The Dinner I Couldn't Digest

Trigger warning: child abuse of a sexual nature

They flocked around him like crows on a dead sheep. Too bad they weren't pecking out his eyes. Instead, they bent towards him, their smiles reflected in the wine glass in front of me. I could hear trills of laughter and noticed a woman lay her hand on his shoulder. He reached up and took her fingers, squeezing them, a promissory gesture. She coloured slightly and gave him a private smile that I should not have witnessed. I wish I hadn’t. It made me ill.

If I had known he would be here, I would have declined the invitation. Even being in the same room with him triggered more emotions than I could stomach in one evening. It didn’t help that he greeted me as if we were old friends, clasping me at the elbow and moving forward to kiss my cheek. When I jerked away from him, his expression didn’t alter - still smooth and in control. It was I who was in turmoil, while he merely gave a short laugh and shook his head.

But then he leaned towards me again and whispered, “No one will ever believe you,” and I had to knot every muscle in my body to keep from kneeing him in the crotch. Wouldn’t I love to put that part of him out of commission? If only I could deform him permanently. What a boon to the world that would be.

This was an awards dinner for coaches of successful gymnasts. Something we both were, though he was a lot more celebrated than me. My transition from performer to coach had only happened in the past few years but I had pushed my girls with the same passion with which I had motivated myself. My own stellar career had helped me attract talent to my team and though we had a way to go, I was convinced that we would one day catch up with Sergey’s team. My girls were happier and healthier. They were treated as human beings, not little gymnastic machines. They had their flaws but I believed that because they were respected, nurtured, even loved, they would remain in the sport long enough to reach the heights of international success.

Sergey’s team consisted of gymnasts with perfect bodies. They had been selected for both their ability and their potential. Any child not living up to that potential had been cut, sliced away from their cohorts and pushed from a sport they loved. Awkward pubertal body changes were not tolerated. Breasts and hips were not useful to gymnasts. If the athlete did not control her womanly curves via strict dieting, she was no longer part of the team. If she was not able to work through an injury, she was shown the door. Only streamlined, stoic beings were permitted to train with the illustrious Sergey. But he did produce champions - one after another. And we were all in awe of his current star, Heather Taunton, national champion three years a row. Youngest national champion. Olympic hopeful.

No one talked about the girls left by the wayside - injured so severely that they would suffer in pain for the rest of their lives. Others mentally traumatised to the point that they developed eating disorders and suicidal tendencies. We were, after all, in the land of ‘winner takes all’. The costs were irrelevant. His technique was well practiced in the community. I, myself, had been a product of that sort of training. It’s a serious sport. We all know that. By trying to do it differently, I could very well fail.

But it wasn’t his relentless pursuit of the perfect gymnast that made me hate Sergey. At least not the main reason. It was the other thing.

Sergey’s Olympic hope, Heather Taunton was a willowy girl of fifteen. Her ash blond hair framed a pinched face, permanently constricted into a picture of worry. When I was one of Sergey’s coaches, I worked with her on her choreography, trying to loosen the restrained gestures and put some expression into the robotic moves. I had no success. The girl was bound as tight as a patient in a straight jacket. I also attempted to alter some of her steps that I felt were too provocative for a girl her age. But Sergey disliked my changes, complaining that I had turned a winning routine into a piece as boring as a blank page. I had only wanted to the girl to feel more comfortable when she performed in front of thousands wearing only a leotard. Comfort wasn’t a space Heather could occupy though.

I often drove her home as her house was on the way to my far less salubrious neighbourhood. Getting into my car she might fumble with the seat belt or the locking system, so exhausted from her work-out that even simple tasks were challenging.

“I’m so stupid,” she would declare.

“No,” I would insist, “you’re just tired. No one could be as brilliant a gymnast as you are if they were stupid.” It was important to state this. Over and over. It was never absorbed though, as much as I tried.

Sergey kept his treasure close. He travelled with her to every competition she qualified for - regionals, nationals, World cup. As her coach, he had to be there but he didn’t need to monitor her every meal, what she wore, when she slept. The concept of her spending time with other competitors and perhaps having a bit of fun did not register. And I didn’t think much of his fashion choices for young Heather - tight jeans and spike heels were his favourite. She looked like a high-class whore. Right up his alley. As a child she did what she was told to do. When I still had access to her, I tried to discuss the inappropriate wardrobe. ‘What if she twisted an ankle on those dangerous shoes?’ was my initial gambit. She must have been aware of what she looked like, what the other girls were saying but she would shrug and say, ‘It’s what Sergey likes.’

