THURSDAY: Ice

BY MARCIA WILLIAMS

Copyright is held by the author.

SILVER BLADES met Wednesdays at Missoula’s Glacier Ice Rink. For three dollars each, those fifty-five and older reigned. That mid-October day, I toted my skates; carried keys, driver’s license, and handkerchief in one jacket pocket; lip balm and three dollar bills in another. Not wanting to risk damaging my phone, I’d left it at home. The Zamboni vroomed around shaving the ice and misting the surface. Our handful of adults would have an hour of perfectly groomed ice to ourselves.

Skates on, I stood behind the plexiglass on the interlocking black rubber floor mats and watched the machine rumble. The cold air smelled faintly of chlorine. At 9:45 they unlatched the gate. I stepped over the wooden sill — sliced by other blades — into the rink. Ice is slick. After resurfacing, it’s even slicker, no sheet of glass — more like a sheet of glass lubricated with oil. The speakers broadcast songs I’d skated to in 1980s Tennessee, Total Eclipse of the Heart and Time after Time. I skated, increasingly comfortable with the speed, glancing at the ads — banks, real estate agents, physical therapists, and orthopedists.

Clockwise and counter-clockwise, forward and backward, the skritch of blades and swish of air were both constant and contemplative. Skating backwards practicing crossovers, each time a blade dug in, its edge grated the ice and the quickness of those sounds served as an aural speed indicator.

I’d learned to skate as a child on Beechmont Lake in New York, but the first time I skated here was Thanksgiving Sunday. Gaggles of children. Throngs of people. Tentative skaters. Hockey players weaving through, imaginary sticks in hand, stopping with swift twists spewing shavings. Pucks of ice boomeranged around the rink’s badly gouged surface. After I tripped and hit the ice, I called it a day. I’d fallen in Tennessee learning jumps and spins. That tumble seemed unremarkable, though it cracked a rib.

Montana had opened my life: marriage to Jerome; adopting our Labrador, Belle; backpacking, snowshoeing, cross-country skiing, and bicycle travel. Weather reports might call for fire, something I hadn’t considered weather, and fog might last a week, closing the airport. Peaches ripened in September not June. Hardware store shopping lists simultaneously included wasp traps and ice melt. Deer, moose, bears, and mountain lions tracked into town.

Engaged in my reverie, I skated backwards, my right arm extended in my direction of travel, my left foot raised. Then, my skate slipped from under me. My legs rose in line with my torso before, like a capeless Superman, I flew briefly, dropped onto my right side, and, adhering to Newton’s laws, slid to a stop.

Andrée was over first, “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Do you need help?” Don was there, too.

“No. Just give me a minute.” They hovered until I stood up.

Don said, “Do you need a ride?”

“No, I have my car.” I was pleased I hadn’t ridden my bicycle.

I glided to the exit on my good leg dragging the other skate’s toe picks, caught my hands on the rails, swung myself across the threshold, and walked to a wooden bench. Untied the left skate’s bow. Unlaced the four pairs of upper hooks. Bent in half and wrenched the skate off. Deep breath. Then the right skate. Same process, more pain. Deep breaths. I loosened the laces of my running shoes before slipping each foot in.

Don returned. “Sure you don’t need a ride?” Was I already blue-lipped and ashen?

“You are so sweet to offer. I am fine, thank you.”

Pushing myself up, I hobbled to my car. The right leg tweaked when I stepped on it. Popped open the standard transmission Subaru and chucked my skates to the passenger floor. Tried to raise my right leg, but it wouldn’t go. I lifted myself onto the seat with my hands. My right leg wouldn’t swing around, either, so I manually positioned it on the brake. The left leg worked. Left foot on clutch, right on brake, I shut the door, started the car, and shifted into reverse.

Except. Except my right foot wouldn’t twitch, let alone go from the brake to the accelerator. I could move it there only by lifting it with my hands. How absurd to take my hands off the gear shift, off the steering wheel, to move a leg between the brake and accelerator, even for the mile-and-a-half I had to cover? Still, I needed to cowgirl up and get my sorry ass home. After backing the car up, I shifted into second gear, from which I could start, drive, and stop. This minimized the need to remove my hands from control of the vehicle. I could always grab the emergency brake.

