Someone sighed in relief. I looked around for the source of the whoosh of air through clenched teeth.
I was alone.
Perhaps I had made the sound. I certainly was relieved that I had not landed upon the still-healing surgery incisions around my kneecaps.
A few hours after that I tried again and accomplished five steps and a turn on tip-toe, then five steps back to the bed.
Étienne, the physical therapist, whisked me away to his gymnasium-or torture chamber-as the aides cleared away the lunch trays.
“You are a lot more limber this afternoon,” he said as he pushed my bent leg toward my chest.
I smiled at him but said nothing.
“Tell me when the muscles begin to protest,” Étienne said as he pressed a little harder against my leg. I loved the way his French accent slid from his mouth, almost like music. I could dance to his voice.
I let my kneecap brush my breasts before I squeaked a protest. Etienne gently straightened my leg and let it rest upon the hard therapy bench. In truth I’d felt the burn in my thigh fifteen inches before I said anything. I needed to push myself harder and faster than either he or Dr. Bertrand thought prudent.
In my experience, all medical people were far too conservative. They didn’t want athletes-dancers-back at peak performance as soon as we could manage. We ceased to pay for their services when we felt ourselves healed, long before they were ready to release us.
“That was amazing, Mademoiselle. But you really should not press so hard,” Etienne é said, shaking his head. He stood back, hands on hips, a stern frown upon his face.
“I am a dancer. I do not interpret pain in the same way you do.” I tried to temper my excuse with a flirtatious smile. Hard-nosed critics had been known to change their reviews when I smiled like that.
“Then allow me to judge the intensity of your therapy. The nanobots need more time to repair the damage to your bone, ligaments, and cartilage before you begin to stress them. Even miracles need time.” He stalked out of the gymnasium-like room.
Before the orderly could arrive with my wheelchair to take me back to my room, I rolled off the bench to the treadmill. I used the handrails as a barre.
Long habit settled my posture into a classic première position to begin a ballet warmup, heels together, toes pointed out, left arm hanging down in slight curve with fingertips at the top of my thighs, right hand resting lightly on the improvised barre. The mirror opposite me reflected my long legs, narrow waist, long, dark hair pinned up in a ponytail. I smiled at the figure I cut, even wearing baggy sweats.
Except my feet pointed straight forward.
I forced them to turn outward along with my thighs and knees. My kneecap should face the same direction as my toes. Both should line up with my shoulder.
I sighed in relief when I achieved an almost normal première position.
No! Someone-someones?-shouted into my mind.
My feet and knees whipped forward of their own accord. My left knee buckled. I clung to the railing with both hands, desperate to master my rebellious body.
I inched myself back to standing. Then I eased my feet and legs outward until toes, knees, and shoulders again aligned. Then before my muscles could protest and change my position, I bent my knees into a demiplié, forcing my heels to remain on the floor.
Sharp pains shot from my knees into my brain. It felt as if someone drove daggers directly into my temples, again and again in rhythm with my elevated pulse.
I collapsed onto the floor, pressing the heels of my palms into my eyes. The moment I stretched my body flat on the floor the pain stopped. But the memory remained. I cowered there for many long moments, whimpering.
The orderly found me curled up in a fetal position. He carried me back to my room.
For the rest of the day I contemplated my situation from the confines of my bed. I let the nurses and Étienne do what they needed to do without protest, without interest. My entire focus and concentration riveted upon the overhead conversation just before the surgery.
Alien voices? Nanobots inside my body. Alien voices!
My mind looped around and around the problem. Could it be? Could the mad surgeon with his miracle procedure have done more. Much, much more?
The nanobots repaired damage. The doctor had hinted that they could even recognize new damage as it occurred.
Was the leap to recognizing potential damage too far?
From there might they not need to discourage behavior that could lead to potential damage?
No, I reasoned. That was madness.
Madness. Had the nurse used that word?
I waited and counted the hours until after midnight. The rehab wing grew quiet. The PTs and doctors went home. The other patients slept. Occasionally a nurse walked the corridors on her rounds. I could listen to my head without interference.
With as little bending and twisting as possible, I rolled from my bed and stood. So far so good. The knees did not protest. I took one step, then two in the direction of the bathroom. Still no reaction from the things inside me.
I turned my feet and knees outward-not the full ninety-degree angle I wanted, but enough to suggest a ballet stance.
Ten steps, then twelve. My knees felt a little shaky. A little hum of concern in my nape. I grabbed a towel bar for support. My knees stayed steady. The hum went away.
While I was in there I might as well take care of business. The raised seat of the john was a blessing in my condition. Once more, I turned my knees and feet outward and lifted my heels several times. My calf muscles welcomed the stretch and release.
Grab bars in all the right places helped me stand again. I left my legs turned and rose up on tiptoe. Slowly, ever so slowly, I lifted my right arm forward and up to cinquième en haut. Then I released the bar and lifted my left arm.
The hum in my head started up. I pretended it was music and stepped forward on tiptoe. The hum grew louder.
I overrode it by singing a jaunty little waltz. “One, two, step. One, two, step.”
The hum matched the lilt in my mind.
Arms still up, I dropped to both feet in a modified fifth position, all the while singing. On each third beat I took one step forward on the right toe and brought the left up into fifth position, toes aligned, heels facing opposite directions. Then I came down on the count of three, still in fifth position, heel to toe and toe to heel.
Six times I performed this simple exercise. Six times the aliens hummed along with me, so caught up in the music and the lovely stretch of calf, thigh, and back muscles that they didn’t notice how I moved.
Then they noticed. Straight, straight, straight, they screamed at me.
My feet and knees jerked to an ugly front face and without my will, marched me back to bed. The moment I placed both hands on the side bar, my legs gave out. I had to drag my tired body onto the mattress.
A smile tugged at my mouth as I drifted off to sleep.
For the next three days, every time I had a little privacy in the bathroom, I repeated the exercise, singing my favorite ballet waltzes ever louder to drown out the nanobots’ protests. Each day they took a little longer before forcing me back into their version of a normal stance.
By the end of the week I managed a few pliès-bends-entendues-stretches-even a quick ronde de jambe-a circle of the leg.
“I want a practice room complete with barre, mirror, and sound system,” I demanded of Dr. Bertrand on the following Tuesday. A week and a day after the surgery. Time was running out. Seven weeks to the opening in London. Seven weeks to tame the voices in my head.