On my roll-off.
On mastering ramps.
By Thursday I’m confident enough to leave my cane at home, which feels like a huge step forward, and random people who I don’t even know tell me how awesome it is to see me walking.
But then comes a huge step back.
At lunch Kyro breaks it to Fiona and me that Gavin’s newspaper article has brought in only forty dollars. “I don’t understand it,” he says, raking his long fingers along his hair. “I was sure there would be an outpouring of goodwill.”
“Maybe it’s still coming?” Fiona says.
He sighs. “Let’s hope. Unfortunately there’s often a deep, wide abyss between good intentions and concrete action. And as unfair as it is, after a few days any story becomes old news.” He looks at me. “It’s disappointing, but don’t worry. We’ll raise the money.”
Still. I can’t help but be discouraged, and Rosa picks up on my mood in math.
What’s wrong? she writes in a note.
The running leg’s a pipe dream.
She slips the note back.
So was walking.
Ms. Rucker is watching me, so I hide the note and focus on the board.
Until Rosa slides another note my way.
Don’t look so far ahead.
I slip the note into my backpack and find my mood spiraling even further downward. Looking ahead is what’s been giving me hope. I’ve wanted to believe that somehow we’ll be able to gather twenty thousand dollars. I’ve wanted to believe that I’ll run again.
But hope now feels so fragile.
Too fragile to touch.
AFTER SCHOOL I SEE THE TRACK TEAMS loading onto a bus.
I stand in the distance and watch, feeling cold and shaky.
How can they even get on a bus?
I remind myself that it’s not their first away meet since the wreck. There have been two of them, plus the Glenwood Relays.
For them the memory must be fading.
For me it feels like yesterday.
And every tomorrow, for as far as I can see.
FRIDAY WHEN I VISIT HANK, he’s very impressed.
“Fantastic,” he says over and over. “Now that’s progress.”
My mom and I exchange glances, and I can tell she’s thinking what I’m thinking: Hank seems so different. It’s like he’s come to life because the monster he’s built has come to life.
He makes lots of little adjustments with his Allen wrench, twisting it inside the little holes in the pipe couplings as he throws around words like adduction and abduction, dorsiflexion and plantar flexion, inversion and eversion. He makes me walk, he adjusts, he makes me walk, he adjusts … and when he’s finally done, he smiles at me. “I saw the article in the paper. Great piece. And if your progress this week is any indication, I have no doubt that you will be running again. Soon.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, and it is nice to see him so enthused. The problem, though, is that his enthusiasm doesn’t stick on me. It’s been a long, hard week, and all I can seem to see is that I’m still having trouble walking.
PART IV
IT’S STILL DARK OUTSIDE. The streetlights glow through the curtains, putting a soft spotlight on Sherlock, who is fast asleep on my bed. He’s curled up next to Lucas the bear near the footboard, his back resting against the wall, his chin on the bedspread facing me. Even in his sleep, he’s watching me. Protecting me.
I admire his beautiful coat, the dark lines of his eyes, his pointy ears and droopy whiskers.
I want to kiss his muzzle and tell him what a sweet, sweet boy he is.
And then I get the feeling.
The one I’ve kept buried for so long.
I have to get up.
Get out.
Go.
Maybe I can do it, I tell myself. Not fast, not hard … but maybe I can run.
“Sherlock.” It’s barely even a whisper, but his eyes fly open. “You want to go for a—” I stop myself. “Outside?”
He cocks his head, not entirely sure whether what he thinks I’m asking is what I’m really asking.
For that matter, neither am I.
“Get your Frisbee,” I tell him.
He jumps off the bed and darts down the stairs, but he knows it’ll be a little while before I can get down there.
I slip on the nylon, then pull on a stump sock.
I layer on another sock.
My leg’s still shrinking, so I need the extra padding to keep my socket snug.
Then I put on the liner, push into my pipe leg, and roll up the suction sleeve.
It feels solid, but still … foreign.
Like we’re still getting to know each other.
I sit on the edge of the bed and dress, pulling on my zip sweats, lacing on my left shoe, zipping up a sweatshirt.
I’m better at the stairs now but still very careful.
Up is easier than down.
Sherlock waits patiently at the bottom, tail wagging, Frisbee at his feet. “Good boy,” I whisper, then leave a quick note and ease out the front door.
The air is cool and moist from a light fog—perfect running weather. I breathe in deeply and close my eyes. Something in my mind doesn’t know I can’t run. Something inside me believes I can just take off.
