon and eggs assaulted her on the stairway. Another round seated amid disgusting, fattening food. Then more sitting, followed by still more. Her backside would soon be as wide as Steve’s car. Not a pleasant image.

That evening Marta paced her room as best she could with crutches. Movement helped her sift through her tangled thoughts. The new cast created a definite setback. Could she prepare for returning to the dance company alone? No, she needed help exercising. Lynne was busy, Bartley was gone. So who could help her? Carol? No, that would never work. Maybe Lynne would make time.

She checked the clock. Only ten minutes had passed since she’d returned to her room from dinner. Time and remembering moved like a cup of molasses stirred into cookie dough. She knew she’d forgotten something; what was it?

A knock on the door startled her. “Who’s there?”

“Mrs. B.”

That’s what she’d forgotten—the bread she’d promised to prepare. Marta inched the door open. “I know I forgot to start the bread.” She opened the door with her crutch to step into the hall, but Mrs. B.’s hand on her arm stopped her.

“Wait, Marta. We need to talk.”

Marta backed up and sank onto her bed as Mrs. B. stepped inside. Marta knew what she saw: rumpled clothes, tossed magazines, and litter. Too late to do anything about it now.

“I’m concerned about you, dear.”

Marta picked at a knot on her quilt. “Did I forget something else?”

“No, dear. Forget about jobs for a minute,” Mrs. B. said. “I’m concerned about what’s going on inside you. You work all hours, skip meals, and disappear into your room.”

“I have a lot to do and—”

Mrs. B. placed her hand on Marta’s shoulder. “Stop, Marta.  Listen to yourself. I told your mother—“

Marta’s head whipped up. “You called my mom? Why?”

“Because we all care about you. Seven months ago, a delightful young woman moved into my boarding house. She danced, baked for us, laughed at Shorty’s jokes, and spent time with her friends. I know this injury has been hard, but I think there’s more going on than a broken foot.”

Marta squeezed her eyes shut as tears trickled down her face. “Please, leave me alone. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“You need to talk with someone, sort through all that’s happening in your life.”

“It’s not that easy. You don’t know anything about this.” Marta looked down at her leg. “This new cast is a huge set back. I can do so few exercises. I’m out of shape and getting fat. There’s no guarantee I’ll get my position back.”

Mrs. B. took Marta’s hands in hers. “You are anything but fat, dear. We can all see that you’re not taking care of yourself. All the jobs you’ve taken on are too much.”

“I need to pay my bills. I can’t let my mom do it all.” Marta shook her head. “I can’t talk to anyone. I don’t want them to know how I’ve failed at everything.”

Mrs. B. sighed. She took a small card from her pocket and looked at it before handing it over to Marta. “This is someone who helped me after my husband died.”

Marta stared at the card. “A psychiatrist?”

“She is a good listener, Marta. She helped me see myself and my loss in a very different way. I’m not sure I would have made it without her.”

“I haven’t lost anyone since my dad died,” Marta said. “That was a long time ago.”

“Visit with her once, then decide for yourself.” Mrs. B. turned to go but stopped short of the door. “I think maybe you have lost someone recently. The one person you need to take care of and protect. Yourself.”

25

T
he office building sat one block off Twenty-seventh, the main street of downtown Billings, not far from the dance company building. Marta climbed the slick granite steps cautiously, stopping to rest and adjust her crutches on each landing. The office she wanted was left off the stairway on the third floor.

The block letters on the opaque window read,
Marjorie Wilson, Counselor—Welcome.
Marta entered and took a seat. At first glance the room reminded her of a small version of the clinic waiting room where she saw Dr. Wycoff: chairs against one wall, a table with magazines, and art prints on the wall. But a closer look proved that observation totally wrong. This room held only three chairs. The table with magazines also held a bouquet of fresh flowers. The brush strokes on the art work indicated the painting was an original. The biggest difference: she sat alone.

Jitters and tightness cycled through her body like stage fright. She should have skipped the diet pills this morning. The quiet of the waiting room didn’t help.

At precisely eleven, the inner door opened and a tall, gray-haired woman wearing a rose-colored blouse and a floral skirt walked out. She smiled. “Miss Selbryth? I’m Marjorie Wilson. Please come in.”

As Marta entered the room, Miss Wilson gestured toward two blue club chairs and seated herself in the one closest to the desk. Marta sat down, laid her crutches on the floor, and folded her hands in her lap. She scanned the room: two more chairs, two windows, and two bookshelves. A high-backed black leather chair was tucked in behind a polished wooden desk; a mug of pens lay beside a closed black leather binder. What did this woman write in that binder? Probably everyone’s deep dark secrets. Marta didn’t plan on sharing any.

Silence hung like a velvet stage curtain.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Miss Wilson said. “Let’s get acquainted, shall we? I’m a native of Montana and have worked with people over the last twenty years. I live along the Yellowstone, where I like to fish. I’m an avid reader, I love to cook, and I enjoy the arts. Now, tell me about yourself.”

Marta pressed her lips closed. Why did everyone want to talk? If people left her alone she’d be fine. She had fulfilled her promise by coming. Now she’d try to out wait this stranger.

“Miss Selbryth?”

