Standing on the Line

By Madeline C. Lanshe

Getting a cast on, I used to think, was something that, if it was going to happen to you, happened when you were a kid. Much like braces. Some of my siblings had broken bones when we were younger, and I’d skated by watching all six of them choose colors for their braces. I thought that at the mature old age of 27, I’d escaped both those experiences. I know now, as I type this story with my left hand, the right sitting uselessly in my lap, confined in a splint as I wait to be casted, that that isn’t the case.

It is not how I imagined spending my second week as an employee at Advanced RV, nor my debut trip in one of our custom vans.

On my first day, Mike, my new employer and the president of ARV, suggested I go on a weekend trip with Elise, an employee around my age who had experience taking out a couple of vans.

I’d beamed at the idea of traveling and sleeping in a dream vehicle, as well as getting to know one of my new coworkers. That I’d be asking her to tie the laces of my hiking boots or help me put eye drops in my dog’s eye never crossed my mind as we hastily and excitedly made our plans to visit Allegheny National Forest and Kinzua Bridge in PA.

When playing defense in volleyball, especially against higher level male hitters, a line from the Nicholas Cage film, GhostRider , runs like a mantra through my head: “You can’t live in fear.” When my blocker puts up a cross- block, and there’s nothing stopping the opposing hitter from ripping the ball down the line at full force where I’m standing, it’s my job to get the ball up, not step out of the way or worry about getting drilled in the face. That’s not how you become a stud defender, and it certainly wouldn’t make my greatest volleyball role model and inspiration, the number one libero in the world and a member of France’s national team, Jenia Grebennikov, proud.

You can’t live in fear.

So, during one of my four weekly leagues, I planted myself on the line, tried to read the approaching attacker, put my hands in a neutral, waiting position, and watched as the ball was spiked at me. It happened fast. My brain computed that the ball was flying at my chest and I lifted my hands, hoping to get it up high enough for my teammates to return it. Pain whizzed through my right wrist as the ball made contact.

I didn’t know in that moment that I’d fractured my radius, but I did know that the tears, which came minutes later as I watched my teammates play as a team of three, weren’t from the physical pain, but from knowing that I would not be getting back on the court for my league the next day, the tournament Friday, or the weeks to come.

I was splinted in the ER that Wednesday night. In spite of that, Elise and I decided to go through with our trip as planned, setting off Saturday morning.

I showed up to ARV fifteen minutes late, underestimating how long it would take to get ready with one hand. Elise had had an early adventure of her own, climbing through the window of our chosen van, Roadrunner, in order to get the keys. We loaded our things inside, including my eager corgi, Scully, and we were on our way.

Traveling and adventure have always been in my veins. From ages five to twenty-one, I did Irish dance competitions all over the region with my three sisters, some cousins, and friends. My mom would drive the family 15 passenger van named Bam Bam, with all of us inside and, even then, the magic and fun of traveling in a large van did not escape me. We’d take out the back row of seats, some of us sitting on the floor (don’t tell my dad), and belt Disney songs at the top of our lungs on the way home when the pressure and anxiety of the competition were forgotten. I’d also taught English at Le Mans University in France for two years, taking solo trips to other European countries during my stay.

It became clear early in our drive that Elise, too, had a roving spirit. She’d lived in Hawaii and Australia and had her own extensive list of places to visit and experiences to be lived. I was pleased to find in her another quality we share: taking delight in the smallest of things, such as the way the icy ground collapsed under our feet, the green by the banks of a creek where the moisture on the plants melted the falling snow, the taste of our microwaved dinners that we bought from Trader Joe’s. When we were walking to the van after we’d made our purchases, Elise declared, “This is the dream.”

Despite the splinted arm curled against my chest, I wholeheartedly agreed.

We drove to Kinzua Bridge first. What was once the longest, tallest railroad in the world for two years, when it was built in 1882, was destroyed by a tornado in 2003. In 2011, it was reinvented as a pedestrian walkway.

The frigid air, speckled with a steady amount of snowflakes, bit at our hands as we wandered down the 600 ft walkway, taking pictures of the naked trees, snaking river, and piles of the collapsed structure below. The other side of the bridge could be seen across the valley, distant, beckoning. With the snow muting all noise, and the gigantic pieces of metal lying abandoned on forest floor, like the battleground of a futuristic fight, the place felt post-apocalyptic, in a serene way, as if the threat of danger had dissipated.

Before we started on the icy path leading down to the river, I remembered something I’d put in my pocket: a Christmas tree ornament in the shape of a s’more with a face and hands, holding a volleyball. I’d named him Grebennikov, or, Greb for short, and had drawn the number 2, (the real Grebennikov’s number), in black sharpie over the number 1 that had come on his jersey.

Elise looked at me like ‘what the heck is that?’ as I set him on the railing to take a photo. I explained that he comes along on all my travels and it happened to be Greb’s first time in PA.

