The Running Dream

Slipping in an extra when I really need it.

  I tell myself that tomorrow I’ll feel better.

  That I’ll take one less rather than one extra.

  But the only time I feel better is when the meds kick in.

  I’m afraid of the pain without them.

  Afraid of the day without them.

  Then I tell my mom I need a refill, and somehow my father gets involved.

  I hear them whispering.

  Arguing.

  I hear him make a phone call and I pray it’s to the pharmacy, but I’m pretty sure it’s not.

  I pretend to be asleep when he comes to see me, but this doesn’t stop him.

  “Jessica!” he whispers hoarsely, shaking my shoulder.

  “Hm?” I answer, acting groggy.

  He’s holding the bottle of pills. “How often do you take these?”

  “Hm?” I sit up a little. “Oh. Just when I’m supposed to,” I lie.

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod.

  He studies me.

  My conscience flinches, and he sees it.

  “The truth,” he says.

  I shrug. “I’ve taken a couple extras. Only when I really needed to.”

  He studies me a long, hard time.

  He studies the pill bottle a long, hard time.

  He and I both know there are only two pills left, and the math is easy.

  Finally he heaves a sigh and stands. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “But we’re through with these.”

  “No, wait!” I call after him, but he leaves the room without turning back.

  I CAN’T GET TO SLEEP.

  I’m nauseous.

  Shaky.

  Sweaty one minute, goose-bumpy the next.

  And I’m in pain.

  I cry and I moan, and when my mother comes in, I beg her to talk to my dad. “Please, Mom. They cut off my leg! Doesn’t he understand? It hurts.”

  She cries with me, but in the end she sides with my dad. “It’s a narcotic, honey. It’s very addictive. You don’t want to get dependent on it.”

  “But you’ve got to give me something!”

  She comes back with Tylenol.

  It does nothing for the pain.

  Or the sweats or chills.

  I feel abandoned.

  Angry.

  Raw.

  But way, way down inside, I know they’re right.

  I’VE BEEN OFF THE MEDS for a few days now, which I know is good, but I’m still feeling so down. Except for Fiona, the calls have stopped. And Kaylee and her friends have found a new place to hang out.

  I spend a lot of time noticing how my purple paisley bedspread clashes with the oriental rug.

  I spend a lot of time reliving my last race.

  Wishing for my leg back.

  Crying.

  I long for my own room.

  My own room with four full walls and a door that closes.

  I’m sick of watching TV. The bookshelf is full of Mom’s favorite thrillers, but I can’t seem to get into any of them. I should be catching up on my homework, but it seems so overwhelming and pointless.

  What do I care about simplifying rational expressions?

  I try to hide it, but Mom knows I’m feeling trapped inside this wide-open room. I say no to almost anything she suggests, so it’s not her fault, it’s mine.

  Knowing this doesn’t help, though.

  Yes still comes out no.

  She keeps me company when she can, but she’s been busy running errands for my dad, plus keeping the books and doing the billing. She’s the business end of Dad’s handyman service, and since Dad has an aversion to paperwork, things would be completely disorganized without her.

  Tonight she sits with me before bed and sighs softly. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  I shake my head.

  I can’t seem to look her in the eye, and it makes me mad at myself.

  She strokes my hair. “I love you, Jessica.”

  My chin quivers. “I love you, too, Mom.”

  “Maybe it would help to have Kaylee sleep down here with you? I’m sure she’d—”

  “No!” I tell her. “I’ll be fine.”

  I hate that it comes out angry.

  She’s quiet a moment, then whispers, “Things will get better. I promise you, they will.”

  I nod, but I still don’t believe it, even though things are better than they were. I’ve been to PT twice, and back to see Dr. Wells once. Everyone’s very “impressed.” They all say how great I’m doing.

  And I’m moving around better. My stump still hurts, especially since I’ve been off the meds. But this morning I noticed a real improvement when I went through the massage and desensitizing routine. The rough-towel treatment didn’t seem so rough. I found I could massage harder.

  So why am I so cranky?

  “I’m sorry I’m being like this,” I manage. “I think I’m just tired.”

  “Remember,” she says after a moment, “every day is another day closer to getting your new leg.” She kisses me on the forehead and stands. “You heard Dr. Wells today. He says you’re healing very quickly.”

  I nod and force a smile. “I know.” Then I settle in for the night while she gets the lights just right and eases out.

  And I do sleep.

  For about two hours.

  Then at 11:04 I wake up really having to use the bathroom.

  I try to ignore it, but there’s no going back to sleep. So I get out of bed and hop down the hallway, but as I near the bathroom, I hear a sound.

  It’s soft.

  Unfamiliar.

  I pass the bathroom door and continue toward the kitchen.

  Hop, hop, hop.

  I brace myself against the entry and see my mom with her head buried in her arms, weeping at the table.

  Hop, hop, hop. I lower myself into the chair next to her and about give her a heart attack.

  “Jessica!” she gasps, sitting up, revealing the family photo album under her arms.

  She tries to close it, but I take it from her, and for the first time in weeks I see my right leg.

  My whole right leg.

  Gold shorts, royal blue singlet, three medals around my neck, and two legs.