‘Fuck Sergey,’ is what I wanted to say. Instead, I said, “You need to listen to Sergey in the gym Heather, not outside of it.”

She didn’t hear that either.

We were at Nationals the year she turned fourteen when I realised he was in her hotel room. All night. Maybe she was scared and he was reassuring her I reasoned. But then he was there at the Cup and the Gala. Did no one else notice? Wasn’t this wrong?

“You okay?” I asked Heather when she showed up for warm-ups. She gave me a quick nod but I couldn’t overlook her red-rimmed eyes.

Why did I suspect the worst? Because he had tried it on with me.

He owed me a month’s wages and when I pressed for payment he offered to pay me another way.

“We could have a meal together then you could come back to mine…”

I looked at his tight shorts, bulging in an ostentatious fashion. His t-shirt was also skin-tight, outlining every abdominal muscle. Did he really think we were that anxious to see his body parts? My lip twitched in distaste

“This is a professional relationship. You owe me money. I owe you fuck all,” was my reply. I should not have been rude. It was a red rag to a hormonal bull. The gym was empty. He pressed me against the wall. His erection hard against my stomach and his hands gripping each of my arms in steel that I could not resist. His face was close to me and then his mouth smothered mine. I bit his lip as hard as I could, until I tasted blood.

“You little bitch,” he swore as he broke away from me.

“I said I wasn’t interested,” I told him, my fists up and eyes narrowed. “Your English is good enough to understand that much.”

I could see that he wanted to slap me, even punch me. His arm was ready. Then he let out a laugh and forced his body to relax.

“Frigid bitch,” he said, grinning broadly.

“It’s called having standards,” I said as I turned away and moved as fast as I could across the floor exercise area. At the door, I turned. “You still owe me money.”

It turned out I wasn’t the only one. Stories appeared like mushrooms when I started to enquire. Other coaches, some gymnasts, the odd judge. The man was a walking prick attached to a barely functioning brain.

And I knew in my gut that he was abusing Heather. Beautiful, shy, super talented Heather. I couldn’t let him destroy her. Already she was wafer thin, dark circles carved deep under her eyes. Her skin was so pale as to be almost translucent. Spending so much time in the gym I doubted she ever saw the light of day. She would break soon and then he would move onto a younger more resilient model. God bless her, she reminded me of myself when I was younger.

I went to her parents, a wealthy couple with generations of money behind them. Classy folks who could hire lawyers, therapists. They would care. They would save their daughter.

Her mother let her eyes go wide. Then she pursed her lips.

“You are mistaken dear. Sergey loves Heather. He would never hurt her. He’s made her into a champion. She’s won every competition she’s been in since he chose her as his star.” Mrs Taunton gestured towards the entry hall that was lined with photos of Heather posing on the beam, flipping between the bars, wearing gold medals, even shaking hands with celebrities. “We trust him completely,” she told me.

“Have you ever asked Heather if everything’s alright? I’ve seen her crying…”

Mrs Taunton interrupted me, “Being a top-level athlete is stressful. Of course there are going to be tears from time to time. Now we ask you never to mention any of your silly suspicions to Heather. We wouldn’t want her getting upset.”

I went to the governing body with my suspicions. ‘No proof,’ they told me. My public falling out with him didn’t help my case. I had left his gym in a rage one day. The parents’ viewing area was packed the afternoon I shouted out that he was a slave driver, working his girls like they were training for the Marines. I never got paid for my last month of work either and reported him to an employment tribunal. Also, there were the several instances where I had petitioned judges against their scores for his team against mine. I don’t know if he slept with some of the judges, bribed them or intimidated them but there was definitely preferential treatment. I felt like I was wrestling with two broken arms. No one would believe me. It made me writhe that his whispered greeting was spot on.

Sitting opposite him at the banquet, I was totally unable to eat. Which cruel organiser had put us at the same table? I pushed the food around my plate and reached for my glass of wine. His eyes flicked to me.

“Dieting? You sure don’t have the figure you used to have when you were competing.” He knew that sort of remark would pierce any former gymnast.

