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“Let them help her,” she explains. “There’s nothing you can do anymore.”
Katya and Ruslan gaze at the awful scene. A nurse approaches us, asking for information, trying to understand what's happened. When I don't answer, Katya lifts her head higher, summoning the strength to speak to the woman.
Mila pulls at me again, encouraging me towards the sitting area. I don't budge, I'm too busy watching Galina, spread out and vulnerable, being swept out of my sight. She's nearly gone through the doors into the hallway when the machine attached to her that a doctor is wheeling alongside begins to screech.
The urgency in the air is suffocating. My hair stands on end, heat spreading up my back, into my skull, until I expect my head to split. She’s flat lining. I told her she would be okay…
"No." I try to scream it, it comes out as a fragile croak. I collapse to the hard tiles on my hands and knees, crawling forward as the last of my energy leaks away.
"No... dear god... please, no..."
Hanging my head, I fill my chest with so much air that my lungs swell painfully. Everything hurts. I don't care—let the agony come. I'd die a thousand times if it meant Galina would live instead.
With the torturous squeal of the machine in my ears, I lift my eyes, hoping I'm wrong. Let me see her... let her sit up and smile and laugh. Let the love of my life be alright. Her—our—baby please...
PLEASE!
But instead, all I hear is the single piercing note of the flatline.
It's happening again.
I'm going to lose everything again.
I defeated Yevgeniy but he still won.
With my hands in fists, I pound the tile, throwing my head back. The barrier that made my voice crumble is gone. That time, when I scream, the sound fills the hospital until it drowns out every other sound.
I scream helplessly until my throat goes numb, and then I scream some more.
I don't think I'll ever stop.
45
GALINA
My toes are perfectly pointed as I strut across the stage. A simple ankle-turn and I'm pivoting, another and another and I'm a flurry of motion, my white tutu fluffing like a dandelion on the breeze. I was born to dance. I know this in my soul.
Curtains flutter around me, brushing me as if they want to hold me close. The only person I want a hug from is the man sitting in the audience.
Dad beams proudly, never taking his eyes off of me.
I'm so glad I decided to do this performance! I'd been terrified when Mom suggested it, the moves were advanced for a ten-year-old like me, but she would always click her tongue and insist that she did ballet like this when she was my age.
But Dad?
He caught me fretting in the studio, staring at myself awkwardly in the tall mirrors. He'd come to me, knelt, and told me not to be afraid of the stage. Even if you make a mistake, it won't matter to me. If you get nervous, just look for me in the audience, malyshka.
Lunging forward, I hold my breath, chest high. Every time I've tried the Fouetté, I've failed. Days of practicing it have filled me with confidence. Dad is watching, you can do it! I start the spin, hands held high, one leg whipping forward. For a moment I'm weightless, perfectly pointed from toe to fingertips.
My ankle flexes wrong, sending me stumbling off balance. Crying out, I hit the stage on my knee, skidding a foot on the polished wood.
"No!" I whisper furiously, hanging my head low. My hair is bound back in a scalp-tingling bun. I grab the elastic, yanking at it until my dark tresses tumble everywhere. "No, no, no!"
Footsteps thud heavily on the stage. "Galina, are you alright?" Dad asks, kneeling beside me.
Tears boil in my eyes; I wipe them away roughly, but more replace them.
"Why do I keep messing up? Why can't I do it?"
