Avalanche Dance (5 page)

I’ve just reached the side road when I hear a siren, and then I see the twirling red lights of the Thor Falls volunteer fire truck. I force myself into an exhausted sprint, trying to reach the end of the road before they get here – and run straight into the headlights of a cop car.

G
wen opened her eyes. The ceiling was green.
That’s weird
, she thought.
My ceiling’s not green
.

Her eyes closed. Sleepily, the thought formed:
Then this must not be my room
.

Her eyes flew open.

Then where am I?

Her mind raced, trying to remember. And then – the snow, the noise, the wind. Her father.

The hospital. I must be in the hospital
.

She turned – and there was her mother, sitting on a chair beside the bed, chin in hand, half-looking out the window at the dreary gray rain.

“Mom.” It came out like a croak.

“Gwen! Oh, Gwennie …” Her mother seized her shoulders and held her close. “Honey, are you okay?”

“Dad?” was all Gwen could say.

Her mother laid her back down. “He’s in Vancouver.”

“Alive?”

Her mother looked at her in amazement. “You don’t know?” Gwen shook her head.

“Oh, Gwennie.” Her voice shook. “Yes, he’s alive …”

Thank God, thank God, oh thank you, God
.

“But he’s hurt. Badly. They don’t know how badly yet. He has some broken ribs. One lung collapsed. They’re doing tests.”

Oh God
.

“Where am I?”

Again her mother looked surprised. “Norse River General.”

“How’d I get here? How’d Dad get out?”

“You don’t remember?”

Gwen shook her head. “All I remember is the snow … the noise … then he was gone.”

“Oh, Gwen, to think you went through that.” Her mother cried quietly against the bed for a minute. “It was Simon. Simon, bless his heart. He was out on his snowmobile –”

Gwen nodded. Now she remembered that they had talked to Simon, right before …

“He saw
you
go down, then Dad. He yanked you out, then started digging where he thought Dad was. Took a while, but he finally found him. Thank God for those beepers!” She collected herself and went on. “Dad seemed to be in worse shape, so Simon took him down first. Called emergency services on his cell phone. They sent a helicopter. Then he went back for you. They brought both of you here, but the doctors decided
Dad needed intensive care, so they flew him on to Vancouver.”

Intensive care
. Gwen imagined her father lying inside a big plastic bubble, needles sticking in his arms, wires trailing to blinking machines.

“If it hadn’t been for Simon …” Her mom put her head down and wept into her hands.

Gwen cried too, turning her face into the pillow. If it hadn’t been for Simon, her father would be dead. And it would all be her fault.

Her mom blew her nose. “Don’t you remember coming down, Gwennie?”

Gwen shook her head. Vaguely she remembered loud noises coming closer and closer – she had thought it was another avalanche – and cold and pain and voices and hands lifting her and then blackness.

“Am I hurt?”

Her mom brightened. “That’s the amazing thing. They took X-rays right away – you were still out of it …”

Now that she was reminded of it, Gwen vaguely recalled being pushed and pulled and wheeled around.

“And even though you’re bruised all over, nothing’s broken. And as far as they can tell, there’re no internal injuries. They say it’s a miracle.”

I got away free and he got hurt
.

“Were you there, Mom? Did you see him?”

Her mother nodded.

“Did you talk to him?”
What did he tell you?

Her mother shook her head. “He was asleep.” She gave a strangled laugh. “But if he had been awake, I would have killed him.”

“Why?”

“For putting himself in danger – and
you
. “ Her voice cracked. “For risking your life!”

Gwen turned her head to the side. If her mother only knew. It wasn’t her father who had risked their lives.

Her mother gave the same anguished laugh. “Let’s let him get well, and then I’ll kill him.”

“What about me?” Gwen asked. “How long will I be here?”

Her mother shrugged. “I don’t know, honey. The doctor may want to examine you again, now that you’re fully awake, just to make sure everything’s okay. Then I guess you can come home.”

