The Running Dream

  I wonder about the deep, wide abyss between good intentions and concrete action, and how many of them leapt across it.

  Is that why they’re so happy to see me run?

  Because they helped make it happen?

  Or are they just happy to see the girl they read about in the paper—the one they saw peg-leg around on TV—running again?

  Either way, I find their enthusiasm to be contagious. It helps me press on. Helps me add weight to the wheelchair. And when they ask why I’m pushing sandbags in a wheelchair, I’m happy to tell them about Rosa and the River Run. “Wish me luck!” I always say, and they do.

  I get a lot of thumbs-ups.

  I give a lot of thumbs-ups back.

  Some weekends Gavin joins Sherlock and me on my distance run. He’s offered since the beginning to take turns pushing the wheelchair, but I made a deal with Mrs. Brazzi, and besides, this is something I want to do for Rosa.

  Then Fiona and Mario decide they want to join us, and as my entourage grows, so do the cheers.

  “Man!” Mario says one Saturday after about the tenth Go, Jessica. “This is crazy!”

  But as much as I like the encouragement, something about it bothers me. And after it happens again, I tell the others, “This is supposed to be about Rosa, not me.”

  “But you’re the one doing it,” Fiona says.

  I slow down, then stop. I’m pushing seventy-five pounds, and all of a sudden I’ve had enough.

  “You okay?” Gavin asks.

  I shake my head. “I probably spend too much time thinking about this, but in my mind this is more than just a run for Rosa. It’s a run about Rosa. You know … like a coming-out party? Where we can say, Hey, this is our friend Rosa. Pay attention, people. She’s a really great person, and a math genius, too!” As we walk along, I tell them about Rosa’s notes and what she wrote about wishing people could see her, not her condition. “I want people to see her. I want it to be a really special day for her.”

  Gently, Gavin tells me, “But if you’re our town celebrity—which it looks like you are—you’re the one who will bring the attention to Rosa. You’re the one who will help people see Rosa. If I pushed her, it wouldn’t have the same impact as it will when you do it.”

  Everyone’s quiet for about half a block, and then Fiona says, “Remember last year at the River Run when Kyro had us passing out Gatorade? There were runners who had their names on their shirts? And complete strangers would shout their names as they ran by? Maybe we can make CHEER FOR ROSA or TEAM ROSA shirts?”

  Leave it to Fiona to come up with something brilliant.

  I look at her and smile. “Team Rosa—I love that idea!”

  “We could do signs or flags … tall ones!” She’s thinking a mile a minute. “We could strap them to the wheelchair and—”

  “Oh, nice,” I tell her. “Increase my wind resistance.”

  She ignores me and my increased wind resistance. “Gavin, Mario, and I could toot horns, or shake clappers, or—”

  “Oh. I’m going so slow you’ve got the energy to toot horns?”

  She faces me. “You’re pushing a hundred pounds!”

  I laugh, and say, “And you’re willing to wear silly shirts and toot horns and carry flags for ten miles?”

  But what’s silly, really, is my question.

  “I’m in,” she says, putting her hand out, palm down.

  “Me too,” Mario says, putting his hand on top of hers.

  “So am I,” Gavin says, piling on.

  I add my hand to the stack, and Sherlock seals the deal with a happy “Aaaroooo!”

  Team Rosa is official.

  SOMEONE CALLS CHANNEL 7.

  Marla Sumner calls me.

  “Why didn’t you tell me you were doing this?” she asks. “This is an amazing story!”

  I agree to her doing a story, but I have one condition: “The focus needs to be on Rosa.”

  Still. The process leaves me very uncomfortable. Marla starts out at Rosa’s house, but after the initial interview there, the news crew follows me everywhere. On a run with the wheelchair, driving to school with Fiona, in the weight room with football players, on the track with Kyro … the focus definitely does not feel like it’s on Rosa.

  Finally, when Marla asks me, “What do you think about when you run?” I snap.

