CHAPTER 48
Ana
MY GROCERY BILLS are starting to compete with my skating expenses.
The produce receipt from this morning led to this conclusion, two hundred dollars more in debt and six hefty paper bags tucked in my trunk later, I pull up to the sidewalk fronting my mom’s place.
The garage is crammed with boxes of memorabilia in cardboard from her family back home, the driveway barely fitting her car.
And that’s saying something since my mother’s car is tiny.
I check her mail on my way to setting the remaining two grocery bags by the doorsteps. The overflow of white envelopes crammed in the box tells me Mom hasn’t checked her latest correspondences in probably a week.
Once inside, my mother strolls in from her bedroom and into the kitchen, while I’m setting the bags onto the wooden counter. Pulling away after placing a kiss on each of my cheeks, I hand her the stacks of mail.
Her smile fades. “Did you open any of those?”
“No, why?” I say. “Were you expecting something?”
I watch as her expression immediately deflates, turning relaxed again. “No, I’m not expecting anything. I just want to be the first one who checks my mail.”
Okay, that’s understandable. But why does she look and sound guilty while admitting the obvious?
Shrugging off the creeping concern, I offer, “I get it.” I push the pile of envelopes her way. “You had a ton of mail, by the way.”
“Yeah, it’s been like that lately. Most of it’s just garbage, though. You know…” She puffs out a chuckle. “All those salespeople wanting to sell you things.”
Yes, salespeople usually tend to sell you things.
My suspicion grows at my mother’s increasingly robotic tone, but before I have a chance to question her behavior, she quickly slides the piles of paper to the edge of the counter, away from our line of sight.
“Ooh!” she shrieks. “I almost forgot to tell you. I was rearranging the garage yesterday, and look what I found.”
Setting down the carrot stems I’m unpacking, my gaze lands on the chipped medal she hands me.
Anahita Petrov, 1st place, is faintly engraved on the now rusting metal.
It was the Wisteria Rink exactly 500 years ago.
Or at least that’s how long it feels since I received the medal, my first medal from my first skating competition at the struggling rink.
I didn’t fit in at that rink, either. Competition there was at most friendly, and the handful of skaters that I competed alongside were some of the most encouraging athletes I’ve met to this day—polar opposite from the athletes at our rink.
Skaters at the Larsson Ice Rink will tell you that a medal won at the rink in Wisteria doesn’t count because that rink doesn’t count.
Translation: my competition at the modest venue wasn’t a real battle of skates.
It did, however, introduce my first sample taste of winning, the first accolade before I quickly wanted another bite.
And then another. It became an obsession of mine, winning. But that wasn’t always the case.
Before trophies and medals held any meaning, back when winning didn’t carry the same precedence, there was just skating. The thrill of it all, the thrill of it alone was enough. And at the very start, I went by my full first name.
Proudly chosen by my late grandma, my birthname shares its origin from the ancient Persian goddess of water, Anahita.
Grandma Mina’s disappointment was subtle, but felt, when Mom explained to her how “Ana”—its abbreviation—was more digestible for the figure skating masses.
Did she strike a good point, I had no clue, what seven-year-old would?
At age seven I didn’t know much but still perfectly recall my dream—become the greatest figure skater in the world one day, not one of the—the greatest.
If Mom was convinced my name would serve as a hurdle to that dream, if that meant dropping the second half of my first name to not give the top skating academy an excuse to not consider me, well, nothing and no one was going to stop me. Winning my first medal only solidified that goal for me.
How many skaters at the rink hid their full first name to not jeopardize their career? The question still roams around in my head, its aftermath of guilt never waning. Even if it was the right thing to do, hiding a fraction of my full identity isn’t really helping cure the whole imposter syndrome.
My sinking thoughts go on pause, watching my mother hover over the kitchen faucet, draining a fresh batch of Basmati rice. A moment later, and the air is dressed in columns of steam as the rice begins to cook.
“Thank you for the groceries, azizam.” Mom kisses my cheeks, but then frowns. “You shouldn’t have driven all the way here just to get me groceries. I could’ve gone to the store.”
“It’s okay. I needed a few things from the market, anyway,” I say, squeezing the underside of her forearm.
My mother works tirelessly, she always has.
Each time I step on the ice I’m reminded of every single sacrifice she gave up for me to be standing there.
A few groceries and errands here and there are my pathetic excuse of repaying her for what she lost just so that she could see me win, as if there’s anything that could possibly equate to her sacrifices.
They could never. Nothing will ever be enough, not when she has no one else here, no other family around other than me, her one daughter who as is, barely has time for her mother these days.
Breathe.
“The pharmacy called and mentioned you have a prescription ready.” I feel my entire body tense as suspicion wrinkles my mother’s features. “You’re not taking the anxiety pills, Ana, right?”
“No, I’m not,” I reassure.
“You would tell me if you were, right?”
“Yes, of course I’d tell you. I’m not.”
The long drive stops me from visiting Mom as often, what I tell myself. Her questioning on my health just now chips away some of my guilt, briefly relieved about our space.
Space from the pills in question seem to be unavoidable these days—the same ones my therapist, Stephanie Wong, keeps flooding my inbox with. Technically, in order for her to actually be my therapist, that would mean I’d attended at least one session.
Which I haven’t.
The only contact we ever made was the brief introduction forged by my physical therapist, Taylor Francis, who referred me to the top sports psychologist at Faerieladle’s renowned hospital after my post-op.
