Maxwell and I returned to our small Connecticut condominium to the voices of two cats meowing, who were obviously displeased with the service provided by the neighbor during our holiday absence, and the incessant blinking of a little red light on the answering machine. None of this struck me as unusual except that one of the telephone messages was from Zoë, my high school buddy. Zoë and I had not spoken since I failed to attend her wedding while I was still imprisoned at Carolina Tech as a lowly doctoral student. Max turned on the television in the living room and I took the cordless phone into the bedroom to call my long-lost friend.

After a routine exchange of pleasantries that revealed next to nothing about what Zoë had been doing over the last few years, she disclosed the original reason for her call. “You will never guess who I ran into while I was visiting my grandparents for Christmas.”

She was probably right, and I did not want to try to guess.

“Do you remember Alicia Scott?”

Reaching back toward high school, I placed the name. Yes, I remembered this girl. She had not been a regular on my social calendar, but she had been in a couple of my classes. But Zoë did not stop with Alicia. Apparently, Alicia Scott remained friendly with another student whose cousin had married yet another alumnus whose mother ran into Melissa Kowalchuk’s mother in the Cambridge Hills post office. I followed Zoë’s list of names as someone flips through a yearbook trying to place even the least familiar photograph into context. Some of the people she mentioned I recalled better than others. When she finally stopped on Melissa Kowalchuk my mind lit up like a slot machine hitting a jackpot. Melissa Kowalchuk had been my best friend during junior high school. She and I had thumbed through teen magazines during rainy lunch periods anticipating the sophistication of high school. Melissa and I remained cordial during adolescence but essentially drifted apart sometime between ninth and tenth grade.

The only person on the roster of high school familiars that Zoë had actually encountered was Alicia, but through a chain of secondary interactions had learned the status of my old chum, Melissa Kowalchuk.

“Melissa got her doctoral degree at MIT in mathematics.” Zoë declared with a twinge of jealousy stinging her words. Now she held a professorship at one of the California State Universities.

Melissa had always been a bright girl, a more involved girl than either Zoë or me. She was a joiner and a participator. She took advantage of whatever high school offered academically, athletically, and socially. Melissa and I had been in the same math classes for several years. She was always the top student. She was the type of girl who could balance being smart with a social life. Never ostracized as a nerd or a brain, Melissa took her giftedness in stride, never bragging but never downplaying her individuality. As Melissa Kowalchuk flowered into a young woman, she developed confidence that I entirely lacked. Maybe her personal comfort level could be attributed to a healthy home life or a genetic tendency toward self-respect. She and I lacked common ground as adolescents. Melissa could not relate to my strife and I could not fathom her self-assurance.

I made a mental note to look up Melissa’s telephone number on the Cal State campus and give her a call. Zoë had not contacted Melissa, but was deeply affected by the news of her enviable success. Recently divorced and bored with a generic office job, Zoë probed into her own existence and decided to make the long postponed decision to return to school and become a lawyer. Encountering someone who knew a mutual acquaintance was not the only factor propelling Zoë toward improving her own situation, but it lit the proverbial fire that made her get off her backside. She obviously felt a need to discuss her revelation with someone, preferable someone who had known her for years, as a teen, a college girl, and a young adult. I was glad Zoë’s decision involved making contact with me and renewing our friendship.

As soon as I had a spare moment at Consumer Solutions, I surfed the Internet for a professor of mathematics named Melissa Kowalchuk. Her telephone number, office hours, and links to her research interests and teaching schedule popped onto my computer screen. I lifted the receiver of my desk phone but replaced it upon remembering the time difference between the east and west coasts. Not only would Melissa not be in her office, she was probably still in bed. My professional duties did not allow another opportunity to telephone my old friend that day or for many days that followed, yet Melissa and her accomplishments occupied my thoughts.

I only remembered the fuzziest outline of her mother, the image of an adult, of someone else’s parent, viewed for the eyes of a child. I did not know Mrs. Kowlachuk well. She was widowed and sold real estate. She seemed constantly busy and often left Melissa and her older sister alone in their townhouse. As a pubescent girl, I enjoyed going to Melissa’s house to escape the constant presence of an adult overseer. I had watched parts of the 1980 Winter Olympic figure skating events with Melissa. Melissa and I foolishly tried out for cheerleading together in the eighth grade. Melissa was far more coordinated than me and could do a handspring. Neither of us was especially popular; and, therefore, did not earn enough student votes to make the squad.

Without a clear picture of Mrs. Kowalchuk, I envisioned a woman similar to my own mother bragging about her daughter’s accomplishments. Since I had aspired to an academic career, I was more impressed with Melissa’s accomplishments than hearing my mother brag about Carole, the medical doctor or Art Wainwright Junior; the M.D. Ph.D. Melissa had achieved what I had wanted during my graduate school experience. She had taken it to the next level. News of Melissa’s adulthood had a similar effect on me as it did on Zoë. It placed my life under a microscope and forced me to examine myself more critically and perhaps more objectively than ever before.

I was satisfied with my academic achievements. I had overcome adversity to succeed. I persevered with the tenacity of a pit bull jaw-grasping a chew toy. I had earned my degree. No one had paid my freight or paved my path with flower petals. For the first time, I felt genuine pride in who I was and what I had become. I was also a happily married woman, when some of my classmates were already divorcing and entering round two. I earned a decent salary and did not suffer from excessive stress. I could hold a job, and had worked for Consumer Solutions for over two years. I had time to ice skate at least twice per week and had learned several interesting and impressive skills.

