CHAPTER 7 #2
Fast forward another year, and Grandma moved in with them, both in a small condo a few miles away from the Wisteria Ice Rink.
The setup, though not ideal, made sense for everyone.
Grandma didn’t have any friends or family here, and my parents couldn’t afford to live on their own.
Mina’s siblings, who didn’t want to move, helped send the remaining cash she had saved up in the bank.
That, in addition to the payout from selling her marital home, was invested into my very expensive dream.
My eyes land on Mom’s smile in the photo. You could never tell she was devastated. And that her husband had left her 12 months before. Which marked the day I first found the sport.
It was a rerun of Rina Yamamoto’s Tokyo performance. Team Japan was dominating in singles skating that year, and Rina was leading the pack. My eyes were glued to the television for hours, the screen shining as if I had landed on a treasure filled with the most reflective diamonds.
Too persistent for my own good, I decided to give it a try the following morning. I landed on my butt at least 17 times.
All the while, I was told he was traveling. That dad would be coming home soon. But the days turned into weeks, which then turned into months, and mom, I recall, grew more despondent.
But I’d skate. Every single day. Then those days turned into months, which then became years of practice that began as self-taught, and through shared determination, turned professional.
I’d skate between Lake Faerieladle and the small rink in Wisteria, imagining one day, it would be me competing for The Academy at the Larsson Ice Rink. The top facility with cutting edge ice maintenance, seasoned coaches, and a seemingly feasible pathway to the Winter Olympics.
I’d learn, eventually, that pathway would resemble more of a thorny labyrinth.
And that it would cost a fortune, and then some, to compete alongside the best.
Grandma Mina refused to let me lose my opportunity, though, calling it a nonnegotiable, as she intervened and invested her entire payout from her property back home into the discipline.
Mom supported the idea, until I first sprained my knee at 8 and landed in the ER. The panic on her face, for what the doctors tried to convince her was only a mild injury, dimmed her rose-colored glasses for the sport, leaving them forever altered.
A backup plan needed to be considered and working toward a career off the ice became a dealbreaker. Meaning, if my grades weren’t in the top 1% of my class, skating would be out of the cards. Safety aside, Mom didn’t want a repeat of the financial ruin she lived through the better part of her life.
At first, it was manageable, but that all changed six years later, once my Academy invitation arrived in the mail.
With the extensive drive from Wisteria to Faerieladle, attending class nearby became another top priority, and when high school began, my mother and I moved to the cheapest street on Faerieladle’s border so that I could attend Faerieladle High, train at the Larsson Ice Rink, and eventually, be coached by Yamamoto.
Things were finally falling into place, or so it seemed.
What was supposed to be the most momentous period of my life quickly spiraled into a series of tragedies.
Grandma died, Mom lost both her jobs, and Violet was determined to make my life a living hell.
Financial aid and academic scholarships were temporary fixes, but it still wouldn’t have been enough if Coach Yamamoto, generously so, hadn’t offered to reduce her training fees.
A year older than me, Ethan Kasoff, then approached me to be partners, a memory once coated in flattery, now tarnished with disingenuity.
I plop the frame back down to the sound of her steps entering the modest dining room.
“Could you help me reach the shelf?” my mother asks.
“Yeah, of course.” I follow her into the kitchen and toward the cabinets next to the sink. Her small hands point toward the top shelf as she watches me reach it in awe.
My height, which I inherited from my father, who was allegedly over 6’5”, is a stark contrast to her height of 5’0”.
Medium olive skin, honey eyes, and espresso short locks, are also traits that didn’t reach me.
Ironically, I was told I’m an uncanny image of my dad, who Mom says she has no photos of.
The way she explained how he left us, though, never made me question her obvious lie.
Especially, with the money Grandma reserved for me that could have been hers.
Retrieving a few oval trays from the top cabinet, I hand one to her.
“Thank you,” Mariam replies with a smile. “It’s a good thing you were here. I can’t find my step stool.”
“I can get you a new one.”
“No, that’s okay, I think it’s somewhere in the garage.” Once we’ve placed the dishes onto the trays, we move back into the dining room. “Sit, sit.”
“Here, let me help you,” I offer, leaning in to embrace the ivory ceramic that’s filled with skewers of peppers, onions, and tumeric-glazed chicken.
“Thank you, azizam.” She places another kiss to my temple, while resting a silver tray garnished with Basmati rice and lima beans onto the wooden table.
“Everything looks incredible, Mom. You really shouldn’t have done all this.” Glancing at the meal for two that mimics a feast for twelve, a dash of overstimulation ripples through me.
Rolling back my shoulders, I try to brush it off.
“I know. I just didn’t know when you’d have time to come over again, so I wanted to make you a little bit of your favorite things.”
I smile in appreciation. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Well, dig in. Before it gets cold.”
In between bites, we discuss our day, starting with mom, who divulges about a rude customer who shouted at her coworker the minute she clocked into her shift. Mom recently got a new job as a handbag sales associate at a rather posh department store.
Mariam’s always been a hard worker, but with her skill level and lack of higher education that applies in this country, she’s struggled to keep each role.
Giving up was never an option for her, and something she’s instilled in me since birth.
Less transactional, more so complimentary, the jobs I’ve also accumulated over the years, have gone into funding skating and for Mom’s expenses.
“Have more.” She nudges the tray of rice my way.
I hold up a hand to my chest. “I’m full, really. I already had two plates.”
“You ate nothing. If you don’t eat enough, you will get sick.”
This, she reminds me every time I come over, and it’s not that I’m not aware.
I know how vital nutrition is, especially for figure skating.
Even when I’m not that hungry, I force myself to have the necessary nutrients required to perform adequately.
But my low appetite lately has hindered this more than I want to admit to her.
“How was your first practice with Troy?”
“It was alright,” I stretch the truth.
“That jerk, Ethan.” Anger spreads over her brows. “The nerve he had, and don’t get me started on Violet.”
I flinch in unison with the utensils she drops onto her porcelain plate.
“Don’t worry about it, Mom,” I insist. “I’ll figure it out.”
“But you shouldn’t have to.” She sighs like she wants nothing more to help but knows she can’t.
I reach my hand over hers. “With or without Ethan, I have a good feeling about the Games.”
In this moment, my white lie is worth the exhale she relaxes.
Mom nods. “I’m so proud of you, my Ana.” She squeezes my hand. “And remember, don’t share anything with Troy, either. You can’t trust any of them. Okay?”
“Okay.”
My injuries, emotions, and strategies…mom’s always advised to keep it all to myself.
Ever since the day of the backstabbing.