Chapter 22 — Running differently

At 2:37 p.m., Liora sent me a message.

“Official diagnosis: dramatic ankle, but not tragic.”

I replied:

“Medical translation?”

The three dots appeared.

“Mild sprain. No fracture. No forced weight-bearing for two or three days. Gradual return if the pain is manageable. Ice. Wrap. Rest. Boredom. Humiliation. Social death.”

I replied:

“No fracture is good.”

She answered almost immediately.

“Response from someone who slept properly.”

False.

“Response from someone who doesn’t know how to say he’s relieved without making a chart.”

She took slightly longer.

“You make charts when you’re relieved?”

“Mentally, yes.”

“I knew it.”

It was good.

Really.

And it solved almost nothing.

Liora needed her body the way I needed my studio. Not for appearances. To hold together. To find herself again. To know what to do with herself when the world became too large.

Asking her to slow down wasn’t asking her to sit with a cold pack.

Well, yes.

Technically.

But underneath, it was much more violent.

My phone vibrated before I chose another sentence.

“The doctor said I can walk a little as long as I don’t force it. My father heard ‘strict immobilization in a supervised environment.’ My mother heard ‘we observe.’ I heard ‘maybe the stadium tomorrow.’”

I stared at the last part.

Maybe the stadium tomorrow.

I put down the phone.

I didn’t answer immediately.

That was the problem with worry.

It disguised itself as authority very quickly.

It arrived with a valid reason, put down its belongings, opened the cupboards, and suddenly you were explaining to someone how to live inside their own body.

I picked up the phone again.

I wrote:

“What does your coach think?”

A cautious message.

Relatively.

She replied:

“He wants to see me tomorrow morning. Test session. Nothing intense. I’m putting that in writing before you develop an allergy.”

I smiled despite myself.

“Too late. Initial symptoms.”

“Breathe into a paper bag.”

“I only have bags of cat food.”

“Even better. Eugène will approve.”

Then:

“Do you want to come?”

I remained still.

The question looked simple.

It wasn’t.

Come to the stadium.

Watch her run.

Or try to run.

Be there somewhere that wasn’t my studio, the hallway, an accident, or an emergency.

Be there after the kiss.

With her injured body and my concerning tendency to transform fear into a list of recommendations.

I began typing:

“Sure.”

Deleted it.

Old reflex.

I typed:

“Yes.”

Then added:

“If I become unbearable, you’re allowed to tell me.”

She replied:

“You already were. It was just less medical before.”

I smiled.

Then she added:

“Thank you.”

A simple thank you.

Very dangerous.

I put down the phone.

Then looked at Eugène.

“Tomorrow, you are doing nothing.”

He blinked.

“Nothing whatsoever.”

He placed one paw on my mouse.

The cursor moved.

“That is exactly what I mean.”

The next day, I left too early.

Obviously.

Liora’s session was at ten.

By 9:20, I was already ready.

Before leaving, I checked Eugène.

Window closed.

Balcony locked.

Interior door pulled shut.

Bowl filled.

Rabbit protected.

Eugène sitting in the middle of the rug, looking insulted by the level of surveillance.

“You are the reason for this prison atmosphere.”

He meowed.

“Complaint denied.”

I stepped outside.

Liora was already waiting on the landing.

Leaning on one crutch.

Only one.

Sports bag over the opposite shoulder.

Hair tied back.

Jacket open.

She looked prepared to enter a competition and murder anyone who offered her a chair.

A black ankle brace supported her left ankle.

I looked at the brace.

Then her face.

Too late.

She had seen.

“Good morning to you too.”

“Good morning.”

“It’s fine.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your gaze wrote a report.”

“It’s still a draft.”

“Delete it.”

Her cheeks were slightly pink.

Probably from the effort.

I looked down at the crutch.

“Do you want me to carry your bag?”

She looked at me.

“Are you asking because it’s heavy or because you need to manage something?”

A scandalously precise question.

I took a second.

A real one.

“Both.”

She smiled.

“Answer accepted at fifty percent.”

“Better than expected.”

“You can carry it on the stairs. Not the entire way.”

“Deal.”

She handed me the bag.

Our fingers brushed.

Nothing spectacular.

Just enough for my heart to demonstrate, once again, its lack of professional training.

Liora looked down at our hands, then turned toward the elevator with an expression that was far too innocent.

“Shall we?”

“Yes.”

In the lobby, her father appeared beside the mailboxes.

Of course.

Or perhaps he now lived in transitional spaces to supervise human traffic.

“You’re leaving?”

Liora stopped.

“Dad.”

