Blade

Chapter Thirty-Eight Ana

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Ana

Before—Two Years at The Palace

In the aftermath, in the weeks after her mother died, what Ana needed more than anything was comfort. She took what she could from her lessons with Dawn and her nights with Emile.

She worked on the triples, fighting to get the height, to fight the fear and go faster, be stronger. She let Dawn pull her into her coat and whisper good girl when she finally landed the triple flip clean four weeks before Nationals.

“See! That’s the way,” Dawn told her. “There’s no hesitation now—the fear is gone.”

And maybe it was. Because everything that Ana had feared had already happened.

She was getting higher, hurling herself into the air with the same abandon that Kayla once had.

High enough to make the full rotation, though that wasn’t what was driving her.

It was leaving the ice, even for a second, that she started to crave.

And how ironic, she thought, that being on the ice had once been her greatest joy.

It’s no big deal.

And it wasn’t, sleeping with Emile. It was nothing, really, when measured against the relief that would overwhelm her when they were together and her body had a mind of its own.

And while that mind was busy being tangled in his sheets, beneath his body, another part of her was set free, to float above the bed and be with the others who had brought her comfort, like they were still here, maybe up by the ceiling.

Only seeing each other. Kayla. Jolene. Indy.

Connie. She could be with them without feeling the pain of having them all gone.

So, yes, she found relief in his bed.

Which disgusted her the moment she left, every time she left, the disgust then fueling the need for greater relief.

And on and on in a circle, a giant snowball rolling down a hill, growing bigger and bigger, but enabling her to survive.

She was holding on, white knuckled, just trying to keep it together for Nationals, where everyone would see the new triple flip, but also wanting to disappear.

Until the night she wore the baby blue dress with the yellow butterflies to train in the second rink, working on a transition for her spin combination.

The night Emile came looking for her.

He stood by the open boards and called her name. “You need to come with me,” he said.

“Now?” Ana asked. “Let me go change . . .”

“No,” Emile said. “Right now.”

Ana was confused because the session was almost over, and so was his, in the big rink.

“What’s going on?”

“Just do what I’m asking.”

So she did, following him to the parking lot outside the Zamboni bay, her skates still on her feet, guards on the blades but not even a sweater to keep her warm.

He didn’t so much as turn his head as they drove up the access road to the long driveway. Panic rising in her throat because they never went to the cottage during the day. Something was wrong.

He drove past the dirt road to the end of the driveway, parked, and got out. Ana took off her skates and carried them as she followed Emile to Dawn’s front door.

They walked inside, then back to the dining room, where Dawn and Dr. Westin sat at the table, nothing in front of them on the coasters and place mats.

Not even a glass of water, just folded hands and serious faces, looking intently at Ana, in her tights and the blue dress, her skates dangling from her fingers.

Dr. Westin spoke first. “Why don’t you sit down.”

Ana didn’t answer, and she didn’t sit down. White specks floated across her eyes and blood surged in her veins.

Dawn sighed.

“It’s Indy,” she said. “Please—sit down.”

Emile took her arm and led her toward a chair, the same way he’d brought her to his bed. But this time, she pulled away.

“Someone tell me what’s happened.”

“Maybe we should call her father first,” Dr. Westin said to Dawn and Emile, as if Ana wasn’t even there in the room.

Dawn shook her head. “There’s no time,” she said. “It’s spreading fast. She needs to hear it from us.”

“Hear what?” Ana asked, her throat so dry her voice began to crack.

“Ana, honey,” Dawn said. “Indy died.”

Ana stared blankly at Dawn’s mouth. At the red lipstick caked between the small folds and the cracks in the corners. She stared, waiting for more words, because what she’d just heard didn’t make sense.

“Ana?” Emile said. “Did you hear what Dawn said? Indy is dead. It’s terrible, I know . . .”

Ana took a step back, away from them as they sat at the table.

“No,” she whispered. And again. “No.”

“Ana . . .” Dr. Westin said. “I know this is a shock. Maybe it will help if we explain what happened.”

“No . . .”

“Just listen,” Dr. Westin said. His voice was calm. Clinical.

“Indy drank the chemicals in that bottle—the DMSO mixed with morphine—a powerful opioid,” he said.

“The DMSO accelerated the absorption into her bloodstream,” he explained.

“It’s not clear if she was trying to make herself feel better, or if she was trying to hurt herself.

But either way, she was a troubled young woman. I think you know that.”

One light off and another switched on inside her head. A shift, a sudden awakening. None of this was real. Indy wasn’t dead.

“You’re lying!” Ana screamed, backing away from the table.

Emile reached out for her again. “Just sit down,” he said. “Let us help you.”

But Ana’s feet were moving the other way, and she ran back toward the foyer and the front door. And all of them followed.

Emile got there first and blocked her from leaving. He held his hands in front of him like he was confronting a cornered animal. Dawn and Dr. Westin stood there. Watching.

Each of them said her name.

“Ana . . . calm down,” Dr. Westin said.

“Ana . . . let’s go back to the table,” Emile pleaded.

“Ana . . . be a good girl now,” Dawn said.

The dam broke, letting loose an eruption. “You did this to her!” Ana screamed. “You killed Indy!”

“Ana—calm down!” Dawn ordered. “I did nothing but support her! I fought for her appeal . . .”

“That’s a lie!” Ana screamed, tears soaking her face. “You gave her that bruise! You’re the one who reported her! Everything that happened is because of you! You killed her!”

Emile and Dr. Westin both looked at Dawn, waiting for her defense to the allegations. But she said nothing.

“How did you know what she was doing? Who told you?” Ana demanded, still trapped, with Emile at the front door. Dawn and Dr. Westin behind her.

