It’s the sound from the family room, rather than the promise of a lighter sentence, that lures me further. Recorded cheering. The reverberation of feet slamming against springboards and launching into the air.
On the carpet is a sea of my old gymnastics footage. Everything is color-coded by level: the Level 5 chronicles are in red, Level 6 and 7 are pink (I moved up a level mid-season and felt like a prodigy), Level 8 and 9 are blue, and Level 10 is green. I’d picked green because it meant go, except apparently for me, it meant get out of this sport.
She gestures at the TV. “I love this one. Level–”
“–Five State Championships. Yeah, that was classic.”
“Look how cute you girls were.” The camera pans to a shot of my teammates and me standing in front of the judges before we competed on bars. I’m the shortest, my knees bouncing because I was that pain in the ass who needed to be moving all of the time. Next to me in height order are Ally, Monica, Jess, and finally Emery, always the best in our group. Even at age ten, she stood with confidence.
Ten-year-old Savannah sprays water onto her hand grips. Then she’s jumping up and down on the springboard until Coach Vanessa, ever the disciplinarian, yanks her down. Next she’s warming up, moving from the low bar to the high bar with feet flexed and legs splayed. Coach Matt rolls his eyes because everyone knows that she’ll only show off her proper form when the judges are watching. She releases the bar, flips once, and lands flat on her back. On camera, Mom gasps.
Now my mother smiles. “You won bars after that.”
“Why are you looking through all of this stuff?”
“Making the most of my vacation day.” She busies herself with filling up the glass cabinet under the TV.
In the grand scheme, it’s better to see Mom enjoying these relics rather than stressing out over yet another news story. I’ll walk into the kitchen some mornings to find her zeroed in on the headlines: Roadside Bomb Kills 3; Reported PTSD Cases Rise; Troops Deployed to Trouble Spot. When my brother graduated from Notre Dame and headed to Fort Benning for Officer Candidate School, normal motherly concern surged into an anxiety that no amount of reassurances can calm.
She’ll come home from work and say, “How was your day, sweetie? Good, good,” before I respond, and drift between the phone and the Internet, searching for any sign of my brother. Even with the phone pressed to her ear, I’ll hear the ringing on Richard’s end.
Straight to voicemail is the worst. It could mean nothing. Richard could be off in a field in North Carolina, teaching the recruits to crawl on their elbows. When he’s deployed, it could mean that he’s the subtext behind those black-ink headlines, crouched low in the sand where no one can see him. On those days, we all retreat to our own spaces like an unspoken shelter-in-place. Mom treads lightly up and down the stairs as she says, “Maybe I’ll have better service here?” Dad escapes to the garage, spinning the wheels of his bicycle as he prepares for a trail ride. I used to flee to the gym, but now to my bedroom, laptop open and door closed.
If Baby Gymnast Savannah wiping out puts Mom in a good mood, I’ll allow it.
I join her on the carpet, handing over my color-coded Greatest Hits and Misses: Level 7 Long Island Classic (three falls on beam), Level 8 New England Invitational tweaked my shoulder on bars), Level 9 State Championships (third-place floor–major hit).
Onscreen Savannah stands in front of the balance beam. For once, she’s not wiggling. She’s terrified. Good call, Baby Savannah. You were on to something. When she mounts the beam, she leaves behind sweaty footprints on the blue mat.
“What do you think about NYU?” I say.
Mom rocks back on her heels. “I’m sure you’ll get in.” Yet there’s no excitement in the way she says it, just caution. “It’s expensive, though.”
“I might be able to get a scholarship.” Hopefully. Maybe.
Mom’s lips twist in the way that means she needs to let me down gently. “You know, I wish you would”– I steel myself–“find something else that you enjoy. What if you try out for a school play?”
“Have you heard me sing?”
She fights back a smile. We both know it’s not for the faint of heart. “What about dance? Your floor routines were so beautiful.”
Too close to gymnastics, and not close enough. “No, thanks.”
There’s one last green label and Mom reaches it before I can. Her eyes widen ever so slightly.
I know it before she says it.
“Level Ten Regionals–”
I turn away, ignoring the little voice that tells me I’m the one in trouble today, not her. “Throw it out. Burn it. I don’t care.”
BEFORE MY KNEE, it was my shoulder. I taped bags of ice to it and gritted my teeth against the cold.
Before my shoulder, it was my wrists. I wore matching braces, called Tiger Paws, on them every time I tumbled and vaulted. They prevented my wrists from stretching too far.
Before my wrists, it was my back. “You’re too flexible,” the doctor told me. “You need to strengthen your core.” I did, to the point where Cassie announced in the locker room, “Your abs are bigger than your boobs.”
I followed all of the rules. Every repetition of every exercise with the best form I could muster, shaking and sweating–I did all of it. Where did that land me? In a crumpled heap on the floor. The sad fact is that after one surgery and six months of rehabilitation, what’s to stop my knee from snapping again?
There’s only one guarantee: stopping completely.
CHAPTER FOUR
“WILL THE FOLLOWING students please report to the assistant principal’s office? Savannah Gregory, Cascade Hopeswell…”
In the godforsaken math wing, I know that my dad’s ears have perked up.
On the way to the office, I halt. A janitor works to scrub off black ink on a row of orange lockers. Surrounding him are the safety signs that caution Wet floor! Piso mojado!