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he hears her mutter at him, barely awake and reaching for him. words which fall on deaf ears, hand left reaching for a ghost—she figures as much, at least. patterns she’s come to terms with. still, she tries. she grabs his forearm, feels the wrap of bandages around it. (were she any more awake, she’d bother to huff at him. burns that have gotten bad enough to warrant actual care. maybe she should just be grateful he’s actually looking after the open sores that litter his arms. ‘they’ll get infected if you leave them out like that. give me your arm.’ what a miracle it is that he's lived this long.) she squeezes her hand, just for the moment, before letting go. she always has to let go.
sometimes she wonders if he sleeps at all. the nights he’ll follow her to bed will always be too many hours later, and he’ll always be awake by the time she is. the nights he doesn’t come are worse. left in a bed too big for just herself, in a house still so foreign to her, in a country she can’t yet call her own no matter how much she might wish to. a reminder, forever and always, that she’s alone.
(where do you go, when you leave for those nights? he doesn’t answer her. ashamed. [ afraid. ] as if she doesn’t see the blood washed from his hands in the early hours of the morning and the hours he spends away from home. where are you sleeping? can i come with you? maybe if i wake up earlier i’ll catch you on your way out. maybe if i wake up earlier i’ll catch you on your way home. but it’s like keeping up with a moving train. the further she moves to meet him, the farther he gets.)
tonight feels no different from every other night. he leans down to leave a kiss to her head. no plans to tell her where he’s going or what he’s doing. he could be gone for hours, he could be gone for days. she hopes it’s the former. she always misses him when he’s gone. (how embarrassing it was, the first time she cried over his departure. left comforted by a child who acts three times her age. it’s normal, with him. but my dear, must it be normal at all?) their time spent together rarely feels so long. he’s a busy man, she tells herself. why does he have so much to do, when he fears always to do it? how she longs to reach out across the ice, to grab him and hold him close and tell him to stay.
he will never stay.
a sigh fills the languid morning air. the door opens and closes. she knows he’s gone.
she may as well sit up for the sunrise. her mind reaches to reminisce on similar early mornings, watching the break of dawn light the frozen pond in majesty. she cuts at the ice with her skates—she was a child still, but she remembers how she loved that pair to pieces. it took everything from her mother to afford them; she would wear them until she was begged to try a pair anew. how kind the days were, before…
or perhaps they never were. her mother’s scolding tone catches her off-guard even in her memories. harsh. demanding. you will never escape this life if you keep falling like that. oh but mama, must it be up to me to do so? can we not merely skate together on the ice, smiling and laughing and enjoying the gift of the sun and the moon and the water? witless daydreams. she must focus her dreams on her success. there is nothing else she can do. there is nothing else she is allowed to do.
it is never so cold here, even in the nights and mornings. she laments it sometimes, to his willing ear. he tells her they can visit the cold of the mountains, when he next has time. they all know they won’t. (he doesn’t even like the cold. she couldn’t believe him, when he told her they never see snow here. how could they not? is the blanket of snow in the winter not a blessing to all? a comfort that the seasons pass even when it seems like time will never move again. it is like tearing the shell from a turtle, to leave her in such heat. she will survive it nonetheless.) one would think him cold, abandoning his sister, his lover, so frequently. so silently. but her hands are like ice, basking in his heat. she thinks, were he not so hidden by the moon, the sun would prove warmer too. but she is not naïve enough to presume herself capable of moving the moon. so she will merely enjoy the few rays she is allowed, in the time and space she is given for it. he will not melt her ice. she will not freeze his fire. to hold and be held is something altogether new for them both. (he fears it, she knows. but she is patient as the glaciers, withstanding the trial of time. they will meet in the middle someday. she is sure of it.)
to leave the warmth of their shared blankets is to lose what she had left of him. the day begins. she wakes alone. dawn breaks, and her heart no longer shatters in the silence. naomi doesn’t need to be escorted to school, she was told. nonsense. even now, she will walk the child to school herself. (she does not believe, when naomi tells her of the eyes in the distance. watching from afar. it is dangerous to believe that your brother will protect you when you are on your own. friction: she will never understand.) but that is how they all are, isn’t it. a family cursed to secrecy. words never spoken to keep bonds unbroken. what are they all so afraid of? is she scared, too?
she’ll find the child making food for herself. never enough for two. a family so close yet so distant. but the coffee machine is already on, and she must wonder if she is truly fitting her way into what it is they have. routine. a world built on cycles. does it have room to add another step in their plan? they do not talk often—what words are shared rarely breach the topic of anything serious. books and homework and classes. home and school and library. it is only with her intervention that the ice rink has been added to that list (subject still to books and homework and classes. the child is just as busy as her brother, despite them living worlds apart. what are they so afraid of?) the walk to school is silent. they are both used to the stares. they share a hug—routine—before she is left on her own for far too long.
she’s been counting the days. counting the time she’s been able to stay. counting the time before she has to leave. each month each week each day each hour each minute each second is precious. precious, precious freedom she has never once been afforded before. is it really freedom if it’s subject to the sand filling the bottom of the hourglass. she doesn’t want to think about it. about the details of her stay. about the truth of her leave. about the reality that threatens to destroy what little she’s earned for herself for once in her life. she leaves that thought on the ground of the locker room. what a tacky little spot this is, decorated for children. it is her home away from home.
he is not nearly so perfect. no, he is more mistake than man. but she cannot help but love him. she cannot help but love him. grand gestures of meaningless romance. she said it was too much, when he booked out the rink for her alone throughout the time of her stay. he winked at her, eyes barely meeting hers, and said she needed it, if she was going to practice with american coaches in her time here. not so much a lie, she would come to realize, when offers came running to the rink rather than their door. but at least, for once, she could choose. she could do as she pleased, with time that was hers. a schedule not filled to the brim with lessons with practice with rehearsal. time for herself, as she always wished she could have. (what good is it, to spend it all alone.) how much of it was his gift to her? how much would he offer her if she only asked?
