Small Steps

by Peg Kehret

Apparently there were no limits to Mother’s. “You haven’t read those kiddie books in years,” she pointed out. “Your health is improving so quickly, and some of the children in that ward are badly crippled.” She made me feel like a selfish ogre.

  “I want to keep my Raggedy Ann books,” I said.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll pack up all the rest.”

  I wanted to keep my other books, too, but I didn’t have the nerve to say so. How could I complain about giving away Donkey, Donkey when I had not looked at it in five years?

  The next Sunday, the car bulged with my belongings. In addition to dolls, books, and the table and chairs, Mother brought every toy in good condition that I hadn’t played with in recent memory. There were balls, boxes of crayons, stuffed animals, and games. She even brought my doll buggy, the one I used to push Raggedy Ann in.

  “Some little girl who can’t yet walk alone might be able to walk by holding on to your buggy,” Mother said.

  I wanted to protest, but I could not dispute the facts: I was too big for that doll buggy, and most of the kids in the children’s ward were worse off than I was.

  Mother had a wonderful time distributing everything to the youngsters in the children’s ward. Then, glowingwith pride in her unselfish daughter, she told everyone it was all my idea.

  Although my parents set a generous example, I never got any pleasure from watching the little kids use my possessions. Every time I saw my doll buggy or my maple table and chairs, I thought of home and how uncomplicated life used to be. When I saw a little boy reading Donkey, Donkey, I fought the urge to grab it away from him and hide it under my bed.

  17: A Present for Dr. Bevis

  “Stand up straight,” Miss Ballard said.

  As I practiced with my walking sticks, she kept reminding me of my posture. “Keep your shoulders back. Eyes ahead. Don’t look down.”

  Each week I used my walking sticks more confidently, but I tended to hunch forward and watch the floor. Weak muscles made it diffcult to keep my shoulders back, and I looked down all the time because I was afraid I would trip.

  One morning, Miss Ballard brought a book to my physical therapy session. I recognized it; it was the bird identification book that was kept near the window in the classroom.

  “This is how fashion models learn to stand straight,” Miss Ballard told me as she placed the book on my head.“They balance a book on their head and try not to drop it while they walk down the runway.”

  “It’s heavy,” I said.

  “You’re lucky I didn’t bring an unabridged dictionary. Let’s see how far you can get before it falls.”

  With Birds of North America perched on my head, I started across the room.

  “Good! Good!” exclaimed Miss Ballard. “You look like a fashion model.”

  It was hard to keep the book from sliding off my head while I walked, especially after I began a running commentary, mimicking the only fashion show I had ever attended, a mother-daughter event at the Methodist church.

  “Our next model is Peg,” I said, “wearing a stunning blue sweatshirt and corduroy pants. Note the exquisite stains on her shirt front, done by a special process called spilled spaghetti. The stylish lump in the left sleeve is achieved with a wadded-up Kleenex. Doesn’t Peg look gorgeous for a day of physical therapy?”

  One memorable morning in late January, Miss Ballard said, “Today you’re going to walk a few steps without your sticks.”

  My heart beat faster.

  “Stand here,” she said, motioning to a stretch of wall with a sturdy railing, “and hold on to the handrail.”

  I moved into position, handed her my walking sticks, and grasped the rail. She stood a few feet ahead of me.

  “Slowly,” she warned. “Heel first, then toe. Don’t thump your whole foot down at once.”

  I nodded.

  “If you have trouble, grab the rail.”

  I nodded again.

  She smiled. “Let go of the rail,” she said.

  I did, too nervous even to tease her by suggesting I might sprint away.

  She stretched her hands toward me. “Peg,” she said, her voice hushed, “you’re going to walk.”

  I licked my lips and stared at her.

  “Now,” she whispered.

  Carefully, I raised one foot and set it down a fewinches in front of me. My arms prickled with excitement.

  “Heel,” Miss Ballard said, “then toe. Small steps.”

  Wobbling slightly, I moved the other foot. I held my arms a few inches away from my body to help me balance.

  “Head up. Don’t look down. Shoulders back. Pretend you have the book on your head.”

  I took another small, unsteady step.

  “Heel,” she said. “Toe. Heel. Toe.” With each word, the excitement in her voice intensified.

