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But they all lead to something, and just as I’m starting to believe my own lies, someone from the auditorium comes in and tells us it’s time to go on.
The shuffle of feet sounds like a stampede of elephants as I step in with the rest of the orchestra and make our way down the carpeted hallway towards the stage.
I say a silent prayer in my head that it will all go okay. I try not to ask God for much, I know I don’t give much back. But at moments like this, I make an exception.
I’m wearing my crucifix – that has to count for something right? I press my hand against where it sits under my shirt for luck.
Everything is already set up on the stage. I eye the music stands and chairs while we wait for a second in the wings for someone to introduce us.
I don’t dare look out at the audience, not that I’d be able to see them under the bright spotlights. I know my parents are there. Probably Maria and Ari too. Ari will be bored and playing with his phone, unless Baba made him turn it off. Then he’ll be even more pissed. I try to focus on that while we’re being introduced. But it doesn’t work.
My chest feels so tight, I can’t breathe. I clutch at my tie, my hands cramping. Voices fade into the background around me and now I’m sure I’m about to pass out.
People are moving around me. Someone puts a hand on my back and gives me a gentle push, but my feet are grounded to the floor. My legs are two strings of spaghetti.
I hear a familiar voice close to my ear, saying my name.
“Stef? Steffy?”
Opening my mouth to speak, nothing comes out. But in my head, I’m telling them, “I can’t, I can’t do this.”
I drop my violin. Hear the wood shatter on the floor. And then I’m down there with it, grasping for air, unable to breathe.
26
ALEXEI
Papa’s there when the doctor comes in with the x-rays and gives me the news I’d been expecting since I felt that pop.
The same as last time. A grade 5 AC joint separation. Surgery required. Recovery time - four to six months.
It wasn’t a surprise, but I still get a sick feeling in my stomach when she says it.
I have five months left before graduation. Less than one to the Frozen Four play-offs. None of which I’ll see now.
Like he hasn’t heard a word she said, Papa asks her when I’ll be fit to play hockey again.
She answers him patiently. “If all goes well with surgery, he should be back on the ice in around four to six months, but he’ll be able to train before then, and he’ll need to undergo a rigorous physiotherapy routine to make sure he keeps as much mobility in that arm as possible.”
Papa frowns at her like he doesn’t understand a word of English. “But, it’s the play-offs next month.”
“I’m sorry, there’s no way he’ll be fit for that.”
I give her an apologetic smile and she nods, like she gets it. She sees things like this in the E.R every day.
When she leaves us alone, Papa gets up and starts pacing the room. I can practically hear his brain working.
“It’ll be okay,” he says in Russian. “This isn’t the end of the world. So you have to go in as a free agent. In six months, you’ll be finished with college and we can work on getting an agent and a try-out with minor-league teams. You just have to work your way up again. It’ll be a lot of hard work, but we can do it.”
I’m too tired to argue with him. Too wrung out and… disappointed isn’t even the word. I thought I could only lose everything once. I didn’t realize it could happen twice.
And this time, I didn’t just lose hockey.
When I think about what my heart hurts the most over, Stef wins hands down.
“It’ll be okay son.” He squeezes my good shoulder and I nod, forcing back the tears in my eyes.
Babushka brings Dasha in after school. She does her homework in a chair next to my bed while I watch TV with the sound turned right down. I don’t want to talk to anyone and she doesn’t try to make me. Her presence alone makes me feel a little bit better though.