As if on cue, the curtain around Gwen’s bed was pushed aside and a man in a white hospital coat, a stethoscope around his neck, walked in. He looked familiar.

“Oh, Dr. Chan,” her mother said. “I was just telling Gwen that you X-rayed her and everything looked okay.”

Dr. Chan, that was it
. Gwen remembered him. He’d taken Percy’s tonsils out a couple of years earlier. He’d been really nice. He’d given Gwen Popsicles too, understanding how she felt with everyone fussing over her little brother.

Now Dr. Chan said, “How are you feeling, Gwen?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“That’s good. I can tell you, you are a very lucky young lady. To go through what you did and escape with just bruises is incredible.”

Lucky. Right
. “I know.”

“So can Gwen come home, Dr. Chan?” her mom asked.

“Yes. I don’t see any need to keep her here. I’m sure you’ll want to rest and get your strength back, Gwen. After all, you’re pretty banged up. But you’ll be more comfortable doing that at home.”

Gwen nodded, wondering what home would be like without her dad there. Wondering when he
would
be there. Or
if
. No. She cut off the thought.

Dr. Chan signed some forms, then leaned down and shook Gwen’s hand. “Take care, Gwen. And no more skiing for a while.” He chuckled.

Gwen’s mother went to fetch Gwen’s clothes from a closet. Gwen swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. “Ow!” she said, and sat back down.

Dr. Chan, who was nearly out the door, and her mother both turned.

“What’s the matter, honey?” her mother said, hurrying over. Dr. Chan came back. “What’s wrong, Gwen?”

“My leg. It hurt. When I stood up.”

“Where?” Dr. Chan asked.

Gwen pointed to her right leg and traced from her outer ankle to her knee. “From there to there.”

“That’s strange,” Dr. Chan said. “You do have a large bruise on that thigh, but that shouldn’t cause pain just from putting weight on the leg.” He had Gwen lie down, then began to press gently, starting at the top of the thigh and moving down. “Tell me if it hurts. There? There?”

Gwen shook her head, though she winced when he got near the bruise.

Dr. Chan continued to press. Gwen kept saying, “No … no …” All the way down to her ankle. Nothing.

He shrugged. “Let’s get you up again and see how it feels.”

Supporting Gwen under the elbow, he helped her to her feet. As soon as she stood on her right foot, the same pain shot up her leg, from her ankle to above her knee. “Ow!”

Dr. Chan shook his head. “I can’t understand it. The X-rays were clear. You’re sure it’s not just stiffness? After all, you’ve been lying in bed.”

“Yes!” Gwen shot back. She was a dancer. She knew the difference between stiffness and pain.

Dr. Chan had her walk, bend her knees, rock back and forth, side to side. The pain returned when she shifted her weight from left to right, when she pliéd her right knee, when she flexed her right ankle, when she rose on her right foot.

“And it’s just on the one side?” he asked.

Tears stinging her eyes, Gwen nodded. Just the right. The leg she could kick higher, point harder, leap onto better. Her strong leg.

Dr. Chan helped her lie down. “I’m baffled, Gwen. I can’t understand how we could have missed something big enough to cause that much pain, but, just to be sure, I’ll order an MRI. Maybe it’ll turn up something the X-rays missed.” He filled out a form, then left.

After her mother had gone – back to Vancouver, to consult with her father’s doctors and sit at his bedside – Gwen pushed off the covers.
Had
she imagined it? She stood up.
Ow!
Shooting pain, from ankle to knee.

She sank back onto the bed. The throbbing faded. She fell into a restless sleep …

Her first dance class. She was six, a bundle of restless motion, constantly skipping, climbing, running. Her mother had signed her up for modern dance, no doubt hoping she’d work off some of that energy.

She walked into the dance studio, mirrors along one wall and a barre along another, beams of sunlight shining down through a skylight and illuminating the worn wooden boards of the floor. A beautiful room, with a warm, dry smell – and so much space to move!