Down by the river, Elise spun in circles, catching snowflakes in her mouth like kids do in old movies. By the time we climbed back up the path and returned to the van, it was becoming dark. Elise had already scoped out a place to park the van for the night so we made our way there. We followed the GPS down a long, deserted road lined with trees, Roadrunner doing great over the light blanket of snow. A little area opened to the right, large enough for an RV. Elise backed us in and we were parked for the night.

We managed to get the TV working, so we hunkered down to watch one of the DVDs Elise had had the foresight to bring. Our single beds had a small path between them, and Scully jumped ship from mine to Elise’s, snuggling into her apparently more enticing blankets with nary a “by your leave.” The traitor.

Laying in the bed, the blinds drawn on the windows, the world dark outside, the van dark around us, save the illumination from the TV, with no internet connection, I felt like we existed in a bubble outside of reality, outside of the grounded world. We could’ve been floating in a space pod, moving towards some new, curious land, or simply drifting through endless blackness, the snowflakes, actually passing stars.

Since getting the news that my injury would take me out for six to eight weeks, and experiencing the reduction in my independence and efficiency, I’d been blanketed with feelings of detachment and exhaustion. I’d just started this job and was moving into a new place to live. I knew I wasn’t as present as I wanted to be, and my social battery level was at an all-time low. It saddened me, because I was aware I wasn’t engaging in the conversations with Elise as energetically as I wanted to, or expressing my own excitement and thoughts as I experienced them. I worried about what kind of first impression I was making, but was unable to find the drive to interact differently. Still, I reminded myself how fortunate I was to be in this moment, in this forest, in this van, with a nice, helpful person and a wonderful dog, and just how crazy and unexpected it was, all the pieces that fell into place to put me here.

It was only this summer that I was serving at a restaurant in Willoughby, OH, while simultaneously working at a volleyball facility, loving the latter and growing restless of the first, feeling lost and overwhelmed by life. Mike sat in my section, not for the first time, with his wife. I had no idea who he was, but we’d recognized each other. He asked how volleyball was going and if I had time to do anything else. Looking back, this was a pivotal moment. If I had answered differently, I probably wouldn’t have been ‘living the dream,’ as Elise had put it, sleeping in a tricked-out RV in an unmarked area of Allegheny National Forest. “I write as well,” I said.

“I have my master’s degree in creative writing.” I surprised myself by sharing this with a stranger because typically, people don’t really care, or they ask me more questions than I want to answer.

Mike followed up his question by asking if I ever edited. I said not professionally, but I had the capabilities. He handed me his business card and gave me his cell number, along with a brief description of his business. The idea of custom motorhomes that could be lived in and driven across the country excited me. Otherwise, despite my need and desire for a change in my life, I wouldn’t have contacted him the next day.

We met up a few times to discuss my role. It turns out, he didn’t just want my help editing, but he needed someone to create a magazine from the ground up. It became clear that I wouldn’t be able to fulfill his company’s needs while working two other jobs. So, before I’d even begun working for ARV, Mike took a chance on me and offered me a full-time position. Had I not been serving that day, had I not shared my passion for writing, had I not taken my own chance on something new, even though it daunted me, I wouldn’t have a new job that excites the adventurer in me and fulfills my desire to design and create.

You can’t live in fear.

In the morning, after exploring the forest for a bit, we began the journey home. I was amazed how comfortable Scully was in the van, though she’d never ridden in something so large before, save a plane, when she came to France with me. Each time we drove, she’d lay by my feet, waiting patiently for our next stop. It made me ache to travel the world with her by my side, a couple of gals bumming around off the beaten path.

As we continued homeward, listening to music and talking about books and tiny houses, a flash of white caught my eye. Flying up through the trees was a bald eagle. Like a defibrillator, I felt that jolt of giddiness that had been lying dormant inside me, and emphatically pointed it out to Elise. I’d never seen one in the wild before, but it was on my bucket list. It was another moment that reminded me: I am alive, I am here, and life gives as well as takes.

It was late evening by the time we cleaned out the van. I returned, exhausted, to a house in the disarray of moving in, with a not-yet working shower, unpacking my car and bags with one hand, overwhelmed by the work to be done, the deadline of the magazine, and the weeks stretching ahead of me without volleyball or the ease of two hands. I wished I could be back in the suspended bubble in the woods.

However, when I went to ARV the next morning and started getting my creative juices flowing, it was easy to be filled with the gratitude of working in such a riveting company, one where I could find fulfillment in building something special with kind, thoughtful coworkers, and a sense of security I hadn’t felt since living in France.

The day I get back on the court, with a newly healed wrist and unbridled excitement, I will not let the memory of past pain and injury unnerve me. I’ll watch the attacker leap in the air, pull back his arm for the spike, and I’ll be ready, standing on the line, once again.