I was so keyed up and tense I'd likely burst in another second or two. "Mom, I hope the father I love best will be sitting front row center."
That's when she ran to where she could peek out and see the audience. In certain places the foots didn't blind my eyes. "He's not there," she said dismally, "nor Bart either . . ."
No time for me to answer. I heard my musical cue and danced out with the other members of the corps. Everything went just fine, with Mom up on the balcony as the beautiful doll Coppelia, lifelike enough to inspire love from afar.
But when the first act was over she was left gasping and panting for breath. She hadn't told Dad she was also dancing the role of the village girl, Swanhilda, who loved Franze even as he fell foolishly in love with a mechanical doll. Two roles for Mom-- difficult roles too as she had choreographed them. Dad certainly would have forbidden her to dance if he had known the full truth about her last dance. Had I been wrong to help her deceive him?
"Mom, how's your knee feeling?" I asked when I saw her grimace once or twice between acts.
"Jory, my knee is fine!" she said sharply, once more trying to see Dad and Bart in their seats. "Why aren't they out there? If Chris doesn't show up to see me dance for the last time, I'll never forgive him!"
I saw Dad and Bart just before the second act started. They sat in the second row, and I could tell Bart had been brought along forcibly. His lower lip pouted sullenly as he glared at the curtain that would lift and display beauty and grace--and he'd frown more. Beauty and grace did not light up Bart's life as they did mine.
Third act time. Mom and I danced together, dolls wound up by huge keys attached to our backs. Woodenly we began, limbering up our squeaky joints. The huge room where Dr. Coppelius kept his inventions was mysteriously dim, and made more dramatic by blue lights. I could tell Mom was having trouble, but she didn't miss a step as we both kept time to the music and turned on all the other mechanical toys that came alive to dance with us. "Mom, are you okay?" I asked in a whisper when we were close enough. "Sure," she said, still smiling, never doing anything but smiling, for it was supposed to be painted on.
I felt scared for her even as I admired her courage. I knew out in the audience Bart was looking at us, thinking us stupid fools and feeling jealous of our grace.
Suddenly I could tell from Mom's tight smile that she was in terrible pain. I tried to dance closer, but one of the clown dolls kept getting in my way. It was going to happen. I knew it would--just what Dad feared.
Next came a series of whirling pirouettes which would take her in a circle around the stage. To do these she had to know precisely where everyone else was located, and all the props too. When she spun near me I reached out to keep her on balance before she whirled on by. Oh, golly, I couldn't stand to watch. Then I saw she was going to make it; pain or not, she'd dance without falling. Joyfully now, I bounded into the air and landed on one knee as I playfully proposed marriage to the doll of my dreams. Then my heart jumped. One of the ribbons of her points had come undone!
"Your ribbons, Mom, watch out for your left shoe ribbon!" I called above the music, but she didn't hear. The dragging ribbon was stepped on by another dancer. Mom was thrown off balance. She put out her arms to steady herself and might have succeeded in doing this--but I saw her painted-on smile turn into a silent shriek of pain as her knee gave way and down she went. Right in the center of the stage.
People in the audience screamed. Some stood up to see better. We on the stage went right on dancing as the manager came out and carried Mom backstage. Her back-up whirled onto the stage, and the ballet went on.
At last the curtain descended. I didn't wait to take any bows. I couldn't get to Mom fast enough. Terribly afraid, I raced up to where Dad held her in his arms while ambulance men in white suits were feeling her legs to find out if one or both might be broken.
"Chris, did I do all right?" she was asking, though pain had made her face very pale. "I didn't really louse up the show, did I? You did see Jory and I in our pas de deux?"
"Yes, yes," he said, kissing her face all over and looking so tender as he helped lift her onto a stretcher. "You and Jory were magnificent. I've never seen you dance better--and Jory was brilliant."
"And this time I didn't have to bleed on my feet," she whispered before she closed her eyes wearily, "I only had to break a leg."
What she said didn't make much sense. I turned my thoughts to the look on Bart's face as he stared at her. He seemed to be glad, almost gloating. Was I being unfair to him? Or was it guilt I saw in his eyes?
I sobbed as Mom was lifted onto a stretcher and put in an ambulance that would drive her and Dad to the nearest hospital. Melodie's father promised he'd drop me off at the hospital, then drive Bart home safely. "Though I'm sure Melodie wishes it was Jory who'd go home, and Bart who'd insist on staying with his mother in the hospital."
Much later Mom awakened from the sedatives given her to stare at the flowers filling her room. "Why, it looks like a garden," she breathed. She smiled weakly at Dad, stretching out her arms to embrace him and then me. "I know you're going to say I told you so, Chris. But until I fell, I did dance well, didn't I?"
"It was your slipper ribbon," I said, anxious to protect her from his anger. "If it hadn't loosened you wouldn't have fallen."
"My leg isn't broken, is it?" she asked Dad.
"No, darling, just torn ligaments and some broken cartilage that was repaired during the operation." Then he sat on the edge of her bed and gravely told her every detail of her injury, which wasn't as minor as she wanted to believe.
Mom reflected aloud: "I really can't understand how that ribbon could come loose. I always carefully sew on the ribbons myself, not trusting anyone else . . ." she paused, staring into space.
"Where are you hurting now?"
"Nowhere," she flared as if annoyed. "Where's Bart? Why didn't he come with you?"
"You know how Bart is. He hates hospitals and sick people, just as much as he hates everything else. Emma's taking good care of him and Cindy. But we want you home soon, so do what your doctor and nurses tell you--and don't be so damned stubborn you won't listen or obey."
"What's wrong with me?" she asked, alerted as I was. I sat up straighter, feeling something was about to slam down on all of us.
"Your knee is in bad shape, Cathy. Without going into specifics, you are going to
have to sit in a wheelchair until some torn ligaments heal."