Chapter 27
Magnolia
Ipoint my toes toward my face, then attempt to point them toward the wall, away from me.
The movement causes shooting pain along the outside of my left foot, and I hiss, my hand darting out to rub against the swollen area.
“Shoot, shoot, shoot,” I grumble, my gut telling me this is more than just the average strain or sprain.
There’s a knock on the exam room door, and I sit up straight, forcing a theatrical smile on my face as the door swings open.
“Magnolia?” A handsome doctor enters. He’s tall with a kind smile. He reaches his hand out to shake mine, and when my eyes flick up to his, his smile broadens, and I feel a slight flush of my cheeks.
Averting my gaze, I reach my hand out to shake his. “Yes, hi. I’m Magnolia.”
“I’m Dr. Armstrong,” he says, releasing his hold on me. I must have a confused look on my face because he chuckles, pulling out the swivel chair in front of the computer to sit down. “Yes, I’m American as well, if that’s your question.”
I drop my gaze to my hands, twisting them together in my lap. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I’ve been here for a few years now and it still excites me to meet another American. Feels like reuniting with a friend, you know?”
Dr. Armstrong doesn’t respond, and when I finally look back at him, his gaze has softened, a coy smile on his face. “I feel the same, believe me. I’m excited to be doing my residency here in Paris, and I plan to stay here long after it’s finished, but I’ll always be a Florida boy at heart.”
“Florida is gorgeous. I don’t blame you.”
“Are you from that area?” He spins to type something on the keyboard, the computer screen unlocking, and an x-ray of what I presume is of my foot pops up on the screen.
“Nope, I’m a lucky Midwest gal. Born and raised in Iowa. Lived in the States until I moved to Paris to join the ballet a little over two years ago.” I lean forward, trying to decipher the x-ray myself, but it looks like a bunch of gray and white sticks to me.
Dr. Armstrong takes a pen from his coat pocket, tapping the soft end to what I think is the outside of my foot. “Well, it’s as I suspected. A stress fracture to your fifth metatarsal, right where it meets the base of your foot.”
I release an audible groan, falling back on the firm plastic table and tossing my arm across my face. “Great.” I can feel the tears brimming my eyes, my bottom lip quivering, but I refuse to break down and cry in front of this stranger.
When I gather my composure, I glance over at Dr. Armstrong. I’m surprised to find him sitting patiently, waiting for me.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “That was dramatic.” I force a small laugh.
“It’s just been … things have been rough lately.
” My foot was aching all through rehearsal yesterday.
I ignored it, telling myself I needed to stretch more, or that maybe my shoes were dead.
I told myself it was because of the tension I’m carrying in my body from the minimal amount of sleep that’s likely because of the lack of contact with Lukas.
It’s been over a month since we last spoke.
I’ve missed one call from him in that time.
And I’ve sent two letters, both which went unanswered, but who knows if he’s even received them yet.
I keep telling myself to listen to my therapist, to know that I just need to wait.
To have hope. So, I threw myself into my work, and apparently, that means pushing my body past its breaking point.
My adrenaline was through the roof last night, the performance feeling monumental.
It wasn’t until that post-performance high faded that I noticed the swelling wasn’t normal.
Thankfully, the company has a full staff of doctors available for the dancers. Dr. Armstrong’s office had a last-minute cancellation this morning, which left an open spot for me.
“Listen,” he says, voice softer. “It’s a fracture, yes, but not a severe one.
You’ll have to wear a walking boot—” I gasp at that, and he playfully holds his hands up in surrender.
“It’s all temporary. We’ll start with six to eight weeks, see how you feel.
We’ll take another x-ray at that time and see what it looks like.
The fracture is near the base…” He takes a pen from his pocket and uses the tip to point to the x-ray on the screen, showing me the faint line across the base of my toe.
“The better news is that a lot of your healing depends on how well you can rest. Take care of yourself; don’t put any weight on it. When your foot is ready, we’ll wean you out of the boot, then get you to slowly start movement again and set up with therapy.”
He stands, wheeling the chair back near the computer. “I know this isn’t what any professional athlete wants to hear, especially not one of your caliber.”
Professional athlete. His sentiment causes an ache in my chest. What’s the hardest decision you have to make in a day? Whether to twirl right or left?