While skating allowed me to fulfill a childhood dream, it also provided exercise and social activity with people other than coworkers. However, skating was the first facet of my life with which I found fault. I was not disgusted with my inability to land an axel or any other personal shortcoming. My choice of coaches dissatisfied me, and desperately wanted to dump Orville. In spite of my husband’s coaxing and encouragement, I had not explored options at other rinks on my free weekday morning. Why did I not take advantage of this opportunity?

I had been to other rinks before and was not pleased with the crowds and the advanced skating that pushed my humble ass into the boards. Entering an unfamiliar rink made me about as nervous as the first day on a new job. I did not know the routine: where it sit, where to stretch, where to leave my skate case. Inevitably I probably sat in the wrong place and laced up my skates drawing attention to my unfamiliarity. While partially due to paranoia and my own discomfort, I felt eyes upon me wondering who I was and what I could do. Would I just be another adult clod in everyone’s way or did I have something exciting to strut at the session? I knew the answer before anyone else. I hate the anxiousness of being the new adult skater in the building. I may not have been satisfied with Hansie’s, but I belonged there and had been a regular since my first year in Connecticut. But Hansie’s and its sterile atmosphere was holding me back. My coach and I did not communicate effectively, the rink was too small, and the general level of ability uninspiring.

Certainly a self-confident person like Melissa Kowalchuk, who had earned the highest of all academic accolades from one of the best and most prestigious technical universities in the world, would not be afraid of doing what she perceived as best for herself. I had to overcome my insecurity and attend a morning session at another rink. I made phone calls from work to obtain a schedule and decided when to make the trek to an uncharted session.

Formica benches lined the walls of the lobby. Windows permitted a view on each side of the open space to the rinks beyond. The place boasted two ice surfaces, a cafeteria snack bar, locker rooms for hockey and competitive skaters, and a dance studio that offered off-ice exercise classes. The facility was virtually empty. A few employees walked through the lobby on their way to the skating school, business office, or Zamboni garage. A petite Asian girl laced a pair of skates at the far end of the benches. I guessed she was about fourteen years old, but no parent accompanied her. We both laced and stretched without looking at each other, at least not for long enough to get caught.

The girl got on the ice after a short series of stretches and began to skate warm up laps while I continued to loosen my older muscles. By the time I pushed open the swinging door to the rink, she had begun axel drills on the central hockey circle. She had a nice single axel; crisp, clean, and very neat. A few axels led to preparatory exercises for the illustrious double. I tried to keep my eyes and mind on my own skating, but I found this girl’s work ethic very interesting. She reminded me of an underage Stephanie. Everything she did was textbook correct; maybe not huge, fast, or dazzling; but very credible. I ran through sets of spins while my young rink-mate made the day’s first attempts at the double axel. They were all sound efforts. She achieved a tight backspin position while standing erect in the air. She had perfect confidence in her aerial skills. She did not crouch or allow her legs to fly open in a misguided self-preservation instinct. She landed on both crossed feet, still standing confidently upright, though she was considerably short of rotation. The dedicated young athlete fell many times, but recovered quickly and appeared undaunted by her mishaps.

I watched this little trooper while hiding my nose behind a tissue. When it became obvious that today would not be her breakthrough moment, I proceeded to my own woeful brand of jumps. The Asian girl obviously reached the same conclusion, or a self-imposed double axel quota, and moved on to other skills. Later in the session, she worked on double loops, starting with beautiful singles that lifted from the ice, hovered in the air, and landed as a feather floats to the earth. This girl, whose name I never learned and rarely saw, taught me how to do a loop jump. After watching her preparation, I mimicked her movements at the other end of the arena.

She skated backwards in a series of strong fluid crossovers, then cut across the width of the rink, shooting toward the corner. She approached with both legs slightly bent, cruising at an impressive speed. Ready to jump, she pulled her legs together, left in front of right, for a counterclockwise take-off. She did not enter the jump from a curved preparation. The straightness of her approach deepened to a curved edge only when she was ready to leap. This snapped her into the air and carried her far across the ice, almost delaying rotation as she hung for a moment in a pretty open backspin pose. Of course, her double was equally beautiful and she tried triples with about the same results she achieved for the double axel.

Whoever trained this girl understood the mechanics of the loop jump. By the time I left that two-hour morning freestyle, I could do a genuinely commendable loop. The loop eventually became my best jump, ultimately echoing the quality of my unsung teacher’s efforts.

A group of adult skaters occupied the multi-colored benches when I came out of the rink. I took a space nearby but respectfully out of their way. People smiled in my direction, but no one spoke directly to me. I was a stranger, maybe a new coach, or a visitor from another city. On my way out, I asked the lady at the front desk if there was an adult session that morning. She said the session was open to dance, freestyle, and beginners; but primarily used by adults. I decided to attend the next week.

A single day away from Hansie’s Ice Chalet had transformed one of my skills. In a normally sized arena, I had space to experiment with backward skating, finding the confidence to glide swiftly around the ice. The inspiration of one dedicated youngster developed a jump my coach could not improve into a little treasure. While a change of scenery cannot always produce magical results, I recognized that I had become stymied in Hansie’s claustrophobic little place and its limited supply of instruction. I had learned all I could there and needed to forge ahead. This experience helped me to understand why competitive skaters change coaches and training facilities. It is possible to outgrow a rink or reach an impasse with a coach. Orville and I no longer got along. I had closed my mind to his suggestions and he had apparently given up on me, assuming he had any faith in my potential to begin with.

Chapter 74 posted 6/16/03
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