“I have acquired a normal body size for a woman,” I spoke through gritted teeth and took a sip of wine. If it weren’t a waste of good alcohol, I’d throw it in his face, staining his buttercup yellow shirt with red. He snorted and raised an eyebrow at me. Ok, I was a bit on the tubby size these days. All those years of starving myself had led to a need to feed. In the future I would find an equilibrium. Right now, I was still trying to figure out what a normal person was allowed to eat. And drink. This is why I didn’t let my girls get too thin. I wanted them to be healthy. I didn’t want them to spend the rest of their lives doubting their own body shapes.

It was my time to set a snare. “How is Heather? I noticed you didn’t enter her in the last competition.”

Did I see a frown flit across his face?

“She is having a rest. Not an important meet for her to attend anyway.”

I nodded. “Injured?”

His jaw clenched. “No.”

“Next time I’m in the state, I might swing by and visit her. I’ve always had a soft spot for her.”

“You may not interfere with my gymnasts,” he growled.

I rearranged the cutlery next to my plate. “Of course not. You’ve taken care of that yourself.”

A fan appeared then, interrupting our verbal swordplay. Sergey’s florid face transformed, the features rearranging into an open door. I stood up to visit the ladies room, considering whether or not I felt like puking. The wine on an empty stomach was not settling.

He reached out and grabbed my wrist as I passed, “You must know Stacey Wright,” he said, introducing me to the starstruck minor coach hovering next to his chair.

“Stacy Wright,” she wrinkled her brow. “Stacey? Do you mean the gymnast that invented the Wright Flip?” I nodded, flattered at what I thought was awe in her voice. “I didn’t recognise you,” she said as she ran her eyes over my expanded waistline.

“Well, it has been seven years,” I mumbled.

“She is a coach now,” Sergey decided to continue my excruciation. “Her little girls won junior nationals this year.”

“The Acrostars?” the woman asked. “Oh yeah. They were sweet. Loved their floor routines.” Then she detached herself and moved away, promising to catch Sergey after the awards.

Sergey got coach of the year. For the third year running. I got nothing but I wasn’t expecting to. It had been an honour to be invited at all, though not a pleasure. Yet the discomfort of the evening was not wasted. It made me think that Heather might need me, that someone might listen to me now. After I slept off my hangover, I would drive to Heather’s house and drop in on her. No warning. That way Sergey could not intervene.

It took me five hours to retrace my steps to Heather’s neighbourhood. It was dinner time when I pulled up in front of her house. Not a polite time to intrude but it gave me a good chance of catching them at home.

The bell rang and there was silence. I tried it again. Nothing. Then I knocked. Perhaps they had gone out, though I could see two cars in the drive. I was considering getting back in my car when I heard heels clicking down the hardwood floor that led to their door. I remembered the hallway, photos of Heather along its length.

It was her mother that opened the door. She peered at me as if she had never seen a member of the human species before.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if Heather was at home?”

“Who are you?” Her tone was as sharp as a paper cut.

“Stacey. Stacey Wright. I used to help coach her. I gave her a lift home after gym most nights.”

She looked me up and down, her jaw clenching. “Heather isn’t here.”

“Oh.” What now? Did I press? Yes, I had to. “Do you know when she’ll be home? I heard she wasn’t training at the moment. I guess she has an injury?” I was babbling. “I’d really love to see her. She was always a favourite of mine. I’ve driven a long way…” I drifted off in the face of her icy expression.

“Heather won’t be coming home.”

Something fell into the pit of my stomach. I swallowed hard. There should be another question but I couldn’t find it.

Her mother leaned against the door frame and sighed, her whole body collapsing with the effort of letting the breath out of her body.

“I remember you,” she said. “You tried to warn us.”

I bit my bottom lip and nodded.

She reached out, placing her hand on my shoulder and then all of sudden pulled me into an embrace. I let my arms wrap around her back, feeling each rib under my fingers. The body in my arms shook with sobs. I could only stand there and hold her.

After what felt like an era but could only have been two minutes, a man appeared in the hall behind Heather’s mother. He took his wife by the shoulder and pulled her away from me, leading her past the walls, decorated with Heather. Heather flipping and twisting, Heather with a gold medal around her neck, Heather smiling sadly into the camera, one hand lifted as if to wave good-bye.