Poster Child (10 page)

A few weeks later, a line of single strings dangled from the ceiling of our classroom. We were hanging stars with our reading goals on them in order to "reach for the stars"—as our teacher said—and finish our books before the end of the year.

Rita was standing behind me as I waited to hang my star, and my neck was already burning before she whispered in my ear, "You can't do that, Emily, because you're crippled."

The way she said the word made me feel as though the air had collapsed around my face and become strange and ugly. It made me feel as if I wore a crinkly, cripple hat, the only one of my kind, and I would be forever singled out. Deformed. Unwanted. I felt like one of those people on television that others called in to help with their monetary pledges, a charity case. I pitied those people who sat in their wheelchairs, but I had never connected my plight with theirs. Pity: the dirtiest word. I was
not
like that, I thought. But Rita had hit me with the word "crippled" and somehow defined me, evoking a small world of undesirables. By making me feel so different, so wrong, she'd made me disappear, she'd forced me lower, forced me down. She'd done it again.

The late afternoon sun streaming through the classroom windows was hot on my back, and that heat spread quickly through my whole body. Shame again, that vomit feeling, that hot ball of corrosive anger in the belly. Up on that chair I went and hung my star, crippled or not. I thought about skiing down my favorite slopes, about my sleek and able body; I thought about what one of my instructors had encouraged me to do when I faced a challenging run: "Growl at the mountain!" she'd shout as I moved into a difficult turn on an icy patch of snow. "Get angry! Growl!"

I jumped off the chair and landed on both my feet. I felt the wooden lip of the prosthesis jam up into my butt and crotch, and I knew there would be bruises. It didn't matter. What mattered was that I won the game I had created in my mind. I looked Rita straight in the face, stuck out my chest, and said, "See? Did it." I could ski and jump and run, and I wanted her to know it. Then I pushed her as hard as I could. Rita fell back and landed on her butt. Her eyes registered anger, but also surprise and, behind that, a kind of satisfaction. I felt, strangely, that I had lost this battle in our unspoken war, even though I'd done exactly what I had intended to do. My face was burning. I would have pushed or kicked her again, and harder this time, but the teacher intervened. When she asked me why I had attacked Rita, I would not tell her what had been said; I refused to repeat the words out loud.

I had to sit in the corner for the rest of the afternoon, but I sat there happily, lit from inside with a righteous, powerful rage. This deep anger, the depth of which I was just dipping my foot into, like testing the force of a stream of fast-flowing water with one toe, comforted me somehow. It focused me and inspired me to achieve, to prove myself. I watched Rita for the rest of the day and told myself,
You are just like her, you are better than her.
I could do it, and I had proven that I was not a cripple. I had proven that this word did not apply to me, but I did not forget it entirely.

One morning that year when I had the flu, I was lying in bed, listening to the sound of the aspen leaves clapping together in the trees outside my window. I watched the round shadows of the leaves move over the posters on my closet: Madonna's made-up face; a fawn at Yellowstone; a drawing of two identical
Garfield
cartoon characters where one is saying to the other, "Be your own best friend."

I tried out the word, speaking it aloud: "Cripple." The shadows moved slowly back and forth. They seemed lazy and relaxed; the leaves rustled together and moved apart. Nothing happened. No God-like voice boomed out of the sky to correct me. Mom was upstairs and couldn't hear me. "Cripple," I said, louder this time. "Crippled." I never spoke those words out loud again. I didn't need to, because they would never again leave my mind. Worse, they already felt true.

What I had learned as a skier was a complicated freedom. While disabled athletics had taught me to view my body as capable and strong, part of my pride stemmed from the way others regarded me, the way I exhibited for others my superior strength and extraordinary resolve. Rita had shown me that no matter what I did, no matter how able or powerful I was in certain situations, I still
looked
wrong. This was my first taste of the competition that would haunt me. I decided, at that moment, that it would always be about looks. Nothing else mattered. It was about your body, your face, the way you walked, the way you looked, and, most important, the way others looked at you. I worried that I would never measure up; I would never be able to compete, but I would make myself crazy trying.

