2. Katya
CHAPTER 2
KATYA
9 WEEKS LATER
The weeks spent in this hospital have been the hardest, loneliest, and most intensely pain-filled days of my life. Days and nights spent crying for Pietro, crying for the loss of the career that felt as much a part of me as breathing, and crying for my long dead mama to take me into the afterlife with her and ease some of this miserable agony.
There have been multiple surgeries and weeks spent with gruesome metal halos circling my legs and rods digging straight through my flesh into the bone. The sight of the things turned my stomach, and when they cleaned them?
They removed those a few weeks ago, and now I’m in a set of walking braces that act as casts. I’m not supposed to put much pressure on them or do anything that feels right to me.
What hasn’t been taken from me in this time?
My innocence, my sense of self, the idea that life is fair and God is looking out for me, and, worst of all, the love of my life. The images of his death are stained so deeply into my brain I don’t think I’ll ever get them out. I wake night after night to the same nightmares, screaming and crying for a man who’s just gone. How the hell is he just gone?
I haven’t had many visitors, and when it was just Pietro and me against the world, it seemed so romantic, but now only having the one real friend is pathetic and lonely. I’ve known Natalia since we were teens. Our parents were friends before mine passed, and while we haven’t always lived in the same places, we’ve always kept in touch. It helps that we’re both ballerinas and have so much career overlap. Since we joined the same company, we became closer than we’d ever been.
Natalia visits when she can, but she’s busy. She’s still dancing for the company and has taken on the role intended for me for the spring ballet. What the hell am I supposed to say? Congratulations? I’m devastated?
Both are true, and when she told me, all I managed to say was, “That’s wonderful,” and I meant it. That’s wonderful for her. For me, it’s like a stab to the heart to know that the world is continuing while everything has fallen apart for me.
I thank my lucky stars that when she came last week, she told me she and her boyfriend had agreed I could stay with them for a little while, but when she told me the good news, she also gave me a slightly odd warning.
“We don’t have a ton of room. Just try not to get on Scott’s nerves, okay?”
Of course, I agreed to whatever she asked of me. I’m so grateful I have somewhere besides the street to go right now, but her words have weighed on me ever since because I have not been the easiest or happiest patient. Even if I fake how I’m doing every moment of the day, the dreams are persistent, and they’re loud.
Does she think I’m bound to get on his nerves because I’m so annoying, or are his nerves easy to upset?
If I had an apartment to return to, I would try my luck at taking care of myself, but my apartment is long gone. There’s no way I could have paid it in the time I was hospitalized, and with Pietro gone , I could never afford it anyway. This city wasn’t made for single incomes, and my landlord was plastering signs on my door within two days of missing rent. I only found out because Natalia went to the apartment to grab me a few things.
“It’s time to go, Miss Stepanova.” The nurse I’ve spent the most time with steps into the room with an annoyed expression. I haven’t been easy to deal with, and I know it, but somehow, her disdain for me still stings. Why am I bothered by something I’ve earned?
The hospital room around me has grown more than familiar in the past nine weeks, but my own body may as well belong to a stranger. In that time, they’ve done a mediocre job of fixing me up and getting me well enough to be legally turned out on the street. Luckily for me, and with the help of the American healthcare system, that day has come.
“I know,” I answer as I push a couple of items into my plastic hospital bag of discharge notes—a pack of crackers, the picture of Pietro I can’t bear to look at right now, and the prayer card for his funeral, which I was far too hurt to attend. That one hurts worse than my injuries.
The IV tower beside me beeps its complaints like it’s rushing me too. It has been for at least an hour—since they disconnected me but didn’t bother to shut off the heart monitor. I watch the flatline, feel Pietro’s picture in my hand, and God forgive me, I wish I were dead too.
“I have other patients,” she rushes me.
“You don’t have any patience,” I counter, but she doesn’t so much as smirk.
I step off the bed, looking down at the brace-like boots around my ankles and calves. She’s right there to take my hand and take the bulk of my weight, but I still flinch at the pain that shoots up my legs like cracks of fire. The broken bones can bear partial weight inside as they heal. The crutches are still only advised for short use, like when getting in and out of the chair.
My skin aches where the rods were removed, my legs feel weak without the extra metal in place, and I’m not used to the weakness in my bones or muscles just yet. Everything still hurts. She quickly pushes me into the wheelchair and kneels to put my boots up in the footholds.
