CHAPTER 98
Ana
VIOLET AND ETHAN won.
The duo placed first in pairs figure skating at the Grand Prix Final.
For a second.
That died when reality skyrocketed through my veins.
Reminding me that more pressure is now on Troy and me going into Nationals in January.
You’re okay, Ana.
There is no time to dwell on any of this, not when my next therapy session is coming up later this afternoon, knowing that the more I focus on my health, the sooner I can return back to the rink.
A little practice wouldn’t kill me, though, as I head to the lake I haven’t glided on in years.
Maybe it’s toxic, but the wild ice is a magnet to my skates, and it feels so fucking good to slip my feet into these boots again, lacing the white fabric tight, pushing toward the emptier side of the Lake.
A few crossovers and twizzles in, and it’s strange, my ankles start to feel shaky.
But I ignore it.
I push through.
Turning over my shoulder, going in for the triple axel, the script begins—do it, you can do it, steady, steady, a few more seconds, do it, you can do it—when I jump, my skates collapse into the landscape, my chest scraping along the rough ice marks.
My eyes stare facedown at the frosted ground, catching a wisp of cold air filled with my stress and disappointment.
You’re strong. You’re brave. There is nothing you can’t do.
With one forceful push, I pull my weight off the cold surface.
I speed down the ice.
Head home.
And go take care of myself.
_________
When I arrive at Stephanie’s office later in the day for our next session, there’s a tray of fresh cookies and cucumber water, my appetite a tad bigger than most days, so I select a sugar cookie, taking my seat until she arrives.
“Ana, good afternoon,” Ms. Wong greets. “How are things?”
“Slightly more balanced,” I say carefully.
“I’m so glad to hear that. Any progress is still progress.”
She gives me a genuine smile, setting aside her notepad, the first time during a session.
The move makes my fingers curl up with anxiety.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something last time…,” she says. “Do you remember why you first started skating? Was it all the medals and trophies you were after at that young age, or was it something else?”
I ponder over the abrupt hard-hitting question.
“It made me happy,” I recall. “I remember being sad and so, so angry at my dad. At how he left us, at how things were at home. On the ice, it was the one place the darkness sort of melted away.”
“Does it still make you happy?”
The follow-up hits me like a knife to the gut.
“Do you have any other questions?” I chuckle out, stalling. “I think skating will always make me happy. But I think I took the fun out of it for myself.”
She nods.
That’s it.
No response.
“Was it worth it?” My brows furrow. “Not taking time off when you needed it. Not prioritizing your mental and physical health above your sport. Pushing yourself to the edge, where your happiness for what you cared so much about faded. I’m not passing judgment.
I’m simply asking, if everything you have earned up until this point was worth what you’ve endured to get there. ”
My lips part, but I can’t speak.
It takes me a full minute to digest the loaded monolith of a question better, and even then, I respond with, “I don’t know.”
_________
On my way to my mom’s house, I rewind the last question Stephanie asked me.
Was it worth it?
I didn’t need to hear her specify what she meant; I could read between the lines.
Was the scar worth it?
Was the bullying worth it?
Was the online hate worth it?
Was the public scrutiny worth it?
Were all those injuries worth it?
Were the cuts and bruises worth it?
Was the body dysmorphia worth it?
Were the intrusive thoughts worth it?
Was the anxiety and depression worth it?
Was the degradation from the boys worth it?
Were the comparisons to the other girls worth it?
Was losing the guy who proposed to you worth it?
Was losing your first best friend in high school worth it?
Was losing the guy who you were falling in love with worth it?
Could I have been where I am today without losing my mind?
I don’t know.
_________
Unlocking my mom’s front door, I move into the kitchen to unpack her favorite Persian takeout.
Pouring out the Basmati rice and saffron glazed kabobs, my eyes stumble on the magazine catalogues ranging from a tire company to Gap’s new winter collection.
At the bottom of the pile, a tiny beige envelope sits, corners scraped, but the ink boldly visible.
I do a double-take when I read over the sender’s name:
From:
Damyan Petrov
I blink rapidly to make sure I haven’t just misread the paper or if the room has suddenly fallen over and I’ve been sucked into a raging tornado.
I read the sender’s name again:
Damyan Petrov
Damyan? As in, my father? My father sent my mother a letter?
_________
Dear Mariam,
How’s our Ana? Grad school and an academic scholarship?
She definitely got her brains from you. If I can help in any way, please let me know.
I insist. I know you didn’t want the extra help for her undergraduate program, but let me help just this once.
It’s the least I can do with everything you’ve done for her.
The twins also say hi, Tania just bought them their first skates. She wanted me to also ask if you wouldn’t mind us all flying to Milan for the Games. Maybe we can all surprise Ana after she skates.
Tsyalata mi lyubov,
Damyan
I read the letter a good ten times to make sense of the giant bomb just thrown at me.
On round eleven, and Mom walks right in, smiling, until she sees the disappointment on my face and the paper clutched in my palms.
“Ana, I can explain,” she says, her eyes flickering with nerves.
“Alright,” I say, “explain.”
“I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to worry.”
“You didn’t want me to worry?!”
“Yes. That we were struggling.”
“Mom, we were struggling. We are struggling. Can’t you see it?”
“We have each other. We didn’t need him.”
She says it like she gets to decide that for me.
When I barely knew him.
She tries to reach for my arm, but I pull back.
“No,” I say. “I feel like I don’t even know who you are right now.”
“Ana, don’t say that.”
“You’ve been lying to me this whole time.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“Yes, you did. You told me he left us.”
“He did. I was pregnant again, I had just had a miscarriage, and your father was upset. He fell into a depression and he started drinking. He came home one night and when I saw the way he came home, punched the kitchen wall, I immediately ran to check on you in your room,” her voice breaks, “and you were still asleep. I promised myself, nothing would ever hurt you, so I told him he had to go. He left, didn’t write me or reach out for a couple years. Then he did.”
“When?” When she stares at me silent, I repeat, losing my patience. “When?”
“When you were 8.”
My chest feels like it’s being stabbed by the answer.
“Ana, I was protecting you, protecting us.”
“And Grandma knew too, right?”
“Yes.”
My heart breaks for her, unaware that she went through a miscarriage, had to see my dad lash out like that and show her potential warning signs of violence, but her honesty this many years later, it feels completely empty.
Empty like how I feel right now, realizing that this is the family I gave everything up for.
I shut my eyes in a growing panic, the damage too severe, too colossal to simply let go of with breathing exercises learned in therapy.
“I have to go,” I say.
“Ana, please, we only have each other. Please don’t leave me.”
“I’m not leaving you Mom. I just need,” I exhale, “some space.”
“I love you, azizam.”
I blink hard to stop from crying, ignoring her emotional weaponization.
You’re okay.
No.
No, I am not.