A Time To Dance Part 8

And even when he says kiddo, I stop minding.

Because whether he says kiddo or ma'am in his teasing tone, the corners of his eyes crinkle, and I feel singled out and special.

FAMILY DISTANCES.

Two of Pa's cousins whom we rarely see come all the way from Bangalore city, a half-day train ride away.

They say they're sorry about my accident, then talk politely with Pa and Paati about other relatives.

Ma's family probably doesn't even know I'm hurt.

Paati told me they disowned Ma when she married Pa, even though he was Brahmin and they were a lower caste, because he was a poor librarian with no prospects of getting rich, and they were wealthy.

Ma never speaks about them.

Her diamond earrings are all we have to remind us of them and their riches.

MY.

Last

VISITOR.

After Pa's cousins leave, someone I expect even less appears: my former rival, Kamini.

Holding a big bunch of red zinnias.

Why is she here?

To gloat over my crutches?

Hands shaking, she thrusts the zinnias in my face.

"For you," she says, pointing out the obvious.

I'm so shocked I open and shut my mouth twice, fish-like, then manage to mumble, "Thanks."

"So- so- sorr-rry," Kamini stammers.

What's Kamini scared of? She's the one with a sharp tongue.

My tongue's never been quick enough to answer back.

My foot won't outpace her feet anytime soon.

"Sorry," she repeats, looking so uncomfortable I start feeling more sorry for her than irritated.

"Kamini? Not your fault."

Her face contorts as though she's being tortured.

She stumbles on her way out of the room, leaving me wondering why she came.

"Your friend?" my roommate asks.

"Nice red zinnias she brought."

"Not my friend." I consider tossing the flowers into the wastebasket where I threw our dance teacher's torn-up card.

But Kamini actually visited, which is more than Uday anna did.

As we're not exactly friends, and seeing how she was shaking the entire time, it must have been hard for her to come.

Kamini's flowers deserve better treatment than our dance teacher's worthless card.

I put the red zinnias on the side table between my roommate's bed and mine so she can enjoy them.

DISCHARGE.

Dr. Murali removes most of my bandages.

My cuts and bruises are healing.

He says I can go home with my right leg still bound, st.i.tches still in.

"Maintain good posture.

Bad habits are hard to break," Jim reminds.

He guides me one last time, up and down a flight of stairs and through the corridor.

He stays at my side.

I hobble behind Ma, Pa, and Paati, glad I'll soon be free of innumerable pairs of nurses' eyes.

Scared I won't be near Jim's caring arms, won't hear him say, every day, "You're doing great."

Near the main doors, I see two nurses, heads together, sharing my story in too-loud voices.

"She was a dancer, that one."

As though I'm a star in some sad soap opera.

Not "was."

Am. Am. Am.

I move past the nurses, my crutches tick-tocking on the tiles like the pendulum of an old clock.

Not quite a dance rhythm.

Yet.

RETURNING.

to

NORMAL.

Squashed between Paati and Ma in the backseat of a taxi speeding farther and farther away from the hospital, my stomach shrinks fist-tight with fear as a bus overtakes us, pa.s.sing so close by I could touch it if I reached out the window.

My palms feel wet.

Sweat, just sweat. Not blood.

A lorry honks, coming at us, speeding on the wrong side of the road.

Dust clouds fly into my eye through the open window.

The smoke makes me gag.

I tense, though I feel Paati's fingers ma.s.saging the back of my neck, trying to calm me.

I hear Ma say, "Please drive slower. Be careful."

"Don't worry, madam.

Ten years I've been driving in Chennai city traffic."

The driver screeches to a halt in the middle of the concrete jungle where we live.

Our apartment building looks unwelcoming as I enter.

Clutching my crutches, I stand at the bottom step, thinking through the motions of climbing on crutches.

Feeling alone. Frightened.

Far from Jim's encouraging voice.

Missing his strength, his support.

Missing the safety of the hospital.

Pa says, "Veda, would it be easier if you leaned on me and left your crutches behind?"

Maybe, but I say, "No."

Ma pulls anxiously on an earlobe.

Her diamonds scatter the sunlight.