The Running Dream (19 page)

“The leg feels way too long,” I tell him.

He nods knowingly. “That’s normal. You’ve had no resistance or pressure on that leg for quite some time now, so even when it’s perfect, patients still say it feels long.” He smiles at me. “But in this case, it
is
long.”

He takes a thin wooden block and slips it under my good
foot, then checks my hip bones again. “By raising the left side,” he says, “I’ll know how much I have to shorten the pylon.” After a minute of assessing how level I am, he takes another, thinner block and slips it under my left foot so that it’s on top of the first block.

“Very good,” he says after checking the level again. “The first block was half an inch, the second one a quarter inch … which means we’ve got to take the pylon down three-quarters of an inch.”

He has me sit down and uses an Allen wrench to loosen the top coupling. Then he removes the pipe from the socket. The foot is still attached to the bottom end of the pipe, and having him do this feels strange. Like I’m some sort of doll where the parts snap on and off.

He leaves the room with the pipe and foot, and before long he’s back. “Let’s try this,” he says, and reattaches the pipe to the socket.

I stand up again, and even though the leg still feels long, he checks the level and says, “Perfect.”

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“I am. Don’t worry. That feeling of it being too long will go away.” Then he says, “Now what I want you to do is hold on to the bars and just rock back and forth on one foot, then the other.”

I do this, and what’s so surreal is that I can feel my foot. It’s not there, I know it’s not there, but as I’m rocking back and forth, my brain seems to be sighing with relief.

Oh, there it is!

“How is that?” Hank asks.

“Is it supposed to feel like my foot is there?” I ask quietly.

“Does it?” he asks in return.

I nod, then look at him.

He’s smiling. “It’s not the case for everyone, that’s for sure. But I find that the patients who have that sensation adapt much more quickly than those who don’t.”

“But why does it feel that way?”

“Your brain is still wired to your having a foot.” He shrugs. “The body’s nerves send signals, and the brain adapts or reacts. That can be a phantom pain or simply feeling like a limb is still there. It’s not entirely understood, but if your brain thinks your prosthetic foot is your real foot, that’s a very good sign.”

I glance at my mother, and she’s looking a little tense, but also … pleased.

“All right,” Hank says. “Now I want you to put your left foot forward, then pull it back. Put your right foot forward, pull it back. Don’t go anywhere, just do a little hokey-pokey for me.”

So I do, and each time I put my right leg out and back, I feel a little more confident.

“Let’s try a few steps,” he says when I’ve hokey-pokeyed enough. “Hold on to the rails and move forward. The biggest obstacle is fear, and you have no reason to be afraid. Just do what your body remembers.”

And so I take my first step.

And my second step.

And my third.

The fake leg feels snug.

Solid.

I can’t roll off the foot like I can with my regular leg, but I move forward step by step until suddenly I’m at the end of the bars.

I look up and see my reflection in the mirror.

My new leg is not a pretty sight, but it doesn’t freak me out.

I turn around, and there’s my mother and Hank, standing at the opposite end.

My mother has a look on her face that’s hard to define. Hope. Anticipation. Worry … I feel like I’m her baby again, taking my first wobbly steps.

I take a deep breath, then loosen my grip on the bars.

Two steps forward, my hands are hovering above the bars.

I take two more steps.

And two more.

Tears sting my eyes.

I’m
walking
.

I
T’S ALMOST ANOTHER HOUR
of adjustments and testing and warnings about not overdoing it, watching for hot spots, and avoiding stump blisters at all cost before I walk out of there.

But I do
walk out of there
.

Hank has given me a cane, so I use it for stability, and although I’m not entirely confident, or even very competent, I
want
to walk and Hank tells me that’s ninety percent of the battle won.

On the way home Mom has the brilliant idea that what I need are some of those warm-up pants with zippers that run all the way up the sides of the legs. So we drive downtown to the Sports Stop, and since I’m still in my shorts, I have her go in without me.

She returns with two pairs: one’s royal blue and gold—Liberty colors—the other is black with white trim. “These are perfect!” I tell her, and she seems happy.

Really happy.

Dad’s happy to see me moving on both legs, too, but he’s also fascinated by the leg itself. He wants to hear all about the
fitting and the adjustments and how the suction sleeve works, and when he’s up to speed on the mechanics of it, he makes me walk across the kitchen about six times.

I think for the first time in ages
he
sees hope.

Kaylee’s like, “Wow, you are going to have so much fun on Halloween!” and I give her a friendly punch in the arm for that. And when Fiona hears I’m home and walking, she drops everything and rushes over to the house.

“I’ll get it!” I call when the doorbell rings. I’ve switched into my new warm-up pants, so when Fiona takes me in, all she sees is me in my Nikes.

Exactly how I used to look.