“I’m getting the mail.”

He held an envelope.

One.

A thin alibi.

“Of course,” she said.

He looked at the crutch.

Then me.

Then the sports bag over my shoulder.

“Test session?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing intense.”

“Yes.”

“If the pain exceeds five, you stop.”

Liora closed her eyes.

“Did you speak to my coach?”

“Yes.”

She opened them.

“Dad.”

“He called me.”

“You called him.”

“Then he called me back.”

“Because you called him.”

“Liora, the chronology is irrelevant.”

I looked at the floor.

Excellent floor.

Neutral floor.

A floor that did not participate.

Her father turned toward me.

“You’re going with her?”

“Yes.”

“You do not need to intervene.”

“I know.”

Liora turned toward me.

“You do?”

“Theoretically.”

Her father didn’t smile, but something passed through his expression.

“Good. Remain theoretical.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Liora sighed.

“I am standing right here.”

“We know,” her father said.

She stepped closer and kissed his cheek with almost aggressive speed.

“I’ll text you afterward.”

“During.”

“After.”

“Before you begin, then afterward.”

“You’re really negotiating with an injured person?”

“Yes.”

She stared at him.

Then yielded.

“Before and after.”

“Thank you.”

He looked relieved.

Not satisfied.

Relieved.

Then I saw what Liora might have seen all her life without ever being able to tolerate it completely: her father wasn’t only trying to control things. He was searching for some kind of grip on fear.

I knew the technique.

Mine involved more sketchbooks.

We went outside.

The air was cool.

Liora moved with frustrated speed. Even with one crutch, she gave the impression of finding the sidewalk too slow.

I walked beside her.

Not too close.

Then slightly closer whenever she avoided an uneven patch of ground.

She noticed.

“Are you watching for holes?”

“No.”

“Lie.”

“Holes, grates, slippery leaves, dogs, suspicious pigeons.”

“Suspicious pigeons?”

“All pigeons are suspicious.”

She laughed.

Then looked ahead.

“You’re going to be unbearable at the stadium.”

“Probably.”

“I’m warning you, if you make your second-father face, I’m sending you home.”

“Okay.”

“Seriously.”

“Okay.”

She slowed slightly.

“You aren’t going to argue?”

“No.”

“That’s concerning.”

“I’m learning.”

She looked at me.

Her expression changed.

Barely.

“I think I am too.”

Then she resumed walking.

Slightly less quickly.

The municipal stadium was a fifteen-minute walk away.

Twenty with a crutch.

Twenty-two with Liora refusing to behave like someone using a crutch.

There was nothing spectacular about it.

A slightly worn red track.

Low bleachers.

A field in the middle.

Gray locker rooms.

Bags placed beside a bench.

Several people were already warming up, silhouettes in motion, smooth strides, light legs.

I felt Liora watching them.

Not only with envy.

With hunger.

Her body wanted to rejoin the rhythm before she had even put down her bag.

She stopped at the entrance to the track.

Her hand tightened around the crutch.

“You okay?” I asked.

She didn’t look at me.

“Yes.”

I said nothing.

She exhaled.

“No. Fine. It feels strange.”

I looked at the track.

“Coming back?”

“Coming back like this.”

Like this.

With a monitored ankle.

A crutch.

A bag carried by someone else.

A body that had not arrived in full possession of itself.

I nodded.

“Where do you want me to stay?”

She finally looked at me.

An important question.

I understood that after asking it.

Not I’m coming with you.

Not I’ll keep an eye on you.

Where.

At what distance.

What kind of presence she could tolerate.

Liora looked at the bleachers.

Then the bench beside the track.

Then me.

“There,” she said, pointing to the bench. “Not too far. And not on the track.”

“Bench. Not track.”

“And no catastrophe face.”

“I’ll use a neutral face.”

“Your neutral face sometimes looks like a repair estimate.”

“I can work on it.”

“Thank you.”

A man in his forties approached. Tall, lean, blue tracksuit, whistle around his neck. He had the quick gaze of someone accustomed to seeing when a footfall was lying.

“Liora.”

“Samir.”

He looked at the crutch.

Then the ankle.

Then her face.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you. I’m happy to see you too.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Trick question.”

“So no.”

He looked at me.

“And you are?”

An interesting moment.

Very bad.

“Aurèl.”

Liora added:

“The neighbor.”

Then almost froze.

The neighbor.

Fine.

A practical category.

Old.

Not false.

Not sufficient.

I saw the same thought cross her face.

She continued:

“I mean, Aurèl.”

Samir looked from one of us to the other.

With unpleasant intelligence.

“Okay.”