She looked at each of them, searching their faces for answers. It was then she saw a look pass between Dawn and Emile.

“You? Did you tell her?” Ana asked.

Of course he did, she thought. Hugo was his best friend. And Hugo was the one who’d first given Indy that clear plastic bottle.

“No,” Emile lied. “I didn’t know anything about it.”

But Ana knew the truth.

Emile had told Dawn and she’d reported Indy and now Indy was dead. And all Ana could think was to run.

Pushing past Emile, out the front door, into the frigid air, into the darkness that had descended since they’d arrived, around the back of the house to the tree line of evergreens and bare maples, and to the woods and down the mountain.

Run.

Dr. Westin ran after her, trying to keep up.

She reached the field, Dr. Westin’s voice behind her, the headlights of a car out in front. Emile’s car. He got out, walked closer, while Dr. Westin approached from behind.

“Stop!”

“It’s all right!”

“There’s nowhere to go . . .”

She stood only a few feet away when she leveled her accusation again. “You told Dawn. You knew what she would do!”

For weeks, she’d been coming to his bed. Disgust. Relief. The snowball growing with each swell of emotions.

“Come here now, Ana. Nice and easy,” Emile said.

“It’s no big deal.”

She slipped her hand inside the boot of the skate, removed the guard, as the narrative shifted in her head. This place. These people. Indy was dead because of them. Fear finally turning to rage.

It was time to fight.

“Ana!” Dr. Westin was out of breath when he caught up, the two men boxing her in.

“Get away from me!” Ana said.

But they didn’t listen. “Calm down. You’re acting crazy,” Emile said, taking a step closer.

Ana lifted her hand higher, the one with the skate, the heel of the blade angled to strike. She swung it at his head, and he stepped back. She could see the fear in his eyes.

“Everybody, calm down,” Dr. Westin said. She could hear the fear in his voice.

All because of the blade.

“Ana,” Dr. Westin said. “What do you want us to do? It’s cold, and you have no shoes. No coat. Let us take you home. There’s nowhere to go.”

But their fear had lit a fuse.

“You killed Indy! All of you. Stay away from me . . .”

Emile’s voice sharpened. “Come on, Ana—you’re acting like a child!”

Disgust. Relief.

She could see things now, in this new narrative, the walls of a cage she’d put herself in.

Thinking this was all there was—The Palace, Dawn, Emile—with everyone else gone.

Her family, the Orphans. Her mother was dead.

Indy was dead. Dead. The men kept talking, pleading with her.

The cage door open. Freedom waiting on the other side.

Freedom from this tarnished dream and the person she had become, the child trying to hold on to it.

Her eyes turned again to the highway at the other end of the field, the lights from the cars and trucks passing through.

She lowered her hand from the air, picked up her other skate from the ground, then turned, and ran toward the road, toward freedom, the men calling after her but unable to follow. Emile with his limp, and Dr. Westin exhausted from the chase down the mountain.

She didn’t look back as their voices faded. Making her way to the edge of the field and under the split rail fence. To the shoulder of the highway. And she kept running, then walking, skates hanging by their blades, clenched in her hands.

Exhausted, feet numb and bleeding, she came to the truck stop after a quarter of a mile.

Black pavement. White painted lines. Bright streetlamps shining on the tops of metal trucks, their sides red, blue, orange, yellow. Their tires as tall as her shoulders when she limped past them. The drivers’ cabs dark, the truckers asleep somewhere inside.

Walking between them, she got to the other side, away from the highway, where she might be seen.

There was a small structure. The sign read Facilities, so she went inside.

There she found a row of vending machines that lined the wall to the left.

On the right was a broken door, hanging from one hinge.

Behind it, a toilet and sink and a stench that made her gag.

But she washed her hands. Wiped her face. Dried them with the sleeves of her dress. Then she leaned her body against the back of a vending machine that was warm and buzzing, the motor inside keeping the drinks cold. She slid down to the ground.

Her head was light, high from the rush. It felt euphoric, this thing she’d done, breaking out of the cage, running from the despair and all she’d lost. And before she could come down and think of what to do next, think of Indy, the door opened and a man walked in.

“Hey,” he said. “What do we have here?”

He waited a moment. Let Ana study him. His kind smile. Gentle demeanor.

“Are you okay?” he asked, looking at her torn tights. Bloody feet.

Ana nodded, suddenly aware of how she must look. What he must think.

“Do you need a ride home?” he asked. “I’m headed to Wyoming, but I don’t mind stopping somewhere.”

He wore a brown coat and jeans. His boots were clean, his face shaved.

“Or I could call someone for you,” he said. “My phone’s just back in the truck.”

He reached out his hand to help her to her feet. And she took it.

Ana followed him to the cab of his semi, where he opened the passenger side door and lifted her up so she could climb inside. He gave her a soda and a bag of chips from the vending machine, and she ate and drank.

“What happened to you?” he asked.

Ana didn’t answer. She was in another world, some in-between place her mind had taken her.

“It’s okay,” he said, starting the engine. “It’s none of my business.”

He looked out the window, to the front and the back, then switched on the turn signal.

“You’re safe now, sweetheart,” he said. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

He took off his coat and handed it to her.

“Here, take this,” he said. “Get warm. Get some rest.”

As he steered the rig away from the curb, back onto the highway, Ana pulled the coat over her like a blanket. She leaned her head against the window and felt the soft hum of the engine as they gathered speed.

Music came from the radio, and he turned the volume down low.

Ana’s eyes were heavy and began to close. She didn’t fight it. Listening to the music, feeling the vibrations from the road, the warmth from his coat.

Smelling the pine from the air freshener that hung on the rearview mirror as she drifted off.