The Art of Redemption
(Part 1)
previous // next // story index
———
Beth-Anne Jones gasps for breath as she awakens from yet another nightmare. It's been nearly a month. A whole goddamned month, and she still can't seem to erase the awful visions from her head entirely. The dreams are always more horrible than the real event had been, but her feelings are always the same.
There's a dull pain in her chest, and it's as if the entire earth is falling away beneath her. She wants to scream or cry, or both, but she can do neither. She is frozen, powerless, and all she can do is watch the scene through her mind's eye as the boy she loves like a son lies motionless on the unforgiving ice.
The sound of her breathing is raspy and loud in the dark stillness of her bedroom. She passes a hand across her eyes, blinks twice, and then peers at the softly glowing numbers of the digital clock on her bedside table.
12:43 a.m.
Well, she supposes, two hours of uninterrupted sleep is better than no sleep at all. She'd gone to bed at half-past ten, hopeful for more than two hours, even though she's a realist and knows that sort of thing is entirely beyond her control.
She lies there for a minute, slowing her breath, calming her body. Should she try to go back to sleep? Maybe she should just get up, go to the kitchen and get a drink.
Water, she tells herself. A drink of water.
The self-directive is deliberate, because she understands if she doesn't make a conscious effort to control herself, she'll drink something else; something far more potent than water and that she knows full well she shouldn't even have in the house. She bought it on impulse a month ago, almost as soon as she'd gotten back from the Four Continents Championship. She'd wanted something to dull her emotions, but by the time she'd driven from the liquor store back to her house, she was having second thoughts and couldn't bring herself to open it. All she ended up doing was sitting on her living room floor, letting tears stream down her face and clutching the bottle so hard that her fingers ached.
The worst part was, she didn't even know why she was crying. What had happened wasn't her fault. It was no one's fault, and there wouldn't have been any way to prevent it. And it wasn't her athletic career that was ruined, was it? It wasn't her legacy as a world champion skater that'd been stolen by fate in the space of mere heartbeats. Was she even entitled to feel so much pain when it was Nikolai who was suffering?
She still asks herself that question, because she still hurts. Every time she closes her eyes, her mind replays the moment she saw him crumple onto the ice. In the split second before that, she'd known he wasn't going to land that jump, and she was sure he'd realized it too. He'd tried to recover, but in the end the only thing he'd achieved was to twist his knee in an even more catastrophic way than he probably would have if he'd just let himself fall.
The noise that came out of him when he hit the ice barely sounded human. The only way Beth-Anne can think of to describe it is a howl. It was pain and fear and anger, all formed into a devastating point that plunged itself straight into her heart.
She was the first to get to him, far more confident on the slick surface of the rink than the on-call doctor and athletic trainer, who picked their way across the ice like gangling colts just discovering the purpose of their legs. For a few precious seconds, it was just the two of them. She could see how scared he was, and she reached for his hand to comfort him.
"I'm sorry," he said, and Beth-Anne could've sworn she felt the very core of her consciousness shattering into a million pieces.
She wanted to reassure him, to tell him there was nothing he needed to apologize for, but when she tried to speak, the only word she could get out was his name. She squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back weakly, and then the medical staff started to arrive.
She could see that he didn't want them to touch him, but they couldn't examine him without touching, so she did what she could to soothe him. Finding her voice at last, she told him, "It's all right, Nik. They're here to help. Let them tend to you. It'll be okay."
He stared up at her, eyes wide and tear-filled. "Don't leave me."
"I'm right here," she said. "I'm not going anywhere."
While the medical staff assessed the damage, Beth-Anne didn't let go of Nikolai's hand. She only took her eyes off him once, to make a quick survey of the people and the activity taking place around them.
The spectators in the stands were eerily quiet, and Beth-Anne knew that every gaze was fixed on the unfolding drama at ice level. She saw people with video cameras — of course the fucking sports journalists were documenting everything — and she was momentarily startled when she saw the bright flash of an honest-to-god still camera. The lens was so long, it was probably powerful enough to capture a pimple on a rat's ass in high definition from half a kilometer away.
Beth-Anne swore internally. Journalists had never been her favourite. If she could, she'd make every single one of these people delete their footage from the last few minutes. She didn't want this to be in the top stories on every sports network around the globe. Last season's World Championship gold medallist crying on the ice was not an image that needed to be broadcasted. Her beautiful, talented, brave Nikolai did not deserve to be remembered that way.
She scanned the crowd quickly, looking for the faces she expected to see. Ah yes... there they were. Standing by the gate that led out to the corridor where the locker rooms were located, she spotted Nikolai's wife Anya and his best friend Ginger, also competitive figure skaters. Ginger looked just as terrified as Nikolai did, and Anya's expression gave every indication that she might be sick. Ginger's coach, Stanislav Kovač, was with them, and Ginger was holding onto him like a shipwreck survivor to a raft. Although Stan was reciprocating her desperate hug, he did not appear to be succeeding at comforting her. His expression was grim.