An okay that believed very little.

I contemplated the track.

Beautiful track.

Very red.

Samir returned his attention to Liora.

“We’re keeping it simple. Mobility, walking, a few very gentle drills if nothing pulls. No speed. No starts. No hard pressure through the bends. If it hurts, you stop.”

“Yes.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I mean actually.”

“Yes.”

“Not your competition yes.”

“I have several yeses?”

“At least four. That was the wrong one.”

I lowered my eyes to hide a smile.

Liora saw.

“Do not form an alliance with him.”

“I’m on the bench.”

“Stay there.”

Samir gave me an amused look.

“Good place.”

I handed over the bag.

Liora immediately took it.

“I can carry my own bag for ten feet.”

“Yes,” I said.

She looked at me, almost surprised that I didn’t fight her.

Then placed the bag on the bench herself.

A small victory.

Very local.

I sat down.

She walked toward Samir, removed her jacket, then put the crutch against the bench with controlled aggression.

The stadium had its own sounds.

Shoes against the track.

Breathing.

A whistle in the distance.

Jackets rubbing.

A few voices.

Nothing like the studio.

Here, the body was everywhere.

Inside the painted lines, the stopwatches, the bags, the way everyone shook out a leg, checked a shoelace, rotated an ankle.

I wasn’t in my element.

Not badly.

Simply elsewhere.

Liora belonged there, even injured.

It was immediately visible.

The others greeted her. A boy asked if she was okay. A girl grimaced when she saw the brace. Liora answered too quickly, joked, minimized.

Classic.

Then her gaze moved toward me.

I did nothing.

I didn’t raise my eyebrows.

I didn’t point at the brace.

I only remained there.

On the bench.

Without a catastrophe face, hopefully.

She looked away.

But I thought I saw her mouth relax slightly.

Samir began by making her walk.

Slowly.

One length of the straightaway.

Then back.

Liora looked humiliated by the activity.

Walking on a track seemed, to her, like an insulting use of the infrastructure.

She completed the length anyway.

Then returned.

Samir watched her.

“Pain?”

“Three.”

“Honest?”

“Four.”

“Good.”

She sighed.

“I love this system where I’m rewarded for hurting more.”

“You’re rewarded for not lying.”

“Very new for me.”

“I know.”

He had her perform ankle movements, very low knee raises, and a few gentle weight shifts.

She obeyed.

Badly.

Well, technically well.

Emotionally badly.

Every reduced movement seemed to remind her of everything she wasn’t doing.

No acceleration.

No drive.

No start.

None of the sensation of the body suddenly aligning, the breath finding its place, the world becoming a line to cross.

At one point, another group began a series of strides.

Liora watched them.

Her body moved half a step forward without permission.

Samir said:

“No.”

She froze.

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You were about to.”

“Everyone says that to me now.”

I almost smiled.

I didn’t.

Spectacular maturity.

Samir crossed his arms.

“Do you want to run at the championships?”

“Yes.”

“Then you don’t run today as though you have something to prove.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I know.”

“No. You hate knowing it.”

She didn’t answer.

He continued more gently:

“You can compete. If you respect the return. If you accept losing a few sessions now so you don’t lose three weeks afterward. That means no hard sessions this week. Modified strength work. Cycling if there’s no pain. Gentle straightaways in a few days. No fast bends until you’re cleared. And if it swells, we stop.”

Liora looked at the track.

“So I’ll arrive underprepared.”

“You’ll arrive with different preparation.”

“That’s a coach sentence.”

“Yes. I’m a coach.”

“It’s irritating.”

“It’s true.”

She turned slightly and looked toward me.

Not to ask for help.

Perhaps to check whether I had heard.

I had.

Everything.

I felt the sentence arrive inside me.

I told you so.

It was there.

Perfectly available.

Well constructed.

With several arguments.

A documented history.

A wall-related appendix.

I let it pass.

Without saying it.

A tremendous achievement.

Invisible.

No one applauded.

Scandalous.

Liora returned to the bench a few minutes later. Samir walked away to retrieve a resistance band from another bag.

She sat beside me, not too close, then too close anyway because stadium benches had a loose understanding of personal space.

Her shoulder almost touched mine.

Almost.

Then she shifted slightly.

Our shoulders touched for real.

She didn’t move away.

Neither did I.

“You have your neutral face,” she said.

“Is it working?”

“You look like a man trying very hard not to have an opinion.”

“That is exactly what’s happening.”

She stared ahead.

The others were running.

Smooth strides.

Easy.

“I feel like I’m being punished.”

I didn’t answer immediately.