Fuck Lukas for undermining me like that. For looking down on the career I’ve been working toward since I was three years old. For getting so deep under my skin that his words continue to eat at me months later.
“Magnolia?” Dr. Armstrong prods.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Armstrong, my mind is all over the place.” I push out a breath, and force my lips into a smile. “Anything else?”
He looks at me for another moment, his gaze lingering. “I was just saying that regardless of how this looks, or how you feel right now, I saw your performance last night, it was incredible.”
I know the blush on my cheeks is immediate, even though I do my best to tamp it down. “Even though I ended up cracking my foot?”
He purses his lips to hide his smile. “The audience didn’t have the slightest idea.”
I push out a rough exhale and move to sit up on the side of the table. He steps forward, a gentle hand curling around my elbow to help me. “Thank you, Dr. Armstrong.”
He nods, pulling his hand away once I’m stable.
“It was good to meet you, Magnolia. I’m just sorry it was under these circumstances.
” He smiles at me for a second longer. He’s an attractive man, older than me, with a rich brown head of hair and beard with flecks of gray starting by his chin.
He’s tall, and I can tell even under his white coat that he’s fit, but looking at any other man only makes me hurt, only makes the longing I have for one man sting that much more.
He swings the door open. “My PA will be just a moment to fit you for a boot. Reception will get you set up with an x-ray and our next follow-up.”
I nod. “Thank you for everything, Dr. Armstrong.”
He flicks back the panel on his white coat to rest his hands on his hips. “See you in a few weeks, Magnolia.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m trudging down the hall; the sad squish of my crutch pads move across the tile, echoing with each limp I take.
Raymond stands when he sees me coming, and his sad smile makes my lower lip wobble.
“Quit looking at me like that, or I’m going to break down,” I whisper as I approach, continuing to crutch past him toward the exit. He meets my stride, and I keep my gaze forward, focused on the sunshine and the doors outside, and not on the expression painted on his face.
He helps me to a bench, and sets my purse by my side. “Wait here, I’ll bring the car around.”
He runs off, and I reach for my purse, digging through to find my phone. What I wouldn’t give to be able to just call Lukas, to talk to him, to hear his voice, to have him tell me that everything will be okay.
The sting of fresh tears is hot, and I close my eyes, tilting my head back as I let the hot summer sun warm my face.
Winter seemed to last forever. The spring was cold, dreary, wet. Each spring rain chilled me right to the bone. When summer arrived, I thought that chill would go away. In some ways, it did, but even as I sit here, eyes closed, breeze softly tickling my face, a part of me still feels numb inside.
My phone vibrates in my palm, and when I open my eyes, my heart pounds against my ribs when I see it’s Lukas calling. With shaking hands, I quickly swipe to answer and press the phone to my ear. “Lukas?”
“Hey, baby.” His baritone voice has tears springing to my eyes.
“You have no idea how badly I needed to hear from you.”
The phone line crackles, static so loud I have to pull it away from my ear.
“Mags,” he calls out. “You there?”
I sit up straight, somehow thinking the change in position will get us better reception, and the heel of my boot knocks on the pavement, sending a jolt of pain through my foot.
“Yeah. Hey. Can you hear me?” I hear him trying to talk over the static, but can’t make out what he’s saying. “Lukas,” I call out, raising my voice a little. “All I hear is static. Can you move somewhere else on base?”
“Magnolia?”
“Yes, right there! I can hear you.”
“What’s going on? You alright?”
Before I can answer, he asks me to hold on, and the phone muffles as if it’s pressed to his chest, and I hear him talking in the background to someone.
Raymond pulls his car around, and he parks it next to the curb, but when he sees me on the phone, he puts it in park, coming to sit next to me on the bench.
“Lukas, do you have a sec? It won’t take long, I just wanted to talk to you about something.”
“Yeah, I’m here. Sorry, we’re just—”
Static interrupts him once again, and I’m so tired, so overwhelmed with my injury, with our relationship, with him being deployed that the tears build faster than I can pull them back. “I just want to talk to you for five seconds. Please? Can you go somewhere? Could you call me back? “
“No, sorry. I was meaning to call you. I uh … I have some news.”
Me, too, buddy. Me, too. “What kind of news?”
“I’m signing up for another tour.”