  “Look,” I tell her, “this is not about me. I’m doing this for Rosa. And yeah, at first I just wanted her to experience a run—to cross a finish line and hear people cheering for her—because that’s something she wanted. But you know what? Her biggest wish isn’t to cross a finish line or have people cheer for her. It’s to have people see her instead of her condition. That’s all anybody with a disability wants. Don’t sum up the person based on what you see, or what you don’t understand; get to know them.”

  She packs up quickly after that, and I feel a little bad for having snapped, because I know she means well. But the truth is, I’m glad she’s gone.

  Then Friday night when the story airs, I discover that Marla Sumner has put her own spin on things.

  “Jessica Carlisle is back on two feet, and this time she’s running for a cause.”

  My mom and dad look at me, and I give them a wide-eyed shrug.

  “She’s not raising money,” Marla states. “She’s raising awareness.”

  “I am?” I ask the televised Marla.

  And then she launches into the story. They asked Rosa and me to mock up a tutoring session, and this is the footage Marla’s voice speaks over. “Rosa Brazzi was born with cerebral palsy, a condition caused by damage to the motor control centers of a developing brain. Similar to a stroke, cerebral palsy can occur during pregnancy, childbirth, or up to the age of about three, and although there is a broad range in how CP can affect a person, in Rosa’s case her motor functions have been hindered but her brain is as sharp as they come.”

  The camera is on me now. “She’s a math genius!” I say with a laugh. “I would never have made it through algebra without her help!”

  “And since one good turn deserves another,” Marla’s voice is saying, “Jessica Carlisle wants to help Rosa do something she would never be able to do on her own—go for a run.”

  “When Jessica runs me,” Rosa says, “I feel like I’m flying.”

  Now there’s footage of Rosa in the running wheelchair as I push her down the block. “The goal,” Marla’s voice says, “is to cross the River Run finish line this November.” The shot swings around to behind us running, zeroing in on my right leg. “But for a young woman with a handicap of her own, pushing one hundred pounds along ten miles is not something that can be done on a whim.”

  Now there’s a series of clips of me—running with the sandbags through Old Town, waving at the garbage collector as he calls my name, working in the weight room at school, and doing speed work on the track. All of it has Marla’s commentary over it.

  Then she asks, “So what, in a nutshell, is the cause Jessica and Rosa are running for? Quite simply, it’s to have people see them, not their condition.”

  And then there’s the footage of me saying, “That’s all anybody with a disability wants. Don’t sum up the person based on what you see, or what you don’t understand; get to know them.”

  Then they switch back to the studio, where Marla and Kevin are behind the news desk.

  “The River Run is in two short weeks,” Marla says, looking into the camera as she winds up the story. “We’ll be there live, and we hope you’ll join us in cheering for Rosa.”

  “And Jessica!” Kevin adds.

  Marla smiles. “They’re quite a team.”

  After the TV’s clicked off, Mom stares at me.

  Dad stares at me.

  Kaylee, who’s been texting the whole time, says, “I thought you were crazy before, but I get it now.”

  And I stare at her, because the funny thing is, that’s exactly how I feel.

  I KNOW WHERE THE GRAVEYARD IS.

  I can see the
taller grave markers from one of the streets on the River Run route.

  Sometimes if I’m concentrating on my form or my time, I don’t notice that I’ve run past it, but today I’m not thinking about those things.

  I’m thinking about Lucy.

  I turn off the main street and find the graveyard entrance. It’s Sunday mid-morning, and the air is still cool and crisp, but the bordering trees have left a carpet of leaves beneath them. Reds, browns, yellows … they give the grounds a warm, cozy look.

  I park the wheelchair beside a tree and keep Sherlock at heel as we wander among the graves. It takes me some time, but I find her.

  LUCY SANDERS

  OUR ANGEL

  “Hi, Lucy,” I begin. “It’s me, Jessica.”

  But I’ve never spoken to a grave before.

  I don’t know what to say.

  I don’t know how.