The hip surgery from two years ago landed me into strict physical therapy at the hospital’s wellness center.
Five months of daily sessions—two more than usually required—and the 20 cm incision lining my right hip was healed sufficiently enough to return back to the ice.
After my first session with Taylor, she recommended I start therapy with Stephanie simultaneously to discuss the mental health aftermath of the procedure.
In her own words, “falling was trauma”, and it needed to be dealt with, both physically and mentally.
Attending sessions with Stephanie wasn’t of priority to me at the time.
Restless couldn’t begin to describe the insanity I experienced from being away from the rink for so long.
The longest break before that was a day or two, an easy feat for someone who never went on vacations or trips.
And it wasn’t the first time I was referred to see a sports psychologist. It also wasn’t the first time my mother frowned at the idea.
Mental health wasn’t a topic welcomed in our family. Ever. Between my grandma and my mom, they were both raised with the notion that any disease of the mind stemmed from boredom. When you had shit to do, there was no time to dwell on the whirlwind of intrusive thoughts.
You have a cut, go put a band-aid on it. You’re sad, go watch a show you like. You’re still sad, well, it’ll eventually pass. One day. Until one day is five years later, and you don’t know how to ask for help.
Mom still doesn’t see the merit in going to therapy.
Or taking anxiety meds. She claimed I’m strong and that I didn’t need some pill to fix me, that once I’d started, I’d be dependent on something other than myself to heal.
Eight years later, and listening to her words has resulted in a pile of expired pills collecting dust at the bottom of my medicine cabinet, neatly stacked right above my invisible, untreated wounds.
_________
I blinked, and somehow—it’s now August. The past few days following our day off from practice didn’t lessen the gritting at my bones since I confessed the truth about my injury to Troy.
Not that I don’t trust him, but I don’t trust anyone. And now he knows one of my biggest secrets. A secret that could 1) damage my reputation among skating fans and rinkgoers, and 2) possibly even get me kicked out of our academy.
My stomach flips with worry at both outcomes.
Troy’s been acting normal this morning. Like he didn’t practically fly off the ice less than a week ago after he learned about my scar.
I assumed he’d notice it at the party. But I didn’t expect him to corner me so brazenly about it and then demand for an explanation.
If I wasn’t so overwhelmed that what I’d hoped to protect within myself was now revealed to more potential scavengers of the world, then I might’ve even felt respect for the way he nudged the info out of me.
I still can’t believe I caved and told him, maybe tired of holding it in for so long.
Practice today wasn’t anything too crazy.
Tomorrow’s is another story, prepping for our first twist lift, which we’ll be completing on the mats.
Even with less technically-challenging sequences today, both of us are drenched.
As we’re unlacing our skates in the rink’s lobby, I pause to look at Troy’s hair.
Each strand of medium chestnut brown disheveled and a little wet, wet like the beads of sweat trickling over his forehead and gripping the sculpt of each bicep tight against his thermal.
I take a shameful gulp the second his head pops up. Then jerk my own focus back down to my half-undone laces.
“Ready for tomorrow?” Troy slurs.
“Yeah, I’m ready to kick your ass.”
He gives a breathy chuckle. “That’s cute.”
The way he said cute shouldn’t be possible, not when he looks as overexerted as he does right now, like one of the sea of women who’d gladly fall at his feet just had her way with him, sliding her hands beneath his shirt, touching bare, tight skin, exploring all over, under, each outline—No, we are not doing this right now.
Luckily my phone decides to ring at the perfect moment, snapping me out of the trance as I bend over to reach it from my gym bag.
No, no, no.
You’ve got to be shitting me right now.
A message from Lucy rests on the screen, informing me that our place has a major leak.
It must’ve been her boyfriend, Nico. This has his name written all over it.
If Nico didn’t overconsume trillions of gallons of water every night, we wouldn’t have this many leaks for one to eventually burst into more permanent damage.
As it turns out, the damage is stronger than usual this time, Lucy explains in her lengthy text, requiring at least a month to fix.
A month where I have to find somewhere else to stay.
Fuck.
I pretty much shout the word out loud.
“What?” Troy says, confusion twisting his features at my sudden outburst.
“My roommate just messaged me saying we had a leak,” I reply, still disoriented by the news. I tap on Elle’s number, informing her of the disaster, hoping there’s a chance I can stay with her temporarily.
“How bad is it?” Troy asks.
“Apparently, we’re kicked out for at least a month. So I’d say, pretty bad.”
“Oh shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Uh, probably at Eloise’s,” I hesitate. “Or at Naomi’s house. I don’t know yet.”
“You can stay with me if you want,” Troy offers casually.
My eyes don’t mean to bulge out of my face. “Ha, right.”
“What’s so funny about that?”
“Nice try, but I’m not sleeping in the same room as you.”
“You would stay in the guest room, you freak.”
“Right. Of course you have a guest room in your apartment…”
“I don’t have any roommates and the place is quiet. You can study all night and skate all day like a lunatic, as you please.”
I scoff. “As tempting as that sounds, I’ll pass.”
“Tempting, huh? What about it is tempting?”
I watch the movements of his lips and a swish of heat billows in my lower belly. “I think I’ll stay with Eloise. But thanks for the offer,” I say without actually having an invitation secured yet.
But staying with Troy is—without a doubt—out of the question. Guest room or not, there’s no way I’m agreeing to a setup that deranged.