  Head up, staring at Miss Ballard, I walked. I walked!

  Six steps later, my hands grasped hers, and we celebrated our mutual victory with a hug.

  “You still need the walking sticks most of the time,” she warned, as she handed them to me. “Don’t try to walk alone unless I’m with you.”

  “Who, me?” I said.

  “I mean it, Peg. No walking by yourself.” She put her hands on her hips. “And no hula dancing, either.”

  “How did you know about that?”

  I followed her instructions faithfully. I had come too far, at too great a cost, to risk a setback. Besides, I couldget around faster with my sticks than I could on my own. Walking unaided slowed me down.

  From then on, I practiced walking alone for a short time each day. With Miss Ballard barking directions like an army drill sergeant, I heeled and toed my way around the physical therapy room. Gradually, I gained assurance. I still had to concentrate on each step, but my gait grew smoother and the steps I took became more normal in length.

  While I learned to walk by myself, Dorothy struggled to walk using both her new braces and her walking sticks. She tried hard, knowing that if she could not manage, she would always be in a wheelchair.

  Renée made more progress than Dorothy did. She needed help getting her leg braces on, but once she was on her feet she could move about with her walking sticks.

  On a frigid February morning, Miss Ballard watched me walk alone and said, “How would you like to go home?”

  “You mean, for good?”

  “Yes. I’ve done all I can for you. From now on, youonly need to continue your exercises and practice walking alone. Go a few steps farther each day without your sticks, the way we’ve been doing here. I know your parents will help you, and I think you want to help yourself.”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “The doctors have already agreed to your discharge,” she went on. “All we have to do is notify your parents that they can come and get you.”

  Home. I was going home.

  “You’ll need to come back for checkups,” Miss Ballard told me. “Every week at first, and then every month. We have to be sure you continue to make progress.”

  “It’ll be fun to come back; I’ll want to see the other kids.”

  “They’re going to miss you,” she said. “We all will.”

  “I’ll miss you, too,” I said, and I threw my arms around her.

  On my last night at the Sheltering Arms, I passed out all the food from under my bed, declaring I didn’t want to haul it home with me. Feeling like my mother’s daughter, I gave away my stationery and pen, my hand mirror, my back scratcher, and even my teddy bear, insisting that each of the girls keep something of mine to remember me by.

  “We won’t miss you,” Renée teased, “but we’ll sure miss your parents.”

  “And your food,” said Alice.

  My emotions were a roller coaster, rocketing to elation that I would soon be home to stay and then plunging to sadness at the thought of leaving my friends.

  That night, we sang every song we had ever
done, even the Christmas carols. We sang and sang and sang, with the music floating over the five beds and disappearing into our memories.

  Mother arrived at ten the next morning. I was glad she came early. Once the day of departure had come, I did not want to linger. Even so, the good-byes were hard to say. They were made bearable only by the fact that I had to return for a checkup the following week and promised to bring a full report from the outside world.

  “Never mind the report,” said Renée. “Just bring potato chips.”

  Her humor chased our nostalgia out the door, and I followed.

  “Good-bye!” the girls called. “Good-bye! Don’t forget to write!”

  Miss Ballard saw me to the car, spouting instructions for Mother and reminders for me.

  While Mother laid my walking sticks across the back seat, I hugged Miss Ballard. “Thank you,” I said. “See you next week.”

  “No running,” Miss Ballard warned as she closed the car door for me. “No funny tricks. No hula.”

  While Mother got in the driver’s side, I rolled down my window.

  “Is it okay,” I asked Miss Ballard, “if I try out my old roller skates?”

  “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” Mother said.

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” Miss Ballard said, but she smiled at me as she covered her ears.

  “We have to stop at University Hospital before we go home,” I told Mother. “I promised Dr. Bevis I’d come back and walk for him.”

  “I know,” she said. “I brought him a present.”

  Somehow, that didn’t surprise me.

  Once more, I rode from the Sheltering Arms to University Hospital. This time I didn’t have to pretend I was dead.

  “I wasn’t sure what to get Dr. Bevis,” Mother said, “so I bought him a necktie. I hope he’s there today.”

  He was. We waited in the lobby while he was paged, and he greeted us warmly.