After the incident with Rita, my attitude toward other amputees changed. While most three-track skiers at Winter Park left their legs off when they went into the cafeteria for lunch, using their flipped-up outriggers to move around, I changed back into my leg. I began to separate myself from the group of athletes that had welcomed me so easily, judging them the way I felt Rita had judged me—as different, deficient, even freakish—and I no longer wanted to be a part of them. I was all about solidarity on the hill, but when we were back in the lodge and in the presence of other able-bodied people, I lost my loyalty. I wanted to again be normal, or as close to normal as it was possible for me to get.

Chapter Six

THE MUSTARD SEED

Growing up, I lived in a world where God was good. I was taught to believe this, and I did.

I loved the ritualistic elements of worship services, especially the sing-and-response psalms: Those perfect echoes of longing were like magical spells being cast in the dark, quiet sanctuary. I liked singing slow, meditative hymns as people silently lined up in the aisle to take Communion. I watched Mom pray and tried to imagine her thoughts. Sometimes she opened one eye and glared at me. "I'm praying," she would whisper, "so stop staring." When I was very small, I tried to stick crayons up her nose to break her concentration. I didn't like her energies to be focused elsewhere—I wanted her full attention all the time. She was the orbit I wanted to move around, because with her I did not feel different, partly because we talked about my disability only in terms of logistics and in a positive way. I felt normal and safe around Mom. Meanwhile, her daily life was a flurry of files, appointments, insurance premiums, and conversations with doctors. I hopped through it all, moving around on a metal brace, in various casts, and then with an artificial leg, always overactive and demanding.

At church I felt loved. When I was in the hospital, all of the older ladies from the quilting circles and prayer groups sent me cards with little girls and bunnies and flowers on them. They wrote in their shaky handwriting: "Get well soon! Love, Edith; Love, Dorothy; Love, Velma, Alma, and Ruth." When I arrived home, there would be a pile of gifts and cards waiting for me, some from people I hardly knew.

Not only did the members of the congregation dote on me, but I was always chosen for the most glamorous roles in the church musicals. I was a shepherd, an angel, and a sheep during different years, but after I reached a certain age, I played Mary, the pure, openhearted virgin and the model of a good—even perfect—woman. I cherished this role like none other. My thick glasses, wooden leg, and buckteeth seemed to disappear when I put on the blue robe and the white cotton headdress, picked up the plastic doll, and became the focus of everybody's admiration on the most important night in the Christian religion. The birth of Jesus. The mother of God. Was there any more powerful or sacred role to play? I sang lullabies with a chorus of shepherds and angels and rocked a fake baby Jesus to sleep. There was never a suggestion that God wasn't for everyone—He was. And at Christmastime I was His emissary, limping onto the stage with a baby in my arms—the savior of the wounded, the sick, and the sinful. My virtue became my beauty. People told me time and time again, particularly after these performances: "We're always praying for you," "You're in our prayers," and sometimes, although not as often, "God loves you best of all."

People have been praying for me my entire life: at the moment of my birth and throughout all of my surgeries. Yet I have always had an uneasy relationship with prayer. If you didn't get the answer you asked for, something people were always alluding to ("God always answers prayers, just not in the way we wish Him to or in the way we expect"), then how could you know it was really the answer—from God—and not just something random and inexplicable that happened to you? I didn't like the mystery of prayer itself or the ambiguity of the possible answers. The idea that "bad things happened" was no comfort to me—did it comfort anyone?—and was something I felt I already knew.

Still, I learned my prayers, and as I grew older I prayed for what I most wanted, even though the idea was to recite the precise words from the chosen prayer and then lift up one's concerns, allowing God to take care of the rest.
Create in me a clean heart, O God, and
renew
a right spirit within me; cast me not away from your presence; and take
not your holy spirit from me.
I hated my body. I prayed for a new one. Hadn't any of those faithful people prayed for me to be healed? How did I know if their petitions had been answered? How could they tell? Was it a light in my eyes? A spring in my limping step? I was praying for God to make me whole. I couldn't imagine that anyone might be praying for something entirely different. It was in church where I felt most wholly loved. It made sense to go there for the bodily transformation I desired.