I step back and say, “Come on in.”

I try hard to make my gait even as we walk down the hallway. Hank said it’s the one thing that gives you away, but that by paying close attention and watching yourself in the mirror, you can master an even gait.

There are no mirrors, so I can’t see how I’m doing, but Fiona has a definite opinion. “That’s
amazing,
” she says, following me into the kitchen.

“She’s showing off,” my mom scolds. “She’s supposed to be carrying a cane.”

“Wow!” Fiona says, watching me. “Wow, wow, wow!”

Then I sit down and unzip my pant leg, and her face falls. “It’s just a pipe? Aren’t they going to, you know, make it look like a leg?”

I shrug. “This one’s temporary, and I have to go in every week for adjustments, so it’s just a lot more practical to have it like this.”

“So when do you get your permanent leg?”

“It depends. Hank thinks I’ll be ready in two or three months. They want to make sure my leg is all done changing.” I zip down my pant leg and smile at her. “In the meantime, it’s good to be walking around.”

“Hey!” she says, getting all excited. “You have
got
to show up at the car wash tomorrow, walking! Kyro will be floored! And the car wash is going to be great. Kyro had this huge blue-and-gold banner made. It says
HELP JESSICA RUN!
And the car wash committee voted to wear track uniforms, so we’ll be color-coordinated with the sign!”

I laugh. “You want to be color-coordinated with a sign?”

She scowls at me. “It’ll make us more visible and show that we’re a team, working toward something.”

“Wait. I thought you were on the bake sale committee.”

She grins. “Come on. I’m on all the committees!”

I laugh. “Figures.”

“So you’ll come?”

How could I not?

I hug her and tell her I’ll be there.

I
T’S AMAZING HOW TWO THIN PIECES
of clothing can hold such deep memories. Laughter, pain, victory, defeat, friendship, fatigue, elation … they’re all there, but only to the person who’s worn the uniform. To the rest of the world it’s simply shorts and a tank top.

Fiona told me to wear them to the car wash, but holding the gold shorts and Liberty singlet now makes me feel like an impostor.

Still, I finally take a deep breath and pull them on.

The fabric is cool and smooth against my skin.

Memories tingle through me.

I sit on the edge of my bed for a long time, fighting back tears. Why am I wearing a track uniform? What am I
thinking
? Each of yesterday’s steps was careful, calculated, conscious. I can’t see them ever being anything but.

And that’s just
walking
.

Then I remember Chloe.

And the YouTube athletes.

They make movement,
running
, look so natural.

So easy.

How do they
do
that?

I finally put on my leg and pull on my new blue-and-gold side-zip sweats. I feel better covered up. Like less of an impostor.

Going downstairs, I navigate the steps carefully. I feel clunky and clumsy and slow, and I’m glad for the handrail. I actually think about sitting and scooting, but I do make it down without cheating.

I find my parents in the kitchen. “So who wants to drive me to the car wash?” I ask, putting on a brave face. “Or can I just drive myself?”

I’m joking, but Dad takes me seriously. “I’ll drive you,” he says quickly, and before long we’re on our way to the gas station on the corner of Grand and Highland.

The first thing I see is the banner.

HELP JESSICA RUN!

The colors are bright and it’s way bigger than I’d imagined. And it’s strange to see my name up there.

Like it must be another Jessica, not me.

There are blue and yellow balloons punching around in the wind, and two bake sale tables set up with blue and yellow tablecloths, and about twenty-five or thirty people in blue-and-gold track uniforms. Some of the runners are washing cars, some are working the bake sale tables, and some are holding poster-board signs and shouting at cars from the corner.

“Wow,” my dad says when he sees the setup.

“How lucky am I, huh?”

He gives me a curious look but then nods as he turns into the parking lot. “Luckier than I knew.”

He pulls to a stop and asks, “Is this good?”

“Great!”

“You need help?”

I open the van door and carefully step down. “Nope!” I say from the ground. Then I grab my cane, blow him a kiss, and close the door.

I
GET MOBBED BY MY TEAMMATES
, and of course they all want to see the leg.

Until they do.

The girls try not to show it, but they are horrified.

“Oh my God, it’s just a
pipe.
”

“Aren’t they going to make it look, you know, real?”

The guys, though, think it’s wicked cool.

“That is
tight
, man!”

“Yaz! Dude! Come here! Check out Jessica’s leg!”

“Wow, that is
crazy
.… That’s, like, Terminator tough!”

I tell myself that the guys being wowed and the girls being revolted is better than the other way around, but both extremes are a little much.

Kyro intervenes. “Hey, people. Get back to your posts! We’re trying to make some money here!” Everyone but Fiona scatters, and he smiles at me and says, “It’s great to see you out here. And it’s great to see you in uniform.”