The Dance We Remember (Love and Other Dreams #4)

Chapter 28

Maxime

Aurora's blood sticks to my forearm. On the rolled-up sleeve of my black shirt, the white suspenders, and on my chest, which is exposed due to the deep neckline of the dance shirt.

But that's not what matters.

Nothing is more important than the woman lying next to me in the ambulance. The sirens wail, and through the windows, I see the blue flashing light darting over the walls of the buildings we pass in a hurry. Despite the jolting ride, the paramedic skillfully inserts an IV in Aurora's hand.

Worried, I look into her face. Her eyelids flutter now and then, she moans softly, and her fingers twitch. She's covered from the chest down, but I know what lies beneath.

Even more blood.

I have to be strong now. For her. Yet I can barely control my voice. "We'll get through this," I say, stroking her forearm nervously.

I have no idea if she can even hear me. Maybe I'm just talking to myself, trying to hold myself together. But a glance at the paramedic is enough to know what he's thinking. With his lips pressed tightly together, he looks at me and subtly shakes his head.

No.

No, no, no.

He can't possibly know. And anyway, this isn't real. It's not really happening; it's just a bad dream. Nothing more. I'll wake up soon and realize that everything is fine.

The ambulance comes to a stop, and the doors are flung open. Aurora is wheeled out on her stretcher. The paramedic jumps out of the vehicle and holds the IV bag high while two nurses in blue hospital gowns take over.

I make sure to follow. I almost trip over my own feet, which no longer seem to obey me. I stumble, catch myself, and rush on.

When Aurora is pushed through the large double doors at the entrance, I catch up to her.

"Where are you taking her? What happens now?" The questions burst out of me, but the nurses hardly pay attention.

A doctor joins them, pulling a stethoscope from her coat and getting a rundown of information from the paramedic, which I don't understand.

Helplessly, I walk alongside the group, alternating my gaze between Aurora's pained face and the hospital staff.

"Please, tell me what's going on!" I plead with them even though a part of me doesn't want to hear bad news. It might be rude, but I seize the opportunity to grab the doctor's upper arm. "What's wrong with my girlfriend?" I ask with intensity.

She studies me with her deep-brown eyes. Then she nods toward the row of chairs in the hallway. "Wait here. I'll come to you once we know more."

I won't do that. "I'm staying with her."

"Impossible." She barely finishes the word before turning to the nurses. "Full blood work and prepare for an ultrasound."

No one pays attention to me. Despite the doctor's instructions, I continue walking down the hallway until I reach the treatment room, whose door opens automatically at the push of a button. The nurses wheel Aurora's stretcher into the white-tiled room. The neon lights blind me as the doctor turns to face me, blocking my way.

"Be reasonable and let us do our work," she says firmly, looking at me intently. "Believe me, we're doing everything we can. But for that, we need peace."

And they won't have that if I'm present. Everything in me rebels against leaving Aurora alone.

It would be the right thing to do. I know that. Still, I can barely bear the feeling of helplessness as I take a step back and watch the door close in front of me.

Disoriented, I stumble back down the hallway to the waiting area the doctor showed me earlier and I sink onto one of the white plastic chairs, only to immediately jump back up.

How could I sit still while who knows what is happening in that treatment room?

What if...

No, I don't even want to think about it.

Everything is fine.

Aurora just has a minor bleeding; these things happen. My gaze drifts to my forearms. I pick at the dried blood on my skin with trembling fingers.

"Maxime!"

I lift my eyes and see Sky running toward me, her hair billowing behind her.

"What happened?" Her cheeks are flushed as if she sprinted from the competition hall to here. Her strikingly blue eyes scan the hallway anxiously. "Where is she?"

"They're examining her." My voice trembles. I run my fingers over my head and clasp them behind my neck. "I'm sure everything is okay..."

Her expression darkens. Then she nods vehemently and looks at me intently. "You look terrible."

It doesn't matter. "I lifted her from the parquet floor. She was..." bleeding so much, I want to say, but I don't get the words out.

"Come on, let's clean you up." Sky sounds as if she wants to calm a wild animal.

Immediately, I shake my head. "I'm not leaving."