Because the wrong response was ready:

This isn’t punishment. It’s adaptation.

An accurate sentence.

Useless.

I took more time.

“Because you can’t do what you normally do?”

“Yes.”

“Or because you have to do it differently in front of everyone?”

She turned her head toward me.

Direct hit.

Not pleasant.

“Both.”

I nodded.

“I know it isn’t serious. I mean, it’s a sprain. People have real problems. I can walk. I’ll run again. Maybe. Probably. So I know I’m being ridiculous.”

“You aren’t ridiculous.”

She looked down at her brace.

“I feel like crying because I’m not allowed to run bends.”

“That’s quite specific.”

A small laugh escaped her.

“This is my place. Here. My body, the track, the sessions, all of it. Even when everything else is unclear, I know how to do this.”

She swallowed.

“And now I don’t.”

I looked at the white lines across the track.

They seemed simple.

Straight.

Even the bends knew where they were going.

“You still know,” I said.

“You just watched me walk like a cautious retiree.”

“Cautious retirees probably have excellent longevity strategies.”

“Aurèl.”

“Sorry.”

I placed my hands between my knees.

“You still know. You just can’t use the same version of what you know.”

She remained silent.

I felt the next sentence.

Held it back.

Simplified it.

“You can change the way you run without deciding the race is ruined.”

Liora stared straight ahead.

For a long time.

I almost regretted it.

The possibility that I had said too much.

Then she breathed:

“I don’t like it when you’re right so calmly.”

“Neither do I.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because then I have to be consistent.”

She turned toward me.

“With the exhibition?”

I looked at the track.

“A little.”

“You weren’t refusing to move forward.”

“No.”

“You were refusing to move forward inside a sentence that twisted your ankle.”

I looked at her.

She also seemed surprised by her comparison.

“Sorry. Medical imagery too close to home.”

“No.”

I smiled slightly.

“It’s fairly accurate.”

She lowered her eyes.

Her shoulder was still pressed against mine.

Now we both knew it.

Neither of us moved.

“I think I confused slowing down with disappearing,” she said.

No grand music.

No confession.

Almost irritated.

“It happens,” I said.

“To you too?”

“In the opposite direction.”

She smiled.

“Of course.”

Samir returned with a resistance band.

He looked at us.

Looked at our shoulders.

Looked at the band.

Very professionally, he chose not to say anything.

“Light strength work.”

Liora stood.

Too quickly.

She grimaced.

Samir raised his eyebrows.

I didn’t move.

It was extremely difficult.

“Four,” she said before either of us could ask.

“Good,” Samir replied. “See? The truth hasn’t killed anyone.”

“It injured my pride.”

“It’ll survive.”

The rest of the session was slow.

Very slow.

Resistance band around the ankles.

Small lateral steps.

Rest.

Mobility.

Rest.

A few ridiculously short strides, according to Liora’s visible opinion.

Samir asked her to run twenty meters at a very easy pace, only to feel the weight-bearing.

She took her place on the line.

Without the crutch.

Without speed.

My whole body tensed.

I breathed before she could notice.

She started.

Not quickly.

Not truly running.

More like a controlled jog.

But it was already something other than walking.

Her face changed.

No spectacular joy.

No victory.

Total concentration.

Every footfall mattered.

Every sensation.

She reached twenty meters.

Stopped.

Not abruptly.

Samir asked:

“Pain?”

She closed her eyes.

I watched her struggle.

Not against the pain.

Against the lie.

“Four.”

Samir nodded.

“One more. No more than that.”

She opened her eyes.

“That’s all?”

“That’s already a lot.”

“It’s twenty meters.”

“It’s twenty intelligent meters.”

She grimaced.

“Terrible phrase.”

“I stand by it.”

She returned to the start.

This time, before setting off, she looked at me.

I didn’t raise my thumb.

I didn’t gesture.

I stayed there.

She gave an almost imperceptible nod.

Then started again.

Twenty meters.

Slow.

Controlled.

Extremely frustrating.

Entirely real.

When she returned to the bench, her cheeks were red.

Not from intense physical effort.

She sat down.

“I hate maturity.”

“It’s a fairly new discipline.”

“I’m terrible at it.”

“You’re progressing quickly.”

“Don’t be proud of yourself.”

“I’m being careful.”

She picked up her water bottle.

Then leaned back slightly.

“Four.”

“Still?”

“Yes. It isn’t increasing.”

“That’s good.”

“I know.”

She looked at the track.

“I hate that word a little.”

“Good?”

“Yes.”

Samir gave the final instructions.

Rest that afternoon.

Ice.

