I’m stronger than pain.
Sherlock races ahead and I let him. He lives to run the bridge. Reaching two legs forward, kicking two legs back. He waits for me on the other side, wagging, panting, grateful for this stretch of freedom.
He falls in beside me as I drop back the pace and glide along the streets, back past familiar houses, back home.
On the porch again, he kisses me and pants as I tousle his ears. “Good boy!” I tell him. “You are such a good boy!”
The sun is brighter now.
Our sleepy neighborhood is stirring, waking up.
And then, with a gasp, so do I.
I ROLL OVER and check the clock; check the chair.
4:28 AM.
The chair’s empty.
I told Mom she didn’t have to stay nights anymore. That I was okay. I said it with conviction.
She wanted badly to believe me.
Almost as badly as I wanted her to.
It’s easy to see from the dark circles, the haunted eyes—she needs me to be okay. “I’d switch places with you, Jessica. In a heartbeat.” She said it when the doctors explained that my leg was hopeless, and I know she’s thought it every day since.
She’d give up both her legs to give me back the one I lost.
There’s no doubt in my mind.
But she can’t, and I hate that she’s been sleeping in the chair.
So she’s gone and I’m alone.
I feel trapped.
Scared.
Angry.
And so I cry.
Silent tears burn, then pool in my ears.
But they don’t change a thing.
I wipe my eyes and check the clock again.
4:32 AM.
It’s my eighth day with no leg.
An eternity.
FIONA VISITS WEARING BLACK LEGGINGS and a flowing purple top.
And heels.
They’re low, but still, heels.
Definitely not typical Fiona-wear.
“Were you at church?” I ask, sitting up.
She nods. Solemnly. And now I see that her eyes are rimmed red.
“Lucy’s memorial service,” I say with a small voice. “I forgot.”
She pulls up a chair and dissolves into it. “It was awful. Well, everyone said it was moving and beautiful and perfect, but I thought it was awful. They had a huge blowup picture of her, and flowers everywhere, and people got up and told funny stories about her, and they had her ballet slippers from sixth grade on display, and her favorite scarf wrapped over the podium. I kept staring at the picture. I wanted to look somewhere else, but I kept staring at it.”
I pass her Lucas the bear. She hugs him fiercely and starts sobbing. “Why did she have to die? Why, why, why?”
She’s not expecting an answer, and that’s good because I sure don’t have one. I rest my hand on her shoulder knowing I should be grateful I’m still alive, but somehow I’m not. I know it’s selfish, but I can’t help thinking that Lucy is the lucky one.
For Lucy there’s no pain, no rehab, no learning to live disabled.
There’s no anger or self-revulsion.
For Lucy there’s just resting in peace.
FIONA APOLOGIZES FOR CRYING, then hugs me and tells me how glad she is I’m alive.
My secret thoughts feel even more selfish.
Then she switches gears. “Oh! Oh, oh, oh!”
“What?” I ask with a laugh. Her eyes are enormous, and I know what this means:
Gossip.
“Guess who was turning to Gavin for comfort at the memorial service?”
“Turning to him for comfort? So it’s someone who was friends with Lucy?”
“No! She totally snubbed her!”
“Okaaaay …” I look for clues among the ceiling tiles, hoping she’ll just tell me, but Fiona’s big into twenty questions and I’ve only asked one. “So … it’s someone on the team?”
Her head bobbles like crazy.
“A sprinter?”
She shakes her head.
“Mid-distance? Long distance?”
Shake, shake.
“So she does field events?”
Nod.
“Long jump? High jump? Discus?”
Shake, nod, shake.
It strikes me like a bolt. “Merryl?”
“Yes!” she gasps. “Can you believe that? Merryl Abrams after a guy who’s not a jock.”
“Are you sure she wasn’t just, you know, mourning Lucy?”
“No way. It was classic Merryl-on-the-move.” She scowls. “You should have seen her hanging all over him! Like she’d die or faint or, or … explode if he didn’t hold her together. I heard her say, ‘I can’t bear the thought of that horrible, horrible day!’ ” She pulls a tortured face. “Can you believe that? She wasn’t even on the bus!”
Which was true. The meet was an invitational, and Merryl hadn’t qualified—something that didn’t bother her a bit. Everyone knows that Merryl’s on the team so she can put “team participation” on her college applications next year, and track is the only sport that doesn’t cut.
“Gavin’s too smart to fall for that,” I tell her. “And what happened to Darren?”
She shrugs. “She got tired of him? Who knows.”
“But … Gavin? Talk about switching party affiliations.”
Fiona snorts. “Gavin may not be a jock, but he is the mayor’s son, and he’s hot. Especially since he grew that chin scruff.”
“Wait. Gavin has chin scruff?”
She nods. “It looks seriously good on him, too.”
“This is really lifting my spirits,” I grumble.
“I’m sorry! I’m just telling you because it’s so Merryl, and so ridiculous. Like he’s going to fall for her manipulations?” She takes a deep breath. “So when are you getting out of here? I am sick of school without you!”