  “I see you’ve graduated to walking sticks,” he told me. “No more wheelchair.”

  “We’re on our way home,” Mother told him. “Peg was discharged today.”

  “That’s wonderful news.”

  “We brought you a present,” I said. Mother gave him the box.

  When he saw the tie, he said, “It’s beautiful. I’ll think of you whenever I wear it.”

  “I have something to show you,” I said as I handed my walking sticks to Mother.

  Then, smiling triumphantly at Dr. Bevis, I walked across the hospital lobby to the information desk, turned, and walked back again. Head up, shoulders back; heel, toe, heel, toe. Small steps.

  Dr. Bevis watched closely. “You did it!” he said. “You can walk!”

  I stopped in front of him, standing straight. “Thank you for helping me,” I said.

  He took both my hands in his, looking as if he had just won the lottery. “Thank you for coming to show me.”

  Mother gave me my sticks, and Dr. Bevis went to the door with us. “Good-bye, Peg,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

  A necktie and two minutes of watching a young girl walk alone. I hope it was adequate payment for all he had given me.

  18: Back to School

  When we got home this time, I was no longer a visitor, and we soon settled into a routine. Mornings were exercise time. The first day, Mother opened a paper bag and dumped a pile of marbles on the floor in front of me.

  “Miss Ballard said you would know what to do,” she told me.

  After my exercises, I practiced walking without my sticks. I decided to practice with a book on my head. Twice each day, I walked alone until I grew tired, trying to go one minute longer every session.

  The rest of the time, I used my sticks. Because they stuck out on each side, it was harder to walk with them at home than it had been at the Sheltering Arms. Even though Mother and Dad pushed the furniture against the walls, I had less room to maneuver. Still, I was in no hurry

  to discard my sticks. I felt far more secure with them than I did when I walked alone, and they kept me from becoming too tired.

  Every afternoon, I studied. Without the distraction of four roommates, I did my lessons quickly. But I worried that I might be far behind my classmates. What if I didn’t pass those final exams?

  I was allowed one visitor each day, for fifteen minutes. My friends took turns coming, but the visits seemed strained. Although we were genuinely glad to see each other, they could not help staring at my walking sticks. Instead of giving me news from school, they wanted to hear what it was like to have polio.

  “Did it hurt?” they asked. “Were you really paralyzed from the neck down?” “Did you almost die?”

  What will it be like, I worried, when I go back to school? Will everyone stare? Will kids I don’t even know want to hear the details of my time in the hospital? I felt like a freak in a sideshow, valued only because I was different.

  A week after my discharge, we returned to the Sheltering Arms for my first checkup. Miss Ballard was pleased with my progress. I could hardly wait to see the other girls and catch up on all the hospital news.

  When we went up to Room 202, Dorothy, Renée, and Alice were in school, and a new girl was in my bed. I talked awhile with Shirley and left, feeling disappointed and slightly resentful that life at the Sheltering Arms was rolling smoothly along without me.

  My second checkup was scheduled at one o’clock, so we went early and visited in Room 202 while the girls ate lunch.

  During my first weeks at home, I frequently sat by the window and watched for the mailman, hoping for news from the Sheltering Arms. I wrote regularly to Room 202. Renée and Dorothy wrote back often; Alice wrote occasionally. Shirley could not write by herself, but the letters from the other girls always said, “P.S. Shirley says to tell you hi.”

  Oddly, I didn’t listen to the “Lone Ranger” after I went home. Tonto and Silver now belonged to a different part of my life.

  After four checkups, Miss Ballard said I didn’t need to come back for a month. When I arrived that time, Dorothy said, “I won’t be here the next time you come. I’m going home on Saturday.”

  “Did the new braces work?” I asked.

  Dorothy shook her head, no. “My brothers are building a ramp so I can get in and out of our house.”

  I was glad that she was going home, and sad that she would always need the wheelchair.

  When it was time for us to leave, I hugged Dorothy, wondering if I would ever see her again. We promised to write often, and that promise held back my tears.

  We had good intentions, but letters between me and my roommates slowed, in both directions. There were two new girls in 202 now.

  About two weeks after she was discharged, I got a letter from Dorothy. “I wanted to leave Sheltering Arms more