A breeze entered through the open window. Trucks rumbled down the street. A horn sounded. A cart rattled along the sidewalk. Inside, quietness blanketed the room. Marta bit her cheek and kept her face down to keep from answering.

The room remained silent. Marta sneaked a look at Miss Wilson’s shoes. The muted purple velvet high heels surprised Marta; Miss Wilson kept up with the latest trends.

Marta looked up to find Miss Wilson’s green eyes locked on her. Now she knew a bird’s panic when it flew in through an open window and couldn’t find an exit. “I’m a dancer with the Intermountain Ballet Company. Well, I was.”

“I love the ballet. This season’s Nutcracker had great energy. What dances did you perform?”

“I did all the corps dances and Mother Ginger.”

Miss Wilson smiled. “I loved Mother Ginger. You must be a patient young woman to handle those children popping in and out of your skirt and all while wearing stilts.”

Marta shrugged. “It was a challenge.”

“What challenge brings you here today?”

“A promise I made to someone.”

“You must trust that person,” Miss Wilson said.

Marta nodded.

“Does any of your reason for being here come from your injury?”

“Yes. When I fell off a porch and broke my ankle, my whole life changed.” Saying the words triggered an ache so deep she thought she’d crack open.

“How is your recovery progressing? I notice that you use crutches. I broke my foot once. Crutches can be frustrating, can’t they?”

The dam burst. Marta’s body jarred through each sob.

Miss Wilson handed her a box of tissues and sat without speaking.

The aching subsided. Marta closed her eyes, then opened them and looked at Miss Wilson. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Let’s back up. Tell me about your typical day.”

“Mostly I work a handful of part time jobs.”

“How does that work with a cast?”

Marta looked down at her hands. “It’s hard to be independent when you can’t walk or get around by yourself.”

“What do you miss about not being able to dance?”

“I miss my friends, learning new choreography, and being able to move freely. Dancing is all I’ve ever wanted to do.”

Over the next minutes they talked about her early years of dancing and her coming to Billings. The longer she spoke, the more her heartache lightened. “All this sitting drives me crazy. Some days I’m so frustrated I want to scream.”

“Describe how your anger feels.”

Marta shrugged and scanned the room as if the answer might be encased in the walls or bookshelves or window shades. It wasn’t.

“Where does your anger gather in your body?”

“Mostly in my stomach. It feels like a balloon is inflating and pushing up through my lungs and my heart. Other times my whole body aches like a giant cramp is squeezing and twisting inside me. I feel jittery and impatient. I can’t catch my breath.”

“Have you told your doctor?”

“No.” She thought about Dr. Wycoff. If she told him, he’d start asking questions she didn’t want to answer.

“You should. Maybe it’s your medications.”

“I don’t take anything.”

“Do you drink coffee? That makes many people jittery.”

“No coffee.” Marta leaned forward and reached for her crutches. “Are we done?”

“That’s your decision.”

Marta sat back and wiped her palms on her skirt. She needed to talk, but did she trust this stranger with a leather binder on her desk? How much could she share and still be in control of herself? She swallowed and looked around the room. A small sign behind Miss Wilson’s desk caught her attention. It read:
Self-discovery leads to recovery
. Marta decided to stay.

Over the rest of the hour she spoke of events in her life she’d tried to bury: her dad’s death, her mom’s struggle to provide for them, her failed auditions early on, and her frustration over her injury. Miss Wilson asked a few questions; mostly she sat and listened.

Suddenly, the hour she’d dreaded came to an end. She’d talked all that time and didn’t once feel embarrassed for telling a stranger her story.

“Would you like to return another time, Marta?”

“Yes. Do I need to take pills or anything?”

Miss Wilson tipped her head. “Do you think you need pills?”

“No. I just thought...no, I don’t need pills.”

“I don’t prescribe medications this early in getting to know my clients.”

Marta nodded. “I’m sorry I acted so sour when I arrived.”

“That doesn’t matter. How do you feel now?”

“Like I can breathe.”

As Marta waited for her ride, a peacefulness settled down inside her. Talking to Miss Wilson cleared her view. Women walked along the sidewalk with jumpy young children who pulled away to study shop windows or hop over cracks in the sidewalk. Trucks idled with open tailgates delivering goods to shop keepers. She’d been so wrapped up with herself she’d stopped noticing the world around her. Maybe she’d also ignored her friends. How did she get so out of sorts and not notice?

Over the next couple of weeks, Marta returned to talk with Miss Wilson twice each week. Each time she left the office, her calmness lasted longer than the previous visit. Mrs. B. had been right; she’d needed to speak with someone.

After her latest visit with Miss Wilson, Marta finished the dinner dishes and moved to the back porch bench. She set the crutches aside, leaned back, and scanned the sky. The cold night air made her shiver, yet it refreshed her.

Familiar constellations glimmered in the inky darkness: Orion, the Big Dipper, Casseopia. Did Steve look up and see the stars and think of her? What about Bartley? Where was she?

Marta caught herself. Miss Wilson suggested she focus on herself and what she’d teach the little girls when she met with them tomorrow. They’d be fun to work with, but she’d need diet pills to keep up her energy. Could she ride a bike to the drug store with her cast? Doubtful. Time to request another delivery.