“You’re a liability. Gotta make sure if you fall, you do it outside.” I think she’s trying to get a rise out of me, perhaps as payback for having to deal with me for nine freaking weeks. I don’t blame her. I think I said some really nasty things to her after coming out of the anesthesia.
“Makes sense, I guess,” I say, eliminating any hopes she might have had for one last argument.
She removes the locks from the chair and begins pushing me. I can’t help but softly grunt at the shift when we go over the bump in the doorway.
“Sorry,” she comments, but she doesn’t mean it. Somewhere deep inside, I know I should say I’m sorry, but if anything, I’m angry. Why should she get to keep living her life when Pietro is dead? I can’t find a shred of remorse anywhere inside me for anything or anyone but the man I love. A man who’s already buried…
The wheelchair beneath me creaks as she takes me through the halls. I haven’t seen much of them despite how long I’ve been here. I’ve only moved rooms twice and been to surgery three times. There were more scans in the beginning when I was less alert, but more than anything, it’s been that room I’ve stared at.
Something is soothing about leaving the spot of so much pain behind, like ripping off necrotic flesh poisoning the system. I’ve died a thousand deaths alone in that room. I allow myself to feel that relief for a full second before I remember I’m not headed toward comfort either. I’m going home to whatever Natalia was warning me about.
The elevator ride down gives me the spins, and I’m weak by the time she rolls me out the door and pushes me to the edge of the curb. A medical transport van waits, set to take me to my friend Natalia’s apartment— eventually anyway , I think to myself as I realize I’m the last person inside, and there are quite a few stops to make.
By the grace of God, the ballerinas in my company were able to pack up my things and store them for me, so I’m excited to at least have my own clothes. Natalia has told me not to expect much in terms of condition. They weren’t very careful after my landlord screamed at them about his money until they cried, and I suppose I’m just incredibly grateful they did anything for me at all. It’s not like I paid attention to any of them with Pietro around.
I’ve spent the most time with the nurse over these weeks, and she offers me a half-hearted wave as she shuts the door but does not offer me luck on my prognosis. I think we’ve both listened to me cry enough to know my life is over whether I learn how to walk again or not.
The fractures in my legs aren’t the real dealbreaker. It’s my ankles that really make me want to give up. Maybe I’ll walk normally again one day, but perhaps I won’t. The consensus seems to be the same, though—I’ll never dance en pointe again.
The drive passes slowly, and I can’t help but question the circumstances of the people sitting around me. Why is there no one to help that elderly woman with the locket that says Grandma? Are they waiting for her at home, just without a car? I don’t know why it matters, but it hurts my heart that so many of us don’t have a loved one to take us home. It’s silly, and I’m a bit carsick by the time we pull up outside my friend’s apartment. Maybe all this is just the pain meds wearing off.
The driver gets out of his seat and slides the van door open. With a few adjustments, he loads me and the wheelchair onto the platform, and the hydraulic arm lowers us to the ground. The whole scene leaves me red-cheeked and angry, hot under the collar that I can’t just get up. Being physical and active has always been such a defining aspect of who I am, so I’m not sure how to adjust.
I’m huffing on the sidewalk when I realize something much more complicated. Natalia has invited me to her apartment a ton of times, so why would I have worried about it being a fourth-floor walk-up then? Four flights of stairs didn’t matter to me when I danced fourteen hours a day.
The truth, however, stands in front of my face, not giving a shit about my memory. This building is not handicap accessible, and while I won’t need those accommodations forever, I’ll surely need them right now. Getting up these steps is far beyond what I can manage at the moment. My entire chest deflates.
What am I going to do?
Natalia opens the door, blond hair all around her as she flies down the steps and onto the sidewalk. She looks at me sitting in the chair and on the edge of a panic attack. The medical van has already pulled away to drop off the six other people waiting to go home, so it’s not like I can even leave if she decides to turn me away.
My crutches lean against the chair, and I watch the moment of realization cross her face as I fiddle with them. How the hell am I supposed to stay here? Her brow creases for a second, but she forcibly smoothes it and smiles.
“We’ll get you inside,” she promises. “Once you’re in, you just stay for a while.”
Tears form in the back of my eyes and thicken my throat, but I don’t let them fall.
“I don’t have anywhere else to be.” I aim for light and joking, but she looks at me like I didn’t nail the tone.
“You’ll be okay, Katya. Everything is going to be okay.”