Gentle mobility in the evening.

No normal practice until further notice.

Two days before testing a slightly faster pace.

Above all, stop if it hurts.

He repeated that three times.

Liora rolled her eyes three times.

On the fourth, he said:

“If you want to run a good race in three weeks, you need to accept not having a beautiful session today.”

She didn’t answer.

Then, more quietly:

“Okay.”

Samir looked at her.

“A real okay?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?”

“The second.”

“Acceptable.”

He left to see another group.

Liora remained seated with the crutch against her knee and her track shoes still on her feet.

“An intelligent race,” she said.

“Sorry?”

“I’m going to run an intelligent race. There. I said it.”

She immediately grimaced deeply.

“My God.”

“What?”

“I feel like I’ve aged thirty years.”

I looked at her.

Her hair had partially escaped its tie, the wind had marked one cheek, a black brace wrapped her ankle, her expression was profoundly annoyed, and her eyes were bright with the look of someone who had yielded without surrendering.

“You look deeply irritated by your own maturity.”

“I am.”

“It suits you rather well.”

She turned toward me.

The silence changed.

Very slightly.

The stadium surrounded us.

The others.

Samir.

Shoes against the track.

The wind.

Nothing intimate, normally.

And yet her hand settled on the bench between us.

Not on mine.

Beside it.

I looked.

Then placed mine close enough for our fingers to touch.

A tiny gesture.

Ridiculous.

Absolutely considerable.

She smiled without looking at me.

“What are we doing?”

“Touching fingers on a public bench.”

“Very technical.”

“I’m describing the facts.”

“And yesterday?”

I breathed.

Her finger didn’t move.

Neither did mine.

“Yesterday, we went beyond the public-bench stage.”

She gave a low laugh.

“Survivor’s answer.”

“My specialty.”

She looked at our hands.

“I don’t know how to do this.”

I felt my heart calm slightly.

Because she had said it.

Because I wasn’t alone with the sentence.

“Neither do I.”

“Does it scare you?”

“Yes.”

She nodded.

“Me too.”

I looked at her.

“You?”

“Yes.”

“You seem less...”

“Less what?”

“Less me.”

She smiled.

“I become terrified faster. It gives the impression of courage.”

I laughed softly.

“That’s possible.”

She moved her finger against mine.

Real contact now.

Simple.

“Can we do this slowly?”

The question seemed to cost her something.

Slowly was not her usual language.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Without disappearing?”

I looked at her.

She wasn’t joking.

Not entirely.

“Yes.”

She nodded.

“Okay.”

Then added:

“But not too slowly either. I’m still me.”

“I had gathered.”

“Good.”

Her phone vibrated.

She picked it up.

“My father.”

She read.

Then sighed.

“‘Report?’”

“He included a question mark?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’s making progress.”

“I’ll send him: alive, annoyed, not worse.”

“Precise.”

She typed.

Then stopped.

“What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Exhibition statement.”

“Have you made progress?”

“A little.”

“Do you want to talk to me about it?”

The question was gentle.

More importantly, it remained a question.

“Later.”

“Okay.”

No visible disappointment.

No insistence.

A small victory.

She put away her phone.

“See? I can avoid climbing onto the wall too.”

“Beautiful metaphor.”

“Thank you. I injured it myself.”

The wind lifted Liora’s hair slightly.

Her finger was still against mine.

Nothing was resolved.

Her ankle existed.

The championship existed.

My statement existed.

So did the kiss.

Without instructions.

Without declarations.

Without a category.

But Liora had run twenty meters without cheating, which, in her world, might have been a greater achievement than a record.

And I had not said I told you so.

No one had applauded that either.

Important progress was consistently short on spectators.

When she put her jacket back on, she leaned on the crutch without pretending she didn’t need it.

I picked up her bag.

She didn’t protest.

Not immediately.

Then, after three steps, she said:

“I’m only letting you carry it because I’m running an intelligent race.”

“That’s consistent.”

“And because you look pleased.”

“I have excellent control over my face.”

“None whatsoever.”

We left the stadium.

More slowly than we had arrived.

She didn’t become angry with the pace.

Well.

Less.

At the entrance, she stopped for a second to look back at the track.

Then continued walking.

“I’m going to run differently,” she said.

It sounded as though she were announcing it as much to herself as to me.

“Okay.”

“Intelligently.”

She immediately grimaced.

“Terrible.”

“Very mature.”

“Shut up.”

I smiled.

So did she.

Her crutch struck the sidewalk softly.

A new rhythm.

Not hers.

Not yet.

But she was moving forward.

Without disappearing.