Beth-Anne returned her attention to Nikolai just as one of the medical staff was saying they would need to take him to the nearest hospital for x-rays. Incongruously, she wanted to compliment the man on his English. She still doesn't know why such a thought would come to her at a time like that, and she feels a twinge of embarrassment every time she recalls it.
"I understand," she said, cutting herself off and ducking her head before she got out the words running through her brain. I understand your English perfectly.
Beth-Anne had momentarily forgotten which one of the two Taiwanese men down on the ice with her and Nikolai was the doctor and which was the sports therapist, but the one who wasn't speaking to them was talking on his phone to somebody in what she assumed was Mandarin. Asking for a stretcher, she surmised, because Nikolai couldn't skate or walk on his own. There was no way in hell Beth-Anne would've let him try anyway, even if he thought he could.
"I can't go by myself," Nikolai was saying. "Beth-Anne, you have to come too. Please."
"I'm not going to leave you alone in a foreign country," she said. "I'd like to see anybody try to stop me from coming with you."
One of the medical personnel helped Nikolai sit up while they waited for whoever was coming with the stretcher. Nikolai leaned into Beth-Anne and hid his face against her shoulder. He was still crying, and Beth-Anne's heart ached for him. She wrapped her arms around him, heedless of the thousands of pairs of eyes on them.
"I'm scared," he said, and it came out so quietly that she was sure she was the only one who heard it.
"Everything's going to be okay," she said.
They both knew that wasn't true, but Beth-Anne guessed it was a lie he wanted to hear. He started taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Beth-Anne rubbed his back. The sequins on his costume were rough against her palm and the skin beneath the thin fabric was freezing cold. She wished someone would bring his jacket for him.
"Beth-Anne?"
"I'm here, sweetheart," she said.
"I don't want this to be the end." Nikolai was still sniffling slightly, but she noticed that his tears had mostly subsided. "I... I don't know what I'll do without..." he paused, and drew in another long, shaky breath. "Without skating. Without... you."
She was too stressed to pay much attention to this in the moment, but when she thought about it later, it surprised her a little that he hadn't asked for his wife to come with him to the hospital for his x-rays. In fact, he hadn't mentioned Anya at all, only seeming to want to cling to Beth-Anne like a child to his mother.
It seemed odd to her then, his wanting her with him instead of his wife. Now, in hindsight, she understands why it'd been her that he'd wanted. Things were not good between Nikolai and Anya. Perhaps they hadn't been great for some time before the Four Continents, but they'd been doing their best to keep it quiet Since then, however, neither of them has made a particular effort to pretend they're all right.
For the past month, Beth-Anne has watched, helpless, as her once-vibrant, bright and energetic Nikolai has receded further and further away from who he used to be, from everyone he knows, and from the world itself. It's as if he's fading away before her eyes.
When they'd first returned from Taiwan, she visited him every day. For the first few days she thought he seemed hopeful, but it soon occurred to her that he was putting on a show for her benefit. When she asked him gently to tell her the truth, he broke down.
"I don't see the point," he told her through tears.
"The point of what?" she asked.
"Of... anything," he said.
It wasn't too many days after that when Anya asked Beth-Anne not to come back to see Nikolai any more.
No, not asked. That would be too generous.
What really happened was that Anya had gotten in her face and demanded that she never cross the threshold of their home again, citing the allegation that Beth-Anne's visits only served to upset Nikolai. Beth-Anne found it more likely that it wasn't her presence causing him to be upset, but the fact that she had to leave. More than once, he'd begged her to stay longer, and she knows for certain Anya witnessed that.
Never one to back down from anything, Beth-Anne pointed this out to Anya. She should've known it wouldn't go over well. Far from convincing Anya of anything, all it did was cause her to launch into a screaming tirade about how she'd never liked Beth-Anne, how Beth-Anne was damaging her and Nikolai's marriage, and how it was all Beth-Anne's fault that Nikolai would never skate again.
It took every shred of willpower Beth-Anne possessed not to react. She wanted nothing more than to grab the younger woman and shake her. Maybe shove her against a wall and tell her that she was a stupid, selfish bitch. Not for the first time, she was grateful to be sober because she always had anger management issues when she was drinking. Self-control issues. Human decency issues.
Instead, she decided to leave, not because she wanted to, but because it was clear the situation would only deteriorate if she didn't. The last thing she heard as she went out the door was Nikolai's voice, angry and tearful, yelling from where she'd left him in the living room, "Anna-Valentina, why the hell did you do that? I don't want her to not come back! Ineedher!"
Beth-Anne hadn't returned to the house while Anya was there, but that didn't mean she lost touch altogether. She promised Nikolai she wouldn't leave him, and she'd be damned if she abandoned him completely. They talk every day on the phone at least once, but usually more than once, and sometimes she sneaks by for a few minutes with a coffee and his favourite giant peanut butter cookie from a local bakery when she knows Anya is at the rink.
