I’m free to be here, lost in my own little world.
My cheeks puff as I blow out a gush of air from my mouth in frustration. Images of last week creep to the surface, and I can hear his voice whisper through my head.
“You good for nothing piece of shit, Kathleen. Don’t you walk away from me!” he yells in a slurred voice as I slam the front door shut and take off at a jog so he can’t catch me as he chases me out of the house. He won’t scream outside, because God forbid the posh, rich neighbors see him untidy and drunk. Only a few more words reach my ears. “Kathleen…get your…ass…” The rest is drowned out as I hail a cab. My eyes squeeze tighter and I clench my fists as my fingernails dig in to the point of pain, grounding me.
He’s not here, he is not here! I tell myself, until it sticks and my breathing slows.
“Hey, Kat! You have about an hour before I have to clean the ice again. The boys start showing up for practice at six this morning. Enjoy,” Bob shouts from the other side of the bleachers, standing at the end with a sleepy smile.
The startled scream I let loose echoes around the empty rink. He showed up when I was lost in my memories and scared the crap out of me. My hands fly to my chest, my heart fluttering like crazy. I try to plaster on my fake smile to appear somewhat normal, but a snort leaves my mouth, it can’t be contained. What the heck is normal? My life is far from normal.
“Thanks, Bob. I won’t be too long. You’re the man!” My voice echoes as I shout back to him, responding in what I hope is a cheerful voice.
Bob has been taking care of the university ice rink for so long, his Zamboni is practically his baby. He may be getting up there in age, but he has the spirit of a kid. He’s a kind old man that lets me skate here when no one is around and pretends to look the other way. Maybe he can see the shadows in my eyes, but he’s kind enough to not pry, and it makes me wonder if that’s why he lets me into the arena. With a chuckle and hacking cough, he walks away into the shadows, heading back to his maintenance office.
I shove my feet into my freshly sharpened skates and tie them extra tight, to the point that they dig into my calves. The slight pain helps ground me, and I’m a little more focused with each breath. I slowly stand and walk my way over to the boards, pushing the door open. My feet don’t wobble on the cement ground. After years of figure skating, it’s as natural as walking in tennis shoes for me. I take a deep inhale, breathing in the frigid cold air, and exhale with a puff of icy smoke through my nostrils.
The lights are dim, the perfect lighting for how I skate. I’ve come to realize I don’t like the spotlight after Mom’s passing. For the last few years, I’ve been sticking to the shadows, trying to blend in as much as possible as I stay away from crowds of people. I don’t like anyone watching me skate across the ice, because it’s for me to get lost in the moment. Figure skating for an audience hasn’t meant as much to me since Mom passed away from cancer when I was fourteen. I stopped skating professionally and started skating more to connect with Mom, as it helps me escape my fucked up world. Every time I’m out on the ice alone, I still feel her presence. It’s another reason why I skate so early in the morning, because it’s empty and perfectly silent, except for Bob of course.
Grabbing the edges of the open door, I tuck my elbows in as I step onto the ice before pushing off to glide over the smooth surface. It sounds like I’m chipping away at the ice beneath my skates with each glide of my feet, and the freezing air frosts on my lips. Deciding on a warm-up, I move my feet left and right, picking up speed as I circle the rink. As my music starts playing over the speakers, a hint of a smile overtakes my face. Bob knows by now what type of tunes I like to skate to, so he recently started playing them over the speaker when I’d forget to.
When “Always Remember Us This Way” by Lady Gaga starts playing, I start gliding backward with my arms stretched out wide on either side of me and my head tipped back. I close my eyes and let my muscle memory control my movements to the heart-breaking song. My body pulls me into a Biellmann stretch, my hands lifting my extended left leg to meet the back of my head, inches away. Returning my left back down with a spin, I cross my legs and move them forward and backward while speeding around the ice. This is when I feel like I’m flying with my blades hardly touching down on the ice and the rest of the