Then she looked around and realized she was different. Her mother, not knowing proper dance attire, had sent her to class in a dress. A dress! All the other kids were in proper leotards and tights, seashell pink, turquoise, black. Quickly she tore off
her shoes and socks, seeing the others in bare feet or ballet slippers. She stayed at the side of the room, clinging to the barre, certain that the teacher would send her away in disgrace.

But Mrs. Truman came in, with her frizzy hair in a bun and a flowing black skirt, and smiled at everyone; perhaps she had a brighter smile for the distressed little girl in the dress. She put on music, something tinkly and merry, and said, “Dance to the music. However it makes you feel, whatever it tells you to do, just dance.”

Most of the other kids looked around self-consciously, looking for
the right way
, waiting for someone to begin, wanting to imitate and not do it wrong. But Gwen listened. She heard water. She heard leaves. She saw elves frolicking in a glen, cleverly hiding from nosy, poking humans. Her dress disappeared, and she was clad in green, the dark green of leaves at full summer. She lifted her arms. She took tiny running steps, a twirl, a leap, peering over her shoulder, zigzagging this way and that, behind a tree, behind a rock – quick, before they see us!

When the music stopped, Gwen, surprised, came back to class, to herself. She felt Mrs. Truman’s eyes on her.

Gwen thought about the dance she’d just done. She could not have recreated the steps. She just knew that she had been there, in the glen, behind the tree, inside the music.

Gwen awakened. Her muscles were straining: she must have been dancing in her sleep.

Dancing
.

She thought of her leg. How could she dance on that leg? She couldn’t, not with that shooting pain, that weakness. She’d have no strength, no balance, no lift.

No dancing
.

A spasm gripped her middle and tears sprang to her eyes.

How can I live without dancing?

She couldn’t. It would be a nonlife. A dead life.

She sobbed, pushing her face into her pillow to muffle the cries.

Then a thought struck: No matter how bad this was, it wasn’t as bad as the shape her father was in. Not even close.

That made her stop crying. How could she feel sorry for herself when he was suffering? And it was her doing.

She wondered if he was conscious. If he was in pain. If he was still alive.
Oh God, please
, she thought,
don’t let him die, let him get well, I’ll do anything
.

Anything
.

She slept, was wheeled down for the MRI, pushed away the food they brought her, slept some more. When she next awoke, her mother was sitting in the chair again. She looked exhausted, as if she hadn’t slept in days. The circles under her eyes were darker, her cheeks more hollow.

“Gwennie,” she said when Gwen stirred. She kissed Gwen on the forehead and helped her sit up. “How are you feeling?”

“The same.” Gwen saw disappointment flit across her mother’s face. “How’s Dad?”

“He might need surgery. They’re doing tests.”

Surgery was good, Gwen told herself. It meant that something could be fixed. Didn’t it?

The curtain was pushed aside and Dr. Chan peeked in. “Gwen? Oh, Mrs. Torrance, I’m glad you’re here. I have the results of Gwen’s MRI.” He opened a file and looked at it briefly. “It confirmed what the X-rays showed. There’s no sign of damage.”

“But it hurts.”

“Same place?”

Nod.

“Any worse?”

“A little.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Gwen. Your kneecap looks healthy. The tibia and fibula are sound. There’s no sign of cartilage or ligament damage.”

“So why does it hurt so much?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced at her mother, then sat down on the edge of the bed. “There’s only one other explanation I can think of. Maybe it’s stress. After all, you’ve been through a traumatic experience –”

“I’m not making it up!”

“I didn’t say that. But stress can do funny things to the mind –”

“There’s something wrong with my leg,” Gwen insisted.

Dr. Chan shook his head. “Gwen, I assure you that there is nothing medically wrong with your leg.”

“So I’m crazy?”

“Of course not. That’s not what I said. It’s just that stress can cause all kinds of symptoms – and in the absence of an obvious injury, perhaps that’s an explanation.”