My stomach suddenly tightens. Dad’s talked about me going back to school, but I can’t picture it. It scares me to think about facing all those people. Seeing everyone walking. Watching them hurry up and down steps. Knowing that after school all my friends will meet at the track to run.
I look away. “Dr. Wells says I’ll go home soon, but I don’t know about school.…” My voice drifts off pathetically, so I say, “I’ve been thinking that I should do some sort of home-school program.”
“A home-school program? Like on the Internet? No way. No way. That would be, like, the worst thing for you!” She leans forward. “Look. I’ll push you. You can do this!”
At first I think she means she’ll push me to get back to school. Push me to face the world. But the pit of my stomach understands what she really means. “You’ll push me … in a wheelchair?”
“Of course! There’s no way you can cover that campus on crutches. And it’s going to be a while before you get your fake leg, right? So I’ll deliver you to all your classes. It’ll be easy!”
Lucas has somehow wound up back with me, and I find myself hugging him, feeling totally panicked.
I’ve barely figured out how to use the bathroom on my own.
How will I ever manage school?
THE STAPLES ARE OUT. Dr. Wells says I’m his fastest-healing patient ever. “I’m proud of you, Jessica. You’ve done an amazing job.”
I want to shout, I haven’t done anything! I’ve just existed!
And I want to hit him.
Hard.
I want to hit him for sawing off my leg.
Hit him for being so cheerful and acting like I’m a star patient when I’m really just an angry, pathetic whiner.
Then he says the magic words.
The ones I’ve been longing for.
The ones I’m terrified of.
The ones I thought might never, ever come, and are now suddenly here too fast.
“You are ready to go home.”
“Today?” I ask, and it’s a choked sound. Somewhere between dying and gasping for life.
He nods. “Assuming you pass all y
our PT requirements.” He looks directly at me. “You can manage your care and cleaning; change your own shrinker?”
I nod.
“You can walk across the room on crutches, go up and down four steps, transfer from standing to sitting, and fall safely?”
These are all things the PT has been making me do. I’m still wobbly, but I can do them, so I nod.
He smiles. “Then you’re going home.”
I know I should thank him, but the way he says “home” throws me. I’m suddenly picturing a pair of ruby slippers. Slippers I can’t click together because … because I can’t. And even though they’re just in my head … just something from a movie … they glitter in my mind, and I’m suddenly desperate to click my heels together and wake up in my own bed.
With my own dog.
And both legs.
“There’s no place like home,” I whisper when he’s gone. “No place like home.”
But there are no ruby slippers.
There is no waking up.
There’s just me and my ugly, useless stump.
I’M DRESSED IN SWEATS with the extra material of the right leg pinned up, and I’ve just demonstrated “fall safety” to a physical therapist I haven’t worked with before, when my mother appears.
“Are you okay?” she gasps.
“Fine,” I tell her, then demonstrate “recovery” by standing up. “Just passing my final exam.”
“You’re coming home,” she squeals, dancing in place. Then she grabs the parked wheelchair and practically shoves it under me, kiss-kiss-kissing the top of my head, just like she did when I was little.
“You must be Jessica’s mom,” the PT says with a smile.
“That I am!” she says. Like being my mom is the best thing ever.
He chuckles. “Well, I’m happy to report that your daughter has mastered all the necessary functional goals for release.” He scribbles on the sheet he’s been quizzing me from and says, “From now on we’ll be seeing her at the rehab facility.” He hands my mother a couple of brochures and a small stack of papers, and after some pleasantries to me about keeping up the good work, he’s gone.
My mother packs my things as I wait in the wheelchair with Lucas the bear in my lap. But it’s another hour and a half before I’m being rolled down the corridor by a nurse.
Mom’s not allowed to push me.
I’m not allowed to roll myself.
I guess they want to make sure they get me out of here in one piece, and that no one rolls off with Mercy Hospital property.
Dad’s waiting outside the big glass doors of the hospital’s front entrance. He’s holding the handles of a smaller wheelchair, one that is, apparently, all mine. “Jessica!” he says, and he looks happy, too.
“Hey, Dad,” I say, and my eyes sting with tears. It’s the first real smile I’ve seen on him in forever.
I demonstrate a flawless wheelchair transfer, and after we all say goodbye to the nurse, Dad and Mom walk me across the parking lot to Dad’s van.
They’re all smiles and coos until I’m standing at the open passenger door trying to figure out how to “transfer” to a seat that’s up so high.
I can’t swing into it.…
I can’t exactly hop inside.…
I can’t grab the frame of the van with both arms and hoist myself in.…
We have crutches, but I’m not sure how to use them in this situation.…
I’m just … stumped.
Mom tries to help, but she’s really just in the way. Dad has collapsed the wheelchair and put it in back with Lucas the bear and the rest of my things, and after watching me agonize over how to get inside his van, he simply gathers me in his arms and hoists me onto the seat.
“We’ll figure it out, sweetheart,” my mom says with a reassuring pat of my hand. “We’ll figure it all out.” She kisses me on the cheek. “For now let’s just get you home!”
