We land in Colorado and it's mid-day. I'm so strung out on Percocet that I'm starting to hallucinate. I remind myself to try to take smaller doses from now on.
A motorized vehicle meets us at the gate and takes us to baggage claim, where we meet up with another airline representative who handles the bags as my parents push my wheelchair to their car.
The sky in Denver is gray and overcast – perfectly reflecting my mood at the moment. Snow blankets the city.
Getting from the wheelchair into my parents' car takes about a half hour. I still can't put any weight on my knee and my bandaged ribs make it hard to bend into a seated position easily. I manage to get inside and buckled in. My dad drives and my mom rides in the back.
"Are you hungry?" my mom asks. I say, "No. I just really want my bed."
"We'll be home soon," my dad says. Not soon enough I think.
I lean my head back on the headrest and close my eyes the rest of the way. Once we get home, it's another half hour getting out of the car and into the house. I collapse in my childhood bed. I fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow.
I wake up a few hours later. It's dark outside and my head feels fuzzy. I look out my window at the Colorado horizon. Vail Mountain stares back under the moonlight – taunting me. The stars fill the night sky. My eyes quickly find the Dog Star shining brightly. I imagine Lainey's face, bathed in moonlight, as she's gazing up at it. I remember her smile as she taught me the star's history. The star twinkles brighter at me, as if it's trying to tell me something. Maybe Lainey's right – there's more to life than what I'm doing today.
The next morning, my parents take me to meet the surgeon. He seems competent enough. Working in Colorado, he's had to do many ACL reconstructions due to skiing. He tries to sound positive but I'm not really listening. My head is still in a fog – nothing is clear to me at the moment. I tell him I'd like to have the surgery as soon as possible. I want to forget about this entire experience. We set a day for next month for the surgery. In the meantime, I need to rest and let my ribs heal. No skiing for the foreseeable future.
This means lying around my parents' home, watching TV. Being homebound makes me even more depressed. I check my Twitter feed later that day and see that the downhill is about to start. I turn on the Olympics and read all of the tweets at the same time. I feel like I'm there. It's hard to believe I was just there, less than twenty-four hours ago.
I watch a few skiers from other countries navigate the course I was just training on. I note their triumphs and mistakes. I start to see areas of improvement in the skiers' forms. I want to remember this and talk to the coaches about some training exercises we can implement.
John's turn comes up. I watch him at the starting gate. I see him shaking his head and moving his skis back and forth compulsively. Come on John. Concentrate. He breathes and grabs his poles, planting them in front of him. The countdown ends and he's off.
"Yes!" No hesitation. "That's my boy! Ha ha!"
I watch him traverse the course in a perfect line. He comes to the turn where I crashed and he carves it perfectly. Nice going John. I couldn't have done it better. The announcers are going crazy. He's going close to 85 miles an hour – faster than the other skiers. If he stays tight the rest of the way, he has this. Towards the bottom he hits a jump where he flies over 200 feet. He reaches the bottom and takes the lead. He's got gold! I get so excited I tweak my ribs and crumble in pain.
As I lie still hoping for the pain in my ribs to ease, the competition breaks for commercial and Lainey appears on screen. I watch as she does a sit spin. I want to reach out and touch her. Part of me wonders if I should have stayed? The other says I did the right thing. Right or wrong, it's done. I'm home and there's no turning back.
Time flies and a couple of days go by. This morning my mother helps me clean up and wash my hair. I was getting used to the grease slick that had become my hair. Neither of us speaks as she wipes me down – I think the mere fact that my mother has to help me clean myself is punishment enough for my recent behavior. After I put on clean clothes, we head to the doctor so he can re-bandage my ribs. The entire afternoon is spent in silence, neither one of us knowing what to say. We get home and I crash on the couch while my mom turns on the television in her bedroom. I overhear the announcement of the ladies' figure skating short program.
I can't help but turn on the TV in the living room. The skaters are warming up. I spot Lainey – she's in a pretty blue and silver dress. She practices a few different jumps. I can't take my eyes off her. I wish I were there.
The skaters exit the ice and one by one they perform for the judges. Lainey's up next. She skates out onto the empty ice. She looks so tiny on the massive rink. She gets into her starting position. The music begins and her whole body comes alive.
I move to the edge of my seat. Like the first time I watched her skate, I see her gain speed and the judges forecast that she's preparing to do a double axel but I see a determined look on her face. I'm pretty sure she's getting ready to do a triple. Come on Lainey. You can do it.
She skates backwards and turns to jump and we all see her go 1, 2 then 3 and a half times around. She did it but then she lands and falls back onto the ice. I let out a "No!" My stomach drops. She stands and I note a slight limp in her right leg – her landing leg and the hip that she's been nursing for months now.
My mom comes out of her room and into the living room. She takes a seat next to me and we watch Lainey go through the rest of her program, perfectly executing jump after jump, spin after spin, but something's missing. It's as if all the joy had escaped from her eyes. She ends the program with a nice spin combination and as soon as she's done, she lifts her injured leg like a cat would do if she had hurt her paw. She gives two quick curtsies and rushes off the ice, mainly using her good leg.
"She's very talented. I hope she's going to be okay," my mom says.
"She's tough. She'll bounce back."
"It's not as easy as you think. Look at you."
"She didn't tear her ACL."
"I'm not talking about your ACL," she says. "I'm talking about your heart. You love that woman. It's as plain as day."
"She's better off without me."
"Says who? You? You are not in any position to judge what's right for her. If she loves you, then you take that love and you cherish it. You don't question it. You honor her choice to love you. In return, you hold on tight and love her with all your heart and never let go. It's your only option."
"I've already ruined it."
"Love doesn't get ruined. It gets buried. You just have to dig it back out again. I'm guessing it's just beneath the surface right now. I don't think you'll have to dig very far."
I grab my mom's hand, feeling a wave of emotion run through me. Lately, tears have been flowing so easily. She tightens her hand around mine. Eventually, I manage to say in a whisper, "How did you get to be so wise Mom?"
"All mothers are wise. We just don't like to rub it in." We both laugh.
"So what are you waiting for?" she asks.
"What do you mean?"
"I see a woman who needs the man she loves during the biggest moment of her life."
YOU ARE READING
Olympic Conquest
Romance"You already are the person I want you to be. I see so much more in you that you won't allow yourself to see." Lainey is on her way to her first and probably only Olympics. At twenty-two, she has finally made the U.S. Figure Skating Team after yea...