"Okay, I understand." Her hand twitches upward as if she wants to put it on my upper arm but then changes her mind. "I'll bring you some wet wipes." I can see the urgency in her expression to help, so I nod even though I couldn't care less if I'm dirty or clean.

She turns around and hurries down the hallway. Once I'm alone again, my helplessness threatens to overwhelm me once more.

I continue doing what I do best: ignoring worries and potential problems.

What I don't think about doesn't exist.

I strain my eyes to look at the clock. It's shortly after nine. When did we even arrive here? How long have I been waiting?

Restlessly, I pace back and forth along the hallway, keeping my eyes fixed on the door to the treatment room. With each passing second, panic crawls up inside me.

There.

The door.

It's moving!

I sprint the few yards, almost colliding with the doctor who emerges from the room just as I reach it.

"How is she?" I involuntarily reach for her hands.

"Your friend is stable," she replies with a gentle voice. "She needs rest, but she will recover quickly."

That's good. So good that I almost don't want to ask the next question. "And what about...our baby?"

She lowers her eyelids, a fine crease forming between her eyebrows. "I'm very sorry."

Silence.

Inside me is nothing but silence.

No thoughts. No feelings.

I’m empty.

My knees threaten to give way. I stagger, slamming against the wall. Someone catches me and pulls me into their arms.

Red curls dance before my eyes. Words reach my ears. They pierce through me as if I were a ghost.

"Be strong," they say. "For Aurora."

For Aurora. Be strong , echoes within me.

Yes.

"For Aurora." My voice doesn't sound like me. Perhaps because I no longer feel like me. Still, I clench my teeth together and force myself to stand. With fumbling hands, I pull down my sleeves and button up my shirt. The blood-smeared suspenders also have to go.

With a sad expression, Sky takes them from me. "Tell me if I can help. I'll do anything..."

It won't change anything. What can she do? Give us our baby back? I nod briefly at her, then I enter the treatment room, trying to stand as upright as possible.

For Aurora.

Covered with a fresh sheet up to her abdomen, she lies at the head of the room amid medical equipment and IV stands. The floor next to her is littered with discarded swabs. They match the color of her dress, the dark red straps of which provide a stark contrast to her pale, makeup-smudged face.

She turns her head toward me, the glimmer of her hairpin crumbling onto the pillow. She tries to smile, but her eyes remain expressionless.

I want to breathe, but my chest won't rise.

I want to scream, but there's a noose around my neck.

I want to cry, but I am empty.

Swallowing heavily, I sit down next to her on the bed, wrapping my arms around her shoulders and pulling her close enough that her head rests against my chest. I stroke her upper arm, kissing her forehead.

"We'll get through this," I say minutes later, feeling like a complete idiot because the words sound so clichéd. Aurora deserves better than platitudes.

No wonder she doesn't respond.

I hold my breath to hear hers. It flows slowly but steadily.

Feverishly, I search for something that could bring her comfort. But what do you say to someone who has lost their mother and then their baby within a year?

"We can't choose our fate," I whisper earnestly, never stopping the caresses. "But we can decide how to deal with it."

Were those the right words? Is it even okay to say them when I myself have no idea how we'll ever recover from this day?

It would be easier if Aurora could show me what she's thinking. But her head simply rests heavily on my chest, she blinks at regular intervals with her artificial eyelashes, and she breathes. Does she even perceive my presence?

"Please, Aurora, let me help you," I say in my desperation, but it doesn't elicit any reaction from her. I have no clue what's going on inside her, what she wants to hear from me, or what I should do for her.

Only one thing becomes clear to me at this moment—in the past few weeks, I felt that the training was too much for Aurora. But I pushed those worries aside, all too willing to be persuaded by her to keep going. And today, before our performance, I saw clearly that she wasn't doing well. I ignored that too and didn't want to acknowledge the problems. I am just like my mother.

She taught me this strategy, and I willingly adopted it. We never talked about what weighed us down. It made it easier to forget where I came from, how tough life was, or how little my own father cared about me.

Was that the right thing to do? How do you handle problems if you don't bury them? Is there any other way, especially when you're in a situation you can't change anyway?

Feeling lost, I kiss Aurora’s forehead again. "Whenever you need me, I’ll be there for you," I whisper into the silence between us, hoping desperately that she can hear me.