Free Wildflower Hill by Kimberley Freeman

moved in for the kill. “We have some of the best specialists in the world in Sydney,” she said, puffing up with national pride. “They will take such good care of you and your knee.” Then the words that sealed it. “Your father knows a physiotherapist who helped one of the Sydney Swans rehabilitate his knee. She’s quite famous, and I believe he’s gone back to the game now.”
    My heart caught on a hook. Was she saying this physiotherapist could help me to dance again? Because if I could dance, I had a future. If I couldn’t, I was this wreck of a human being.
    Mum held her breath.
    “All right,” I said, “I’ll come.”
    It took me six full minutes—fingers locked like iron around the banister, sweat beading on my brow, knee twinging—but I finally made it up the narrow stairs to the rooftop terrace.
    It was unseasonably cold, with squally rain clouds blowing in from the northeast, as though they’d gathered up the gray sea on the way. I made my way over the timber decking to the railing, past the scruffy pots of marigolds and impatiens, leaned against it, and took deep breaths.
    This was the view—over the Thames toward Battersea Park—that Josh and I had fallen in love with. Melancholyslid its arms around me. I remembered the day we’d moved in. I’d been in rehearsals for a regional tour of
Daphnis and Chloe,
Josh had just gotten a promotion. We’d left the packing and putting away to come up here with Chinese takeaway and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. As the sky darkened and the lights all over London flickered into life, Josh had brought up an armful of blankets and we’d made love under the sky. All his kisses tasted like champagne and soy sauce. I froze and laughed at the same time. We were sure everything would go our way from that moment on.
    Perhaps, for Josh, it had gone his way. I didn’t know. I realized I knew too little about him. I never asked about his work because it bored me, even though he always wanted to know about mine, what I was thinking and feeling about it. Had I been that self-obsessed? It seemed so. Perhaps there was always an assistant waiting in the wings for the partners of women like me.
    Mum would be here to get me within an hour. The flights had been booked before she even left Australia. Business class, so I could have my leg stretched out for the entire trip if necessary. Still, I dreaded it. Such a long way. It would take the last of my sleeping pills and painkillers to get through it, and I had deliberately refused to renew my prescriptions. From the moment I touched down in Australia, I was determined to regain my fitness. My dignity. Perhaps even my ability to dance.
    How I wished Mum would stop banging on about “other careers.” Especially teaching dancing. Teaching! I could barely relate to adults, what would I do with children? Break them, probably. Choreography: no. It would only make me jealousto see other people moving, fluid, alive, their hearts thundering, while I stood on the sidelines and watched.
    I sighed and sagged against the railing. “Goodbye, goodbye,” I said to the London sky and the river and the cars and the people and the dream, and all of my insides were in a tangle of grief. “I’m going home.”

SEVEN
     
    T o her credit, Mum waited a week—long enough for me to recover from jet lag and withdraw from the painkillers—before she revealed her ulterior motive. Perhaps she would have waited longer, but Uncle Mike dropped by unexpectedly and, just as unexpectedly, said what he shouldn’t have.
    It was spring in Sydney, and the air was alive with the scent of the jasmine that Mum grew in the deep back garden. I had started physiotherapy with my father’s acquaintance and, at her recommendation, was resolutely walking up and down the entrance hall, avoiding the overly friendly wet nose of Tiger, the German shepherd pup Dad had given Mum for Christmas. Without the painkillers, I was more able to feel the joint, know it. The