She takes out her phone and calls her boyfriend. They talk for a while, and I fear I’m already doing what I promised not to—irritating Scott. A few minutes later, he comes down the stairs. He’s taller than Natalia but not huge, with curly brown hair and eyes. He’s handsome enough, but I just don’t like something about him.
“Hi, Scott. Thanks so much for helping me.” He nods at me but doesn’t say anything. Between the two of them, they put one of my arms over each of their shoulders and bear most of my weight as they pull me out of the chair. They continue that way as we climb the stairs.
“Jesus, you’re skinny,” Natalia tells me. “I thought this might be a struggle.”
I don’t bother to tell her most of the weight is the boots. Food and I haven’t been on good terms lately. Politeness demands I say something, but instead, I keep my mouth shut because every second of this is agony, and I don’t have a single good thing to say. Pain reaches deep inside me and makes me angry, desperate to lash out, and irrational, but I won’t be that way to the only people trying to help me.
“You okay?” she asks, and I just nod. It’s not really a lie if it doesn’t come with words, is it?
We reach the top, and Scott twists the brass knob and pushes open a thickly painted brown door. We go inside, and it sticks as it closes behind us. Green walls, old wood furniture, and newer touches that remind me of Natalia occasionally appear. The apartment smells a little musty, but it’s a thousand times better than the antiseptic of the hospital.
They take me to a cot made up in the corner of the long living room, and Scott drops my arm as soon as I’m in front of it. Natalia, on the other hand, takes my hands and helps me sit.
“Do you mind grabbing her wheelchair and crutches before someone steals them?” she asks him sweetly, batting her lashes a bit.
“Fine,” he snaps, and the tone makes her frown for only a second before she hides it. She laughs a little, then turns to me.
“Do you need anything? Hungry? Want a shower?” She asks me a stream of well-meaning questions, but all I want is for everything to stop. To close my eyes and not even exist anymore. Why the fuck am I here when he’s gone?
I realize I’m breathing too hard, and I haven’t answered her.
“I just need to lie down please. I need some stuff from the pharmacy, but I can order it to be delivered.”
“I’ll get it for you,” she promises as she pulls out her phone and types in the information for the pharmacy I use.
“Thank you so much, Natalia, for everything,” I tell her as she helps me lie down. Once I’m flat, I’m not sure I’ll have the energy to ever move again. Two tears slip down my cheek, but she doesn’t see them. The sheets smell a little like her, a little like the apartment, and I wish so badly it smelled like the bed I shared with Pietro.
“I don’t mind.” She pats my knee, and I hold back a grunt as it echoes all the way down to my toes. I stare at the stucco ceiling, learning the points and grooves as she grabs her coat. “Oh, Katya, do you have the cash for this?”
“Yeah, of course.” I heavily overstate the truth of my situation. I have about two hundred dollars left that the hospital would have snatched out of my hands if they knew about it. Rolling over, I grab my bag from beneath the cot. My fingers find the zippered pouch on the inside, and I pull out a fifty. “This should cover it. If I have any change, can you grab me some noodles or something?”
“Of course.” She smiles at me before she heads out the door. “I’ll get the stuff now. You have to be in pain.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, but I’m not sure she hears before the door closes. What the hell am I going to do when that money is gone? What the hell am I going to do with my life? I plug my phone into the wall but don’t have any service, so I look for local networks. I connect to one and check my social media. I only manage to read one condolence before I have to close it. Pietro’s gone, and I can’t fucking breathe.
A few minutes later, I look up from my device to find Scott standing in the corner watching me. Tension fills the air. I assume I’ve done something wrong at first, some faux pas I’m missing. I’m the problem most of the time these days, so I search for something light to say to lessen it.
I don’t need to try so hard. It turns out he has something to say to me.
“I know Natalia told you that you can stay as long as you want, but you can tell for yourself we have tight quarters. She’s too nice to tell you you’re imposing, but you are.”
“I-I’m so sorry. I can find somewhere else to go.” That’s more or less what I’m doing now, isn’t it? Trying to prod the outside world for chances to hope.
“You should do that sooner than later. Don’t tell her I said anything to you, or you’ll be gone before you can snap your fingers.”
My mouth falls open, and a surprised sliver of my heart breaks. I didn’t know there was anything left of it to go.
“I wouldn’t—won’t. I won’t say a word.”
“Good. Get some rest for today, I guess.”
Thankfully, he leaves the room. With the relief of his absence, I try to settle into the bed and endure the pain.