I sit up, spine straight, my mouth falling open. “You’re what?”
This deployment has been hard enough on us.
Something has happened to Lukas, that’s obvious, but when I can’t see him, can’t talk to him, can’t hold him, it also means I can’t truly reach him.
“How can they ask that of you? You’re not even done with this one.
Aren’t there other Marines that could deploy? ”
“There are…” his voice fades out, and I can’t quite hear what he’s saying at first. “They asked us if anyone volunteered, and … uh, I said yeah.”
“So, they aren’t requiring it, you … you volunteered?”
“Things have happened out here, bad things, and I want to finish what we’ve started. There’s … just trust me when I say I need to see this through til the end.”
“So, how much longer will you be gone?”
“Seven months. Shouldn’t be as long as my current tour.”
Which should’ve ended four months ago. He will miss the summer, the fall, and have to spend another winter overseas.
Nearly twenty-one months deployed. Almost two years of a strained relationship where I spend every day wondering what he’s doing, and most nights wondering if he’s alive.
And the time in between is spent wondering what he’s gone through that’s caused him to change so much from the man I once knew.
I slump back against the bench, letting the phone drop to my lap. Raymond reaches his arm across my shoulders, pulling me to him to plant a kiss on my temple.
“Magnolia?” Lukas calls out from my lap, and I bring the phone back to my ear.
“Well … I guess the choice is yours. But I hope you’re making the right one.”
“I am. I think someday you’ll see that.”
I scoff, probably more obnoxiously than I mean to, but the pain is starting to kick in. All I want to do is go home, crawl into bed, and pretend that this is all just an awful dream.
“You wouldn’t get it, Mags,” Lukas starts, and I shake my head, not needing to hear this conversation for the one thousandth time.
“I know, I know. No one gets it. No one gets you, Lukas.” It’s a speech I’ve heard many times before. And to some extent, yes, it’s true. But I don’t get it. I don’t know what he’s going through because he won’t tell me. Won’t tell his family. We’re all kept in the dark and all worried for him.
“I don’t have time for this,” he bites. “Did you need anything else? Otherwise, I gotta get going.”
I look down at my foot, then at the pair of crutches next to me. What difference will it make to tell him now? His mind is elsewhere; the version of Lukas I need to care for me isn’t the version that he shows anymore. “I just … I hurt my foot last night. It’ll be fine … I’m just sad, that’s all.”
The line is quiet, and I can’t tell if he even heard what I said, or if the call dropped.
“What? Did you say you're hurt?”
I nod, tears burning against my throat.
“How bad? Do you need surgery?”
“No, no surgery. Fractured part of my foot, the doctor—” Another rush of static fills the line, and it cuts me off, zapping what energy I had left from my body. “Are you there, Lukas?”
“Sorry, reception sucks right now. And I’m sorry to cut you off, sweetheart, but I need to go. But you’re going to be okay? Your foot will be alright?”
“Yeah. I’ll be fine.” I’ll make it through this without him, just like I’ve had to make it through everything else.
Sometimes, I’m so angry with him. Angry for the choice he made, angry for whatever is happening to him that’s caused him to change.
And then I’m angry with myself. Angry for not having the patience or the strength that I want to have to be strong for the both of us.
Angry that I’m selfish. That I want him to be able to take time out of his schedule to care about me. To care for me when I’m down, even when I know he can’t.
He’s quiet, and there’s a part of me that’s screaming at him to hear me, to listen to me, to read between the lines that this is not fine. That we are not fine.
But then he clears his voice and mumbles his standard, “Love you, miss you.”
I repeat it just the same before ending the call and tossing my phone in my purse.
Raymond slides his arm across my shoulders, pulling me into him for a side hug “Magnolia, I—”
“It’s fine.” I wave my hands, lying through gritted teeth as I shake my head at Raymond.
“He’s going through a lot. He doesn’t need to worry about me on top of everything else.
” I reach for my crutches, and when I fail to stand on my own, Raymond tucks his hand under my arm, pulling me off the bench.
When I look up, his brown eyes are laced with sadness.
“Let’s get you home. I’ve already called Ronaldo and told him he needs to bake us something.”
I let out a watery laugh. “Isn’t it too early for pity cake?”
“Girl, it’s never too early for pity cake.”