Sherlock puts down the Frisbee and looks up at me. He’s holding his breath. Hoping.
I pick up the Frisbee and say, “Heel.”
He falls into place on my left side as we go down our walkway, but he’s keyed up, waiting for something big to happen.
When I get to the sidewalk, I turn left instead of our usual right.
I sense his confusion.
His disappointment.
“Fetch!” I tell him, and toss the Frisbee a straight, controlled distance down the sidewalk.
He tears off after it, and while he’s gone, I take a few jogging steps.
It’s enough to tell me that I cannot run.
Sherlock is already back.
I toss the Frisbee again.
I try jogging again.
I make it ten steps this time.
Twenty the next.
But it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like running. It doesn’t feel like anything but hard, hard work.
I think of Kaylee, counting steps.
I try again; try not to count.
I feel like a lifeless machine moving forward.
I rest at the corner, more disappointed than tired. Sherlock, however, is enjoying the Frisbee game immensely, and so we turn the corner and press on. I try jogging a few more times, but eventually I just give up and walk. I tell myself I should be happy with walking.
Walking is a miracle.
I press on, and then through the misty air I hear my name.
It’s soft, drifting toward me from the left.
“Jessica!”
I turn, and it’s like I’m thrown into a dream. There’s a mermaid fountain in the middle of the yard and, beyond it, a girl sitting on the porch, wrapped in a white blanket.
“Rosa?” I ask.
“Jessica!” she says again.
It takes me a moment to understand that I’m not dreaming. When I do, I clap twice, bringing Sherlock running back to me, and we both head up the walkway. There’s a ramp up the side of the porch steps, just like there still is on ours. “I can’t believe you’re up so early,” I say with a laugh.
“Look who’s talking,” she says back.
“But … why are you out here?”
“I love mornings,” she says. “They’re so peaceful.” She’s got her eye on Sherlock. “He’s gorgeous!”
“Sherlock, this is Rosa,” I say, making the official introduction. “Say hi.”
“Aaarooo!” Sherlock says, wagging his tail.
Rosa reaches out tentatively to pet him.
“He’s very friendly,” I say, sitting on a bench that’s near her wheelchair. “Don’t worry.” Soon she’s hugging Sherlock around his neck, giggling from being slobbered
with doggie kisses.
“You were taking him for a walk?” she asks when Sherlock’s settled down a little.
I shrug. “I actually wanted to see if I could run.” I eye her and add, “Which I can’t.”
“You will, though,” she says with her lopsided smile. “I put that article on my bedroom wall.”
“You did?”
She nods. “It’s so cool.” Then she says, “Tell me about running. Why do you like it?”
No one has ever asked me this so directly before. Either people like running or they don’t. Either people get it or they don’t. And if they don’t, they just think people who like it are crazy.
Which is okay.
That makes us even.
But now I have to explain why I like it, and I’m not sure where to start. “Uh … running, or racing?”
She thinks, then says, “Running. Like this morning.”
“Hm.” I try to put my finger on it. “Because it feels like freedom?”
She nods thoughtfully.
“And your mind travels places where it doesn’t normally go.…”
“Huh?”
“Like dreaming in real time?” I laugh. “Never mind. It sounds crazy.”
She laughs too, so I say the next thing that pops into my mind. “I love the morning air on my face—it’s one of the best things about running. The rest of your body’s warm, but your face is cool.” I laugh again. “I totally get why dogs like to stick their head out of car windows. Running’s like that but with fewer bugs in your teeth.”
She laughs again, then sighs and says, “I wish I could feel that.”
“What?” I kid her. “Your mom won’t let you stick your head out the window while she’s driving? What kind of mom do you have?”
“A good one!” Then she says, “Now racing.”
“Huh? Oh—what do I like about racing?”
She nods, so I give that some thought and finally tell her, “It’s electric. From stepping into your lane until you cross the finish line … every cell of your body is charged.”
“Going over the finish line must be wonderful.”
I laugh. “Especially if you’re the first one there.”
“But … it means you finished. You made it. Even if you don’t get a medal.”
I look at her. “You’re very philosophical about the finish line.”
She gives a thoughtful nod. “It’s symbolic.” I nod too, because I’m sure I know what she means, but then she adds, “Because it’s also the starting line.”
For some reason this thought startles me. And I think about all the races where this is true—the 400, the 800, the 1600, all the relays—and it shocks me that I have never looked at it this way.
Maybe because of staggered starts.
Maybe because starting feels so different from finishing. At the starting line