  “I’m so sorry,” I choke out, but that’s as far as I get before I start crying. I feel bad that she’s gone. I feel overwhelmed. And I feel guilt.

  Guilt that I’ve recovered.

  Guilt that I’m happy.

  Guilt that I ever thought she was the lucky one.

  I can’t get the words out, so I just cry.

  “Jessica?”

  The voice startles me. It’s soft, female, and seems to be right in my ear.

  But it’s not the ghost of Lucy, it’s a woman.

  At first I think it’s someone who’s seen me on TV, and I want to snap, Leave me alone! Can’t you see I’m crying here? But then I realize that I do know her.

  She’s more gray and frail, but I recognize her from last year’s track meets.

  And she is carrying flowers.

  “Mrs. Sanders?”

  She gives me a warm smile. “It’s so nice of you to remember Lucy.”

  “Oh, I’ll never forget Lucy,” I say, and a new flood of tears comes forward.

  She wraps an arm around me. “Aren’t you sweet.” Then, after I’ve composed myself a little, she smiles again and says, “Your father has been very helpful.”

  “He has?” I ask.

  She nods. “We would never have had the strength to pursue a settlement without him.” She strokes my arm. “Your situation is more complicated, I know, but it looks like we’ve reached an agreement. We’re thinking about setting up a scholarship fund in Lucy’s name—something like that.”

  “Oh,” I say, nodding, “that would be nice.”

  “Congratulations on your recovery,” she says. “I see you on the news a lot!”

  “Thanks,” I say softly.

  And after a few more pleasantries, I leave so she can deliver the flowers she’s brought and talk to her daughter in peace.

  SCHOOL SEEMS ALMOST EASY THIS YEAR. Not having math helps, but I think that anything would feel easy compared to last year. There’s no work to make up—I just have to keep up.

  Plus now that I’m walking on my new leg, people really do seem to forget that there’s something different about me.

  I’m still very aware of it, but other people treat me like I’m normal.

  The big exception is Merryl.

  I’m in two classes with her, and she always gives me the evil eye from afar. I try to ignore her, but it’s a little unnerving to have someone stare at you that hard for that long.

  She’s on her third boyfriend since Gavin, so I don’t know what her problem is with me, but today she actually comes up to me.

  “He’s only going out with you because he feels sorry for you,” she whispers as she invades my personal space on a classroom ramp. “You’re, like, his community service project.”

  I’m stunned, and the truth is, her comments cut deep.

  I have no zinger to fire back.

  I just watch as she hurries away.

  Later when I tell Fiona about it, she grabs me by the arm and says, “Do not even for a second believe that! She’s just shallow and insanely jealous. Not to mention cruel.”

  I hear her words, but Merryl’s voice still echoes in my head.

  Finally I break down and tell Gavin, who’s sweet and comforting and assures me that there’s absolutely no truth to it.

  Still.

  It’s disturbing how fast weeds take root in my garden of worthiness.

  They’re so hard to pull.

  And grow back so easily.

  IT’S THURSDAY, three days before the River Run.

  According to Kyro’s workout schedule, I’m supposed to be “tapering”—doing easier, shorter runs—but I’m starting to panic. I just don’t feel ready.

  After school Kyro sends the cross-country runners off through the back hills, so I stay on the track alone. “How are you feeling?” he asks me as I’m stretching out after some warm-up laps. “You ready for the big day?”

  “No,” I confess. “Actually, I’m worried that I’m going to let everyone down. I can do the ten miles, but the farthest I’ve pushed a hundred pounds is five. And five was hard.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he assures me. “I’m not saying it’ll be easy, but race-day magic will carry you through.”

  I shake my head. “Race-day magic?”

  “You’ll see. And the whole team will be out at the water stations—they’ll keep you moving and get you anything you need.”

  I shake out my arms. I know it’s from nervous energy, because it’s what I used to do before getting down in the blocks for a 400-meter race. I shake them out some more. In three days I’ll be facing over sixteen thousand meters.