I haven't been there in a few days, she realizes. I should go tomorrow.
She glances at the clock again. Now it's 12:46. How the hell had she lost those three minutes? At the same time, she wonders how three minutes could feel so damned long.
She pushes back the blankets and swings her legs out of bed. Her hip protests a little — probably going to snow tomorrow — but it's not enough to cause her more than momentary discomfort as her feet touch the floor and she gets out of bed. She makes her way downstairs to the kitchen.
Her cat, Elvis, is asleep on top of the fridge, but wakes when she enters the room. After a squeaky, querying meow, he leaps to the floor to weave himself around her legs as she walks to the cupboard for a glass.
She'd momentarily forgotten that's where she put the bottle.
The sight of it confronts her the instant she opens the cupboard door, sitting there on the shelf above the glassware. The irony is, she's seen it there dozens of times over the past few weeks and barely gave it a thought. But in this moment, it's as if the dark golden liquid is calling to her, willing her to reach for it.
And she does. God help her, she takes it down from the shelf.
Glass in one hand and bottle in the other, she turns toward the table. She makes it there, sets the glass down, and then stares at the bottle's familiar black and white label.
"What the fuck am I doing?" she says aloud.
Elvis hops onto the table, curious.
Beth-Anne glances at him. She shakes her head. "No, we're not doing this tonight, Elvis. We're not doing it ever. I should pour the damn thing out, shouldn't I? Get rid of it and pretend I never even bought—"
Her monologue is cut off abruptly by the sudden ringing of her phone. It's in the pocket of her pyjama pants. When did I put that in there?
The sound startles her, and she lets go of the bottle. It bounces off the edge of the table and plunges toward the ceramic tile of the kitchen floor, slick and hard and white as ice.
The bottle shatters.
Elvis lets out an almighty yowl, flies off the table and dashes out of the room. Beth-Anne screams, "Goddammit!"
She takes a wobbly step back from the pool of liquor and shards of glass and reaches into her pocket for the phone. The caller ID says 'Nikolai Pavlenko'. Her fingers tremble as she touches the answer button.
"Beth-Anne Jones." Just like in Taiwan, her voice sounds far calmer than it should. Always with the game face, Beth-Anne. She wants to laugh at herself, maybe hysterically.
The only thing she hears for a second or two is the sound of Nikolai sobbing. It's not normal crying. She can hear him struggling to get enough air to say, "Beth-Anne... I... I'm scared."
"Where are you?" she demands.
He sniffles loudly. "At home. I... I don't know what to do."
"About what?" she asks.
"About... anything," he says. "I can't do this any more, Beth-Anne. It's all meaningless, and I... I don't..." He pauses, as if making up his mind whether or not he should confess aloud what he's thinking. He whispers, "I don't want to be here."
"Do you need me?" she asks. It's a fucking stupid question. Why would he be calling her if he didn't need her? "Do you want me to come over?"
Even though she already knows the answer, she's slightly relieved to hear the shaky reply. "Y-yeah. Please. Can you come?"
"Are you home alone?"
"Yeah."
"Okay," she says. "Give me about ten minutes, fifteen max. I need to put some clothes on, and then I'll be right there. Can you unlock the front door for me?"
"Yes," he says.
"All right. You unlock the front door and don't you dare do anything else until I get there. You hear me?"
He says he understands, and then they hang up. She'd briefly debated with herself whether or not to stay on the phone with him, but ultimately decided she'd probably be too distracted to drive if she could hear him crying on speakerphone. She needed to get there. She didn't need the potential of wrapping her truck around a power pole on the way because his tears were triggering her own and causing her to be unable to see properly.
She shakes her head again as she sweeps one more look across the mess on the floor. That can wait, she tells herself. If she stops to clean up the broken glass, that'll cause too much of a delay. She thinks Nikolai will be all right for ten or fifteen minutes, but she doesn't want to play around with time, because she could be wrong, and every minute she wastes could alter the chances of a safe outcome.
She skirts around the glass and dashes back upstairs to throw on some jeans and a sweatshirt and pull her shoulder-length hair into a haphazard ponytail. She grabs Elvis and shuts him in the upstairs bathroom where his litter box and water bowl are. He won't starve to death without access to his food until morning, she reasons, and she'd rather have him hungry and confined than free to wander through the the kitchen and inadvertently cut himself.
The next thing she does is text Stan: « No need to reply to this immediately. Can you please call my students and cancel my ice time for tomorrow? Emergency - will explain in the morning. Love you & thanks! »
Reasonably satisfied that she's done all she can do at home, she scoops up her purse and the keys to her truck, and races out the door.
She's glad it's the middle of the night and hardly anyone is on the street because she runs every red light on the way across town.