  Two strong, smooth, and furiously fast legs.

  She tries to pull the picture away, but I anchor it and stare at my legs. And after a full minute of staring, I close the album and shove it to the side.

  I want to say something, but I can’t find the words, and neither can she.

  All we can do is wrap our arms around each other and hold on tight.

  PART II

  SHERLOCK NUDGES ME AWAKE AT 5:45.

  Just like he has every morning since I started running with him.

  “No, boy,” I tell him. “No.”

  He whimpers, licks my face, and waits, his tail sweeping across the floor.

  Sherlock’s bed was moved from the kitchen into the family room, and at first it was hard because he wouldn’t leave my stump alone. He knew something was wrong. Different. He would sniff it, or try to get near it to check it out. Thankfully, he’s over that now and just spends his time hanging out with me.

  I love him so much.

  He is always good, faithful company.

  But at 5:45 every morning he makes me cry.

  Especially when he wakes me from the running dream.

  Sherlock whines softly, and my eyes begin to burn. But then I remember my mother crying at the table, and the stinging is replaced by a flush of adrenaline.

  Of anger.

  Not at the guy who crashed into our bus.

  Not at God. At me.

  I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and give Sherlock a kiss on the muzzle. “Where’s your ball, boy?”

  He scrambles across the room, fetches it from his bed, and drops it in my lap.

  I’m already wearing the sweatpants Mom shortened on the right side. They’re quick and comfortable, and I don’t have to deal with a flo
ppy pant leg. My sweatshirt is within reach, so getting dressed is easy, and really, Sherlock deserves better than what I’ve been delivering.

  I pull on the sweatshirt.

  Slip into a shoe.

  Rake my hair into a ponytail.

  Sherlock spins in a circle and barks.

  “Shhh!” I whisper. “Just the ball, okay?” I put the tennis ball in front of his face so he’s clear about what we’re doing before I let him out.

  He wags and pants, and when I’m pretty sure we have an agreement, I ease open the front door and hop out after him.

  He waits for me at the bottom of the porch steps.

  “Good boy,” I tell him, then set up to throw the ball across the front yard.

  It’s not a big yard, so it would help if I could go into one corner and throw to the other, but I didn’t bring a crutch, and with Mom’s flower beds the way they are, there’s nothing I can use for support.

  So I just toss the ball from beside the pipe railing and teach Sherlock to put the ball in my hand instead of at my feet.

  My foot.

  He has fun, and when I’m worn out, I sit on the porch step and pet him and tell him he’s a good, good boy.

  It’s peaceful out, and for a moment I enjoy sitting with Sherlock, sharing the morning.

  But then I hear something.

  Something that makes my heart leap, then crash to the pit of my stomach.

  I don’t want to hear this.

  Don’t want to see it.

  Still, I can’t turn away.

  Sherlock’s ears perk. He stops panting and stares out at the sidewalk too, so I hold on to his collar, afraid that he’ll bolt off the porch.

  And then there he is.

  In light gray sweats.

  Lost in his own rhythmic world.

  A runner.

  I BUMP INTO KAYLEE on my way back inside.

  She barely grunts hello.

  “Good morning to you too,” I tell her as she goes past me again with a pair of jeans out of the dryer.

  She stops in her tracks and turns to face me. “You’re criticizing me for being grumpy?”

  “Well, you just blast by me like I’m not even here.”

  “So … I’m supposed to be a mind reader?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She puts a hand on her hip. “Look, you act like you hate everyone and everything, you never talk.… What do you want from me?”

  I look from side to side. “Uh … a little civility?”

  “Nice idea,” she says, pounding up the stairs. “Why don’t you try it?”

  I stand there for a good five minutes, stunned.

  I want to shout, Why don’t you try losing a leg and see what it’s like.

  I want to chase her up the stairs and yell at her for being bratty and unfeeling and … and just wrong.

  Instead, I go back to bed and hug Lucas the bear, and when Mom leaves to take Kaylee to school, I pretend to be asleep.

  When they’re gone, I’m relieved. Dad’s already left for a job, so I have the house to myself.

  Me, myself, and my thoughts.

  At first I’m glad to be alone. I don’t have to pretend to be fine.

  But I can’t seem to get Kaylee’s words out of my head.

  Soon I feel anchored to my bed.

  Caged in this wide-open room.

  The phone rings, and when I check caller ID, I see that it’s Fiona’s cell. I almost don’t answer, but at the last minute I punch talk. “Are you ready?” she asks. “I’m on my way over to pick you up.”

  She says the same thing every morning.

  “No,” I answer.

  Just like every morning.

  “C’mon, Jessica,” she says with a sigh. “You can’t put it off forever.”

  “Watch me,” I grumble.

  There’s just the hum of traffic for a minute; then she says, “Do your parents realize how depressed you are?”

  I’m quiet.

  Crippled, depressed, what’s the difference?

  “Look, you need to get out of there. We’re on half day today, so get ready, ’cause I’m coming over after school. I don’t care what you say, you’re getting in my car and we’re going out for lunch. I’ll take you to Angelo’s.”

  “I can’t,” I tell her. “I’m a mess.”

  “Yeah, you’re a mess, and we’re gonna fix that. Expect me. I’ll be there at around one.”

  “No, I mean—”

  She hangs up and I’m left staring at the phone.

  How can she possibly expect me to go out?

  How can she expect me to deal with … with any of it?

  First Kaylee and now Fiona?

  Why don’t they get it?

  Besides, I couldn’t go out even if I wanted to. I haven’t had a real shower since the morning of the wreck. They tried once in the hospital, but that was more awkward than effective. And now that I’m home, I’ve been getting by with haphazard sponge baths, but my hair has only been washed once.

  The only part of me that gets daily attention is my stump.

  Massage, desensitize, clean, dry, dress.

  Twice a day.

  Every day.

  The rest of me feels matted and mangy and … gross.

  Yesterday Mom offered to wash my hair in the sink again, but I told her, “Maybe tomorrow.” And besides the obvious slipping hazards of a one-legged shower, there doesn’t happen to be a shower downstairs. Just a half bathroom—a toilet and a sink.

  Fiona knows all this, so how can she expect me to go out? I know she means well, but she obviously doesn’t understand what I’m going through.

  So I’m a little mad. A little in a state of disbelief. And between Kaylee’s snippy comments and Fiona’s insisting I go to Angelo’s, I get agitated and start hopping around.

  I hop out of my wide-open room.

  Hop over to the kitchen.

  Hop all over the place.

  It’s as close to pacing as I can come.

  Finally I find myself at the base of the stairs.

  I stare up the long flight of steps.

  I count the treads.

  Fourteen, including the top landing.

  Fourteen hard hops up.

  I’m not sure I can do it. I’m not sure I should even try. It seems an ominous stretch, and I’m already tired from all my senseless hopping around.

  But up those ominous fourteen steps is a shower.

  A hot, massaging shower.

  I think about getting a crutch, but I’d have to hop clear back to the family room for that, so I grab the handrail with both hands instead.

  One hop.

  Two hops.

  Three.

  I rest, looking up at eleven more steps, then take a deep breath.

  Four hops.

  Five hops.

  Six.

  My arms are doing a lot of the work, pulling me up as I hop. I’m panting, so I take a minute to rest, telling myself I’m almost halfway. Then I press on.

  Seven steps.

  Eight.

  My good leg is shaking, and I feel a little dizzy, so I turn around and sit.

  I’m past halfway, I tell myself. Almost there.

  And then I discover something wonderful. By sitting down I’ve gained two steps! My foot is on step eight, but I’m sitting on step ten!

  I put my hands down on the tread behind me, raise my foot to step nine, and push myself up backward.

  I’m sitting on eleven!

  I push up to twelve.

  To thirteen!

  My right thigh is burning from holding up my stump as I push one more time. Then I grab the handrail, hoist myself up, and take a final hop.

  I look down at the run of stairs and feel an overwhelming sense of triumph.

  I’m upstairs.

  OUR SHOWER’S A COMBINATION shower-bathtub with sliding glass doors, so I can’t just push aside a door and hop in. I have to get myself over the side of the tub.

&nbs
p; I know from my experience in the hospital that it helps to have some sort of seat when I shower, so I take a little collapsible step stool that’s stored behind the bathroom door and place it inside the tub, opened up. It’s got rubber feet and rubber-coated steps, so it seems like it’ll be secure enough, and even though the rest of the step stool is metal, I don’t think Mom will mind me exposing it to rusting hazards.

  After it’s in place, I get everything ready. Then I stand outside the shower and put my hands here, there, all over the place.

  I can’t figure out how to get over this hurdle, and it makes me mad. The opening’s not wide enough for me to sit on the curb and swing in.… I can’t step over or hop over.…

  How can this be so hard?

  I find myself thinking, Why couldn’t I have lost an arm instead?

  If I’d lost an arm, this wouldn’t be a problem—I could step right over this curb!

  If I’d lost an arm, I could run circles in the shower.

  I could run up and down stairs.

  I could run.

  It’s useless to think this, though, so finally I grab the overhead door brace with my hands facing each other, one beside the other.

  I swing my stump over the side of the tub and stand straddling the curb, trying to figure out the next step of this obstacle course.

  After a few false starts, I finally use my arms to help me hop up onto the curb. The door guide is sharp against my foot, but I manage to pivot on it, then hop down into the tub.

  I sit on the step stool, feeling a mixture of triumph and frustration, but when the water rains down on me, I’m washed all over with relief.

  It feels so nice to just sit here.

  I could sit like this all day.

  Eventually I pick up the soap, and as I’m sudsing the washcloth, it crosses my mind that it would be hard to soap up with just one hand.

  I try it, and it is.

  It’s very … awkward.

  I start paying attention to all my movements. How one arm complements the other. And I start thinking about everything I do with two hands. Driving. Golfing. Keyboarding. Even writing really takes two hands. The pen’s held in one; the paper’s anchored with the other.

  My mind wanders all over everyday things.

  Opening a water bottle.

  Getting dressed.

  Making a sandwich.

  Washing dishes.

  I imagine life with only one hand and realize that it would be hard. In a different way, but still hard.