Fourth grade was my last year of instruction in the act of prayer and the proper petitioning of God. I had memorized the appropriate creeds, prayers, and basic theological terms. I was only a few days away from the real body and blood. I was gearing up for something huge. I wanted to be healed on that first Communion. I figured I had dealt with this leg business long enough and it was time for my reward.

The day did not go exactly as I'd planned. As I stepped out of the car to head into church, I heard Brian Tanner screaming at me from the top of the church stairs. He was surrounded by boys I knew and would soon be kneeling next to with my tongue out to take the Communion wafer from my dad's hand.

"Peg leg, Peg leg! Emily has a wooden leg!" Brian sang at the top of his lungs. His friends gathered around him, laughing and pointing. I stood still for just a moment, deciding what to do.

"Piece of shit!" I yelled. Mom, who had been chatting with someone nearby, ran up to me, grabbed me by the arm, and swooped me into the church. Through the window of the main door, I could see the side of Mrs. Tanner's face; her painted lips were pursed in anger.

I couldn't bother with Brian. I had more important things to do. Mom stopped me at the bottom of the narthex stairs and straightened my dress. "Now," she said. "You be good. Honestly." I didn't care that I had embarrassed her. I had my eye on the prize. I heard the organ begin the opening hymn, and Dad walked by, singing, in a swirl of white robes.

"Brian's mean," I said in my defense.

"Well, he's still not a piece of blank." Mom looked at me. I opened my mouth.

"Don't fill in that blank," she warned. "That is not a word we use. You'll apologize to Brian later. Honestly!"

"What about what he said? What about him saying sorry to me?"

"Oh, he will," she said, and grabbed my hand as we went up the stairs and into the sanctuary.

In both Matthew and Mark, there are stories about the power of a small bit of true faith—the parable of the mustard seed.
For truly I
tell you, if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you will say to this
mountain,
"
Move from here to there," and it will move; and nothing will be
impossible for you.
Before my first Communion, I was given a necklace with a tiny, cream-colored seed inside a glass ball that hung from a short gold chain. In Mark, the mustard seed, the smallest on the earth, would grow up to be the biggest of all, putting forth large branches
so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.
This kernel of faith was strong enough to work miracles. Mine was whole, yellow, and perfect. It was just waiting to burst free of the glass and sprout into something huge. The idea of it made me giddy.

I believed that God expressed truth through the stories in the Bible and that each of them carried a lesson about life. This parable made me think that if someone believed in something enough, with his or her whole heart and soul, miracles could happen: Seeds would sprout, nests would be made, birds would fly from branch to magical branch.

Every time I read this biblical passage in the weeks leading up to my first Communion, I was filled with hope. My mission was this: If I prayed hard enough, if I believed He could do it, I thought God would give me another body. I stretched out on my bed and prayed. I closed my eyes. Silently, I recited the first part of the Lord's Prayer—
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy
name
—but I filled in the rest of this newly memorized prayer with my own wishes. Nothing happened. I wasn't strong enough, I assumed. I just didn't have it in me. It was the Communion that would seal the deal; eating the body and blood of Jesus—even though, as Lutherans, we were taught that it was not the
real
body and blood—was the ticket, the missing ingredient in my magical transformation.

Brian was kneeling next to me at the Communion rail. We watched Dad bless someone farther down the row. The boy's pink tongue shot out and took the Communion wafer that was set in the middle of Dad's huge hand like a tiny white raft. I practiced my devotional gaze: I lifted my eyes and tried to make them glassy and unfocused so that God would know I was serious and worthy of His attention.

"Hey," Brian whispered, nudging me.

"Shut up," I whispered back. I concentrated on moving that mountain.
Move from here to there. Move this leg, give me a new one.
I thought of a word I liked: "aloft." I imagined my wooden leg floating up and away into space and a flesh-and-blood limb taking its place on my body.
Move it aloft.
God could do anything, I thought. It would be that easy. Dad got closer and blessed Brian. I shifted on my knees slightly, and then the wafer was on my tongue, dissolving, and Dad's hand was heavy on my head for the blessing.
Now, now,
now,
I thought, but when I stood up, I still needed to use the railing. The artificial leg was still attached to me; my body was still my own. I didn't look at Brian, and he said nothing more to me. My faith had failed me; it was clearly not pure or strong enough.