“Anything.” he promised her once, with that soft smile that holds the weight of so much sorrow behind it.
“Will you stay?” it’s all she could ask for. all she could want. it’s temporary, don’t you see? we only have this time now. don’t lose it before it can start.
“I will, when it’s over.”
useless. meaningless words that promise nothing but a future she knows will never come true. lies through sharp teeth (she has dreamt once that he’d eat her alive, like a beast devouring its prey. but in the morning, he was only holding her close, breath quiet and steady. not quite asleep, but proof enough that he was mere man.) she is not so naïve as to trust him, but maybe, just maybe, if she lied enough to herself as well, she could see it come true one day. her perfect soldier, so scarred and flawed, returning from eternal war to lift her up and tell her he’s home for the final time.
she would be stupid to believe it might be true.
she cannot do anything but believe it can be true.
the world spins around her as she tumbles. fallen off-beat, she sinks to the ground. is her focus so weak? work, gustava. you must work to attain what you want. if you do not get it, it is because you did not work hard enough. you did not perform well enough. you did not try—
she is slow to get up. not for physical pain, but emotional. how tormented she must be, to be jeered at by those who live now a world away from her. how pitiful, that she cannot even think for herself anymore. she can only sigh. the piece in the background… had stopped. she fears the worst for the cheap cassette player. she does not think of how her fall must not be her fault, if the music stopped on its own. no, all she can think of is how she would hate to burden him upon his return with a request for a new one.
when she presses play, she doesn’t so much as glance at the machine. she expects it, wills it to play. that she might skate off to the familiar tune, with no worry for the future or what it might hold.
she gets only a step before it stops again. anxiety which begets frustration. she stops in front of the machine this time, with intention to tear it apart and put it back together should she have to. she doesn’t expect so much to see anyone behind it. or, by other definitions, beneath it. hiding behind the wall.
“Childish.” she can get no other words out. there he sits, looking up at her with nothing but adoration in his soft grey eyes. without touching the cassette player this time, she merely turns her head, sharp—defiant, and skates back onto the ice.
he kneels, then, head only just popping over the wall at the edge of the rink. he does not deny it. he doesn’t so much as say anything, content to only watch her, as he did when they met those all those months ago. she is used to the stares. but his is not so much of a stare. he watches her, sees her, pierces his sight through each layer of her. as if he could know her from only a glance… it is more than judgement. more than adoration. there is something special, to being known.
she is no damsel in distress. she works for all that she can have. his english has a bite to it. she doesn’t mind. so does hers. (again, gustava. they will want to interview you in english, and you will need to be able to speak for yourself.) she doesn’t mind, when all that he says comes true. she doesn’t mind when he whisks her away to america with soft words and sweet looks. (he says your eyes are beautiful. you can’t be sure he’s ever looked at them.) is it so wrong, to want a break from all the work your life requires?
“You are back soon.” she sounds discontented with him. they both know how overjoyed her heart is to see him.
he devours her in his gaze. silent. waiting. stalking. prowling. “It was a false alarm.” words as smooth as butter, spoken by a voice cut by a jagged knife. “They let me go early.” she will never know if it’s the truth. she knows better than to ask.
she huffs. cutting off her routine as it approaches his spot along the wall. she stares down at him. he will never be intimidated. “Will you stay?” it is all she asks. every time. she prays for the day he will say yes and nothing else with it.
“As long as I can.” never a yes. never long enough. it is all they have. he kisses her hand, settled on the top of the railing. grand gestures of meaningless romance. she can’t help but smile. a crack in that icy veneer.
she looks away, embarrassed for the emotion. “What time do we have?” before they have to pick naomi up. before they have to leave. before he has to leave. before she has to leave. how much time do they have before the world keeps turning.
ah, his smile never seems to quite fit his mouth. clumsy in expression, she finds it endearing. “You haven’t eaten yet.” lunch, he implies. she always loses track of time on the ice. it’s the only place she truly can. has he been watching her for long enough to know that she hasn’t? or does he merely know it of her anyway? he always seems to know…
“I haven’t.” an admittance, stubborn as she might be. her figure is important, as a dancer. she must always be careful, must always be aware of how she looks. how she presents. how the world sees her.
he doesn’t care about all that, though. “Come with me.” he says it so softly she can only hear it as a plea. “I had something I wanted to try…”
can he do anything but lie? maybe not. she takes his hand off the ice. she lets him escort her from the only place she’s known. it no longer matters if he lies. she will hold onto him as the only true hope she has in this bitter, god-forsaken world. it is all she has left. she can’t go back to the life she knew before now. it would hurt too much. even if this might all be a lie, at least she might find happiness in it, as long as it might last.