The closest parking space was four lots from our home. I’d have called Jerome, but, I still didn’t have my phone. I scanned the distance in the rear view mirror, opened the car door, and swung my left leg out. Manually lifted my right leg to join its partner. Pushed myself up and stood on my good leg. Only when the right bore weight did it tweak. Step. Shut the door. Popped the keys and beep it locked. Weight on the right leg, oh my. Hobbled to our house, scaled three steps at the sidewalk, and another five to the door. Holding the railing, I rang the bell.

Jerome answered quickly, puzzled since I had my keys.

“My crutches are in the bedroom closet. Could you bring them to me?”

“Why?” he asked in his slow Southern drawl. “What happened?”

“Crutches first; then I’ll tell you.” The sequence was irreversible. I perched on my left leg like a lost shorebird shivering in the cold.

He reappeared shortly with the crutches.

With no particular sense of urgency, I navigated to the kitchen, stood at the counter, explained what happened, and asked for my phone. I wondered, did I see my doctor or go to a — in this case ironically named — walk-in clinic? Without hesitation, the nurse at my orthopedist’s said, “You go to the emergency room.” OK. I only had to traverse the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, and descend to the curb. With crutches and Jerome bringing the car to the front, I thought piece of cake. In the dining room, I went pins-and-needles prickly-headed, the view before my eyes darkening from the outer edges. I had to confess. “Jerome, I’m going to faint.”

“Sit in this chair,” he said, swiftly positioning one under me.

I sat, put my head down. He rested a hand on my back. Soon after sitting up, I said, “I’m going to pass out again.”

When I came to, Jerome said, “If you’re going to keep fainting, we have to call 9-1-1.”

9-1-1 was for emergencies — fires and car wrecks, shootings and hostage situations — I fell at the ice rink. Surely that didn’t require 9-1-1? But I wasn’t in a position to stand up, let alone argue. Soon, I heard a siren, both embarrassing — the ditz who fell skating and had to call 9-1-1 — and reassuring: these people are going to help. “Sounds like the ambulance.”

Looking out the front windows, he laughed. “No, that’s a fire engine.”

I laughed, too; maybe they had a Dalmatian to distract me. The ambulance wasn’t far behind. Its EMTs carried me out in the chair, a Montana palanquin, then transferred me to their gurney.

***

The fall broke my hip, compressed the bone, and shortened my right leg. The orthopedic surgeon on call pinned the break that night. That is such a euphemism, right up there with she had a baby. He knocked me out, sliced me open, took three enormous, expensive-as-hell, magic metal screws, and screwed that hip back together. Then, he stapled my thigh closed, leaving my upper leg looking like a big zipper. Given the cracked rib and broken hip, I asked my doctor about a bone density scan, which revealed that my bones were already flimsy. Hmmm. Had I known would I have skated?

Of course, I loved to skate. I’d done it all my life. I didn’t think I’d fall and if I did, didn’t think that I’d hurt myself. This explains, too, why capital punishment fails to deter crime: no one expects to get caught at a crime, just as I failed to think I’d hurt myself with a fall. But breaking my hip wasn’t a test result. It wasn’t a risk measure. It was an experience which let me know what sort of hell a broken brittle bone brings — to me, to Jerome, to us. Montana had represented fresh beginnings. With Jerome. With Belle. With new activities. But, some of the old ones were going to cease. Skating was merely the first to — shall we say — fall.

***

Image of Marcia Williams

Marcia earned an MFA in creative writing from the University of Montana. With her husband and their Lab, she divides her time between Montana and New Mexico.

2 comments
  1. Yes, our worlds get smaller as we age, and you did a fine job of depicting one event in the long process. We’re the lucky ones who get to make a longer journey than some others. Thank you for sharing.

  2. Really well written story. Great sensory detail and plotline. Loved it!

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