Page 9 of Second Chances

“I see you’re awake?” He smiles at me. He looks really young, not much older than me. Surely this can’t be my doctor. I thought they were all old men with beards and white hair. “How are you feeling?” he inquires, picking up a chart clipped to the end of my bed and starting to read it. “Any pain?”

I shake my head. I have a needle in my arm, which is connected to a syringe in a machine next to the bed. I assume that’s what’s keeping my pain at bay.

“I’m fine,” I manage to mutter.

“Good.” He turns to the nurse. “Keep the painkillers at the same level for the next twelve hours, and then slowly start to reduce them. If the pain returns, call me, and we can prescribe oral ones to go with the morphine.

Morphine.

Shit!

I must be bad if they are pumping that stuff into me.

“I’ve already spoken with your mother. The break was a complicated one. The fibula was actually worse than the tibia. You really must have twisted as you fell. We had to pretty much patch it all back together. We’ll keep an eye on it over the next few days, but I don’t think you’ll need anymore surgery.”

I let out a sigh of relief. They fixed my leg.

My mum doesn’t look as happy as I feel.

It hits me why.

“What about dancing?” I dare to ask, fearing the answer to the question because in my heart I already know what it’ll be.

“You’ll be able to dance again...but...your leg has suffered a serious trauma. Becoming a top ballet dancer, requires a great deal of hard work and additional stress on lower limbs. I’m sorry, Elena, with the damage you sustained, I don’t think your leg will hold up to that sort of exertion.”

The sensation of a gooey liquid sliding into my lap wakes me from my nightmare. I must have fallen asleep on my sofa with the ice-cream still in my hand. It’s melted and is now covering me and the plush leather seat. Jumping up, I run into the kitchen and grab a dishcloth to wipe it away before it stains. It doesn’t take me long to clear the mess up.

The TV is still playing—one of the brothers is smashing walls down and moaning about the cost of the extra work needed. I throw the dirty dishcloth on the carpeted floor, and picking up the now warm glass of Chardonnay, I drink it despite the fact it tastes awful at this temperature. A glance at the clock on my fire mantelpiece tells me it’s two in the morning. I have to be up at six for an early lesson at seven. I need to go back to sleep, but after that dream, I know it won’t come. I place the wine glass back on the table and pull up the leg of my fluffy pajamas. I still have the scars from where the metal rods were placed in my leg to hold it together. Whenever I travel, I set off the metal detectors—a permanent reminder of my failure. One stupid accident and the dream I’d worked for my whole life was taken away from me. I tried to dance professionally. I wanted to prove everyone wrong, but it didn’t happen. I’d collapse in pain at the end of the day, not able to do some of the complex moves that had been so easy before. I watched Pippa get the parts that I knew I could have done. Eventually, I gave up my dream and settled into teaching dance instead and took the required qualification. It was all I knew. If I couldn’t make it on the stage, then I was going to help someone else do it.

Getting back off the sofa, I grab the empty ice-cream tub and the dishcloth and throw them both in the bin in the kitchen. I leave my wine glass and the half empty bottle on the table—I’ll deal with them in the morning. Turning all the lights off, I head to my bathroom to do a wee and clean my teeth before throwing myself on the bed and curling up in a little ball. I need to get out of this funk I’m in. My mum always leaves me despondent after dinner with her, but this time, it feels so much worse. I can’t seem to shake my feelings of failure. It’s stupid because I’ve trained children who have gone on to join the Royal Ballet. I’ve achieved my dream through them. But it still hurts that it isn’t me up there on the stage, performing for everyone, under the lights. Just for once, it would be wonderful to have people enthralled by my performance and clap and cheer for me.

Eventually, I fall asleep, my pillow soaked with tears. You don’t get second chances in this life, and whoever says you do is a liar.

Chapter Four

Ryan

6months later

“Hurry up, you’re going to be late.”

My mother stands in front of me as I run around my kitchen trying to find my car keys. She’s holding up a plastic bag containing the lunch she made earlier for me. It feels strange, especially as I’m thirty-four and heading back to my job at MI5, but I couldn’t be more content. It’s been a long six months, but I finally feel normal again. Well, normal yet different…happy! That’s the word. I’m happy. I have a family, and I already adore them. All I’ve ever wanted is to be loved, and now I know for certain that I am.

“Ryan, get a move on.” My dad walks in the front door, his t-shirt straining over his muscular form. For a fifty year old man, he’s in top condition. I only hope I’ve inherited those genes from him.

His hands are covered with oil.

“What have you done?” My mother places the bag of sandwiches down on the counter and ushers my father over to the sink. “You’re filthy. The housekeeper spent ages cleaning yesterday. You’re not going to ruin all her hard work. Wash your hands, and don’t you dare touch our son until you’re clean. I’m not going to have you making him dirty on his first day back at work.”

“Hush, woman, or I’ll give you a count of ten later. You’re too stressed and need to calm down.” My father winks at my mother before placing his hands under the tap and cleaning the grime off them. “I was ensuring the tire pressure was correct on his car. I thought I'd check the oil level as well. Good thing I did too—it needed a top up.”

I realize then I’ve stopped looking for my keys, and I’m standing in the kitchen, watching them both. I know my father is threatening to give my mother a spanking. They are in the BDSM lifestyle together, and I should be totally grossed out by that, but I’m not. I see the love they have for each other, and it warms my heart.

“Does that mean you have my car keys?” I question my father when they both turn and see me watching them. My mother blushes.

“I do,” he replies.

I catch them when he throws them to me. Then grabbing the sandwiches off the counter, I walk over to my mum and give her a quick kiss on the cheek before going out to the car.

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