  Suddenly Rigor Mortis Bend doesn’t seem so daunting.

  It’s as though Kyro can read my mind. “You need to unload some of that nervous energy. Why don’t you take a lap?”

  So I start down the straightaway. I’m the only runner on the track, and after the first hundred meters I find a rhythm. I don’t push, I just … glide. It’s taken some time, but I’ve gotten used to the sound from my running foot and the way it’s paired with the quieter swish of my natural foot—whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh. The cadence of it is pleasant to me now, and this spin around the track feels easy.

  Heavenly.

  I join Kyro at our unofficial start and re-enter the real world. “Watch your arms,” he says. “They’re crossing over.”

  I laugh. “You are such a coach, Coach. I was just cruisin’.”

  He eyes me. And it seems like he wants to say something, but he’s holding back. Finally he says, “Well, don’t forget your form. Bad habits are easy to find and hard to break.”

  I scoff.

  “You laugh? Okay, well, give me a real one this time.”

  “You’re serious?” I ask.

  “Sure.” He draws a line in the dirt with his heel. “Let me see some good form.”

  He’s being silly, but he’s my coach, and since the last lap around the track felt so good, I take a few minutes to fully recover, then step up to the line. “Runners, take your mark,” I announce, doing a friendly little mock of him, “set … pow.”

  Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh … I start down the stretch, my arms pumping. Good form, smooth form, glide, glide, I say inside my head.

  My breathing’s easy.

  My rhythm’s good.

  I push.

  Pump.

  Focus.

  Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh …

  My peripheral vision vanishes. It’s all tunnel vision now.

  Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh …

  My hands open as I pump my arms. They slice the air. Open a channel for me. Cut me through space.

  Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh …

  I keep in form and push toward the second curve.

  Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh …

  I approach Rigor Mortis Bend and push through it. My legs burn, but there’s still power in them.

  Lots of power.

  Whing, whoosh, whing, whoosh …

  I sprint for the finish line, keeping my arms pumping straight and my legs in line, and just for show I cross with
a little lean forward.

  I wind down, then trot back to Kyro. “So?” I ask. “Any bad habits we need to break?”

  His head shakes slightly from side to side, but he’s looking at me funny, and his dark skin seems pale.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “You’re not even breathing hard,” he says quietly.

  I notice he’s right—I’ve already largely recovered.

  “Well,” I laugh, “it’s not like it was a race or anything.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “No blocks, no competition …” He produces a stopwatch from inside his Windbreaker pocket. The Lucy bracelet is still around his wrist. Faded and frayed, but still there.

  “You clocked me?”

  “After that first lap, I was curious. You seemed really strong.”

  “I’d better be strong,” I say with a laugh. “I’ve got to push a hundred pounds ten miles on Sunday!”

  “Well, all that training has made you really strong.” He holds the watch out toward me, demanding that I look. “You just ran a sixty point two without even trying.”

  I blink at the digits. “Wow.”

  His face has its color back. And there’s a mischievous grin forming that quickly turns into a laugh.

  A deep, wonderful laugh.

  One I haven’t heard in ages.

  One that means he’s got plans for track season.

  Big plans.

  IT’S RACE DAY.

  Or more like run day—I don’t care about my time, I just want to finish.

  The air is perfect—clear and crisp, but not too cold.

  We’re all a little nervous, penned up in the holding area, but it’s a good nervous. There’s an awesome vibe in the air. Runners warming up, sipping coffee, chatting.

  It’s seven in the morning, but everyone here is awake.

  I’m anxious to get going, but we still have fifteen minutes to wait. Kyro’s plan had me not run at all for two days, and now I’m champing at the bit.

  My body needs to run.

  My nerves need something to do.

  Gavin hugs me and laughs. “You’re like a filly at the starting gate!” I whinny, which makes him laugh again. He looks into my eyes and smiles. “This is the most amazing day ever, you know that? I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe I’m here.” He moves an arm out. “Look at all these people!”