I was numb when I went up to take my gift of a Bible and then march out with the rest of the communicants. I picked at a piece of our celebratory cake in the fellowship hall. Dad winked at me from across the room. I lifted my hand off my paper plate just a little. He turned his head to an older lady who had approached him. Mom was huddled in the far corner with Brian's mother, their two coiffed heads leaning in to confer. They both had one hand on their hip, and their faces looked serious. Mom's hand touched Mrs. Tanner's arm and stayed there.

I left the fellowship hall and went to the bathroom. I stepped into a stall and shut and locked the door. The air was bitterly cold and slightly stale and smelled of dirty water caught in a drain. Now, I thought—with heat and hate building up inside me—was the time to pray. I prayed that Brian would combust and blow up into many pieces. Then I prayed to be forgiven for my violent thoughts. Finally, I approached my real purpose one more time. I steadied myself on the toilet seat. I cleared my throat and closed my eyes. I prayed to God to make me whole. I'd give Him one more chance. Maybe difficult prayers could be heard only after the Communion was actually received. Maybe God was waiting for the wafer to be completely digested. I swallowed hard several times.
A new leg, a real
one, a new one. Flesh and blood, flesh and blood,
I chanted. I clamped one hand around the mustard-seed necklace and another on my right thigh.
I believe, I believe, I believe,
I said over and over again in my mind. The murmur of voices in the fellowship hall dissipated and finally disappeared.
Do it!
I begged.
Do it now!
I could hear Dad closing and locking doors, and then he was calling for me. I heard the clip of his dress shoes echoing over the tile floors.

I held my breath, looked down, and lifted my skirt. Everything was still the same. The left leg was wooden, hinged, and shining beneath the white tights. I felt tears prick my eyes. I thought,
Liar.
"Liar," I said out loud, just as the door opened.

"What? Hey, are you in there?" Dad's voice echoed inside the bathroom. "What are you doing? Mom's been looking for you."

"I'm fine," I said, trying to keep my voice level.

"Are you ready to go? How long have you been in here?"

"Not long. Just a few minutes."

"I'll wait in my office for you. Hurry up."

"Just a second," I said.

Dad paused. "Brian didn't mean what he said. He told me so himself."

"I meant what I said."

"Okay," he said, and sighed. "We'll talk about it later. And I've got your Bible. You left it by the cake."

"Great."

The door whooshed shut. I stood up and flushed the toilet unnecessarily. I walked out with my head up as if I needed to preserve some dignity from what had happened in the bathroom stall, although I had obviously been alone. I vowed to never pray again. I took the necklace off that night and shook it as hard as I could. The mustard seed broke into tiny pieces inside the glass. There had been no magic in that seed or in the story after all.

The next Sunday I saw Brian, led by his mother, walking in my direction. I tried to escape, but Mom caught my arm. "No. Brian has something to say to you."

"I don't care," I said.

"Just listen to him," she said.

"Mom!" I protested.

"Shush," she whispered, and turned to greet Mrs. Tanner.

Brian stood looking at the floor. Mrs. Tanner's grip on his arm looked as firm as my mother's on mine.

We stood in the hallway that was lined with black-and-white photographs of the church founders, mounted behind glass. Brian looked at the floor and kicked at it with one foot. I turned my face away, but I could still see his profile in the reflective glass cases. "Go on, Brian," Mrs. Tanner said. Her jewelry gleamed in that narrow space full of reflections. Delicate beads of hair spray balanced on her hair.

Brian handed me a picture that he'd drawn of me, using a bright red marker for my hair. He'd also drawn me with two perfect legs and wearing an evening gown the likes of which I'd only ever seen on Barbie. Around my feet he'd drawn huge purple tulips and yellow daisies.