She tells Dad she’ll see him at the house, then goes off to her car.
Dad fires up the van and tries smiling at me, but his eyes are heavy again and I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking:
There’s no such thing as easy.
Not anymore.
MY HEART BEGINS RACING as Dad turns onto Harken Street.
I don’t really know why.
The whole ride has been snail-paced. Careful turns, complete stops, below-limit speeds. I can’t decide if he’s scared of jostling me or scared of having me home.
Finally we pull up to the curb behind my mother’s car. A flood of emotions comes over me as I look at our house and see snapshots in my mind:
Mud castles in the flower beds.
Hide-and-seek under the porch.
Dad taking the training wheels off my bike.
Kickball.
Hula hoops.
Running through the sprinklers.
Sherlock as a puppy, chasing his tail.
Fiona and me giggling, climbing out my window and dropping to the ground.
And then I notice the ramp—the one that goes up the left side of the porch steps.
And the guardrail made of pipe—the one attached to the right side of the porch stairs.
They’re nasty scars across a cheery entrance.
I face my dad. “I can do steps, you know. I don’t need a ramp.” I don’t mean to, but I sound angry.
“It’s just temporary,” he says softly. “Until you get your leg.”
I grab my crutches. “In the meantime, I can use crutches or hop.” I open the passenger door defiantly, then look down at the curb. You can do this, I tell myself. You can do this. Down is way easier than up.
But the curb seems miles away, and I’m suddenly gripped with fear.
Dad’s already around to my side, and he seems to understand that picking me up would be the wrong move to make. “Grab the handle and the frame,” he says, coaching me forward. “Do it once and you’ll have it conquered.”
So I give up on the crutches and I do as he says, letting him be my spotter as I swing down to earth.
“See?” he says with a smile.
Mom’s rushing from the house. “You’re here!” she cries, but my dad gives her the take-it-easy signal as I saddle my armpits over the crutches.
“Uh …,” she says as I swing toward the steps.
She’s worried.
She wants me to use the wheelchair.
I ignore her concerns as I hobble forward, and I can sense my dad pulling her back.
At the steps I put both crutches in my left hand, grab the pipe rail with my right, then hop up.
One step.
I feel off balance.
Two steps.
Like I should be grabbing the rail with my left hand. Three.
I steady myself at the top, then saddle the crutches again and move on.
To my surprise the screen door doesn’t fight me as I pull it open. Dad’s disconnected the automatic closer so it swings easily and stays cooperatively to the side.
I push open the front door and cross the threshold. I’m shaky from the effort. My stump is throbbing. I just want to collapse.
Then I smell something.
Onions and oregano and garlic—Mom’s spaghetti sauce heating up on the stove.
I crutch forward a few steps and take a deep breath.
From behind a gate in the kitchen Sherlock lets out a happy bark.
“Hey, boy!” I call, which makes him go berserk.
I have no ruby slippers, and I won’t wake up from this dream, but still.
There’s no place like home.
KAYLEE AND HER PACK of friends blast through the door after school.
Our house has always been their hangout.
“Oh, hey!” they say, stopping in their tracks when they see me in the hallway. It’s a warm day, and they’re all wearing shorts.
“Hey,” I say back, and put on my best smile.
“When did you get home?” Kaylee asks.
“A little while ago,” I answer.
“Hi, girls!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Come on in!”
Kaylee’s friends are trying hard not to look at my leg, and I can’t help looking at theirs.
None of us seem to have anything to say.
I’m a stranger.
A freak.
“Well, I need to sit down,” I finally tell them, because my stump is throbbing.
I sound angry.
Annoyed.
They move aside as I crutch past them, and in a flurry of whispers they escape up the stairs to Kaylee’s room.
I retreat to the family room, take my pain meds, and turn on the TV.
I LEARN TO HOP AROUND THE HOUSE. I stay near furniture and walls to steady myself, and although I feel like I’m lumbering and loud, it’s easier than using crutches.
My bed and dresser are downstairs in the family room. Instead of sleeping in the last room on the right upstairs, I’m now in the first room on the left after you come in the front door. I’m separated from the entry hall by a half wall with white balusters.
I don’t know where they moved the couches, but I do know they did a lot of heavy lifting to set this up for me, and that I should be more appreciative than I am. It’s hard, though, because I feel like a stranger in my own house. I can’t get to the things I want, I can’t find the things I need, and I spend way too much time watching TV. The only time I feel halfway normal is when we’re at the kitchen table. It’s like seeing each other from the waist up helps us forget about the stump lurking beneath the surface.
I also feel like a stranger to myself.
Everything irritates me, and cheery people just make that worse.
My friends call. They come by. They bring me plants and chocolate and get-well cards. They want to cheer … me … up.
It isn’t working.
When they’re here, I’m quiet and awkward and I can’t wait for them to leave.
When they’re gone, I cry.
I cry, and wish they’d come back.
They won’t, though, and I know it.
I probably wouldn’t either.
I’VE BEEN PUSHING THE CLOCK on my pain meds.
Taking them early.