Page 9 of The Favorites
Narrator:After revealing her pregnancy, Sheila Lin retreated from the public eye. Though she hadn’t announced her retirement, most assumed she wouldn’t return to competition.
In a series of paparazzi photos, Sheila pushes a double stroller down a city street.
Kirk Lockwood:We didn’t speak for months. When she finally got back in touch and said she wanted to start training for the ’88 Games, I almost told her to fuck off. Excuse my language. But c’mon—she thought I was waiting around for her? Well, I guess I kind of was, but that’s not the point.
Sheila laces up her skates at the Lockwood Performance Center, staring at the ice with fierce determination.
Kirk Lockwood:I figured, quit while you’re ahead, right? But she was so sure we could win again. And if Sheila Lin wanted something? Only an idiot would try to stand in her way.
Chapter 7
The next morning, the ache in my hip was worse. I told myself it was from the motel mattress springs stabbing into me as I tried to sleep through the combined noise of the highway traffic and the most definitelynotfaked cries of pleasure coming from the room next door.
I turned the shower as hot as it would go and stretched under the stream, willing my muscles to loosen. The first event started in the late morning and would be over by mid-afternoon, then I’d have the whole rest of the day to take it easy and recover.
In those days, ice dance competitions kicked off with the compulsory dance, where all teams had to perform the same exact steps—by far my least favorite event; unfortunately, the skating Powers That Be didn’t do away with it until near the end of my career. The original dance, which allowed teams to put their own spin on each season’s required dance style, was better, but I much preferred the final event, the free dance. There, we could choose whatever music and choreography we wanted.
After a scalding shower and lots of warm-up stretches, I made it through our compulsory Quickstep program without too much trouble. I wasn’t able to swing my leg as high as usual, but Heath adjusted his turns so we still had matching lines. Not our best performance, but enough to put us in seventh place.
It wasn’t until the next day, when I was getting dressed for the original, that I noticed the bruise. We didn’t have the funds for fancycostumes, so Heath wore the same nondescript black shirt and trousers for all three programs, while I had one more elaborate dress I saved for the free. My costume for the compulsory and original dances was plain black velvet with spaghetti straps and a slit up the leg—a slit that perfectly framed the furious purple splotch spreading from my hip down toward my knee.
“That looks bad,” Heath said.
“At least we match now,” I pointed out.
I’d been able to conceal the worst of the damage to Heath’s eye, but all the Cover Girl in the world wasn’t going to make the mark on my leg go away. It was obvious even through my thickest tights. My free dance costume was longer—a structured bodice over a gauzy, shredded skirt; I’d DIY’d it from a thrift store prom dress—so I put that on instead, ignoring the sparks of pain that lit up my thigh every time the skirt swished.
The required style for the original dance was Latin ballroom, and our program was a Rhumba to the old standard “Perhaps Perhaps Perhaps”—a mash-up of the Desi Arnaz version and a cover by the band Cake to provide the changes in musical character and tempo the judges wanted to see from a well-balanced program.
Later in our career, the Latin dances would become something of a specialty for us, since they made such good use of our natural chemistry (and plenty of the officials thought Heath had Latin heritage, an assumption he didn’t bother correcting if it boosted our scores). We weren’t as polished back then, but Latin was still one of our best styles. While the Quickstep relied on sharp, controlled movements, the Rhumba required formal carriage in the upper body and more exaggerated, sensual movements in the lower.
Not an ideal combination in my condition. Seconds into our program, Heath could sense how much pain I was in—and I could sense how desperately he wanted to stop and make sure I was all right.
We couldn’t stop. If we stopped, it was all over. So I let the momentum of the steps carry me, and we made it through. As we skated to the boards, Heath looped his arm around my waist, and he kept it there during the walk to the kiss and cry area to wait for our scores. He knew I wouldn’t want anyone to see me limp. Especially not the Lins, who were about to take the ice as part of the final warm-up group.
By the time we made it back to the motel that night, it was snowing so hard we almost drove right past the flickering neonVacancysign. And I was in so much agony, I couldn’t get out of the car without Heath’s help. He had to carry me over the threshold like a bride.
While he trudged through snowdrifts to the drugstore across the street, I lay prone on the bed, listening to the wind rattle the flimsy windowpanes and silently panicking.
The sixth-place team had stumbled during their twizzle sequence, and by the end of the original dance, we found ourselves in fifth—right behind Ellis Dean and his partner, Josephine Hayworth. One more event to go, and we were within striking distance of the podium. We’d only have to advance a single spot, since they awarded a pewter medal for fourth place finishers at Nationals in addition to the usual bronze, silver, and gold.
The worst of the pain was coiled around my hip socket, but even the smallest movement sent it slithering out to attack the rest of me. My mother’s ring was typically loose on my finger. Now my hands were so swollen, I couldn’t get it past my knuckle.
Heath returned with snow caked on his eyelashes, bearing Tylenol, a jar of Tiger Balm, and a bag of ice. He alternated between the cold of the ice, the heat of his hands, and the balm’s strange combination of both. Nothing helped.
I hated being taken care of like that, nursed like a helpless child. I’d only let Heath do it once before.
The day my father died.
He always picked us up from the rink on his way home from the college where he taught history. When he failed to show that evening, I told myself he must have forgotten, gotten distracted and lost track of time. As children, Lee and I would often find him sitting in the same place for hours, staring at the wallpaper like he hoped to see our mother’s face in the pattern. It was unspeakably sad, and so we never spoke about it.
Since Heath had come to live with us, though, my father had been better. More present. He even arrived at the rink early sometimes and sat in the stands, watching us skate and chatting with the other parents—who were all mothers rather than fathers. Those womenadoredhim. I suppose he had a certain awkward, absentminded-professor charm.
Nicole let me use the phone in the back office to call him, but there was no answer at his campus number. After an hour had gone by, she gave up and drove us home herself. The house looked dark, but as we drew closer, I saw a single light burning. In my father’s study.
A strange mix of anger and relief swirled through me. I’d been right, he’d forgotten about us. So when we came through the front door, instead of calling out a greeting, I glanced at Heath and laid a finger over my lips. We tiptoed down the hallway.
All we wanted was to sneak up on him, give him a little fright. A petty prank, to pay him back. He’d shout, and then he’d laugh, and we’d be even. He would fix us something to eat—frozen waffles, or macaroniand cheese from a box; my father’s cooking repertoire was not extensive—and he’d let Heath pick dinner music from the record collection. We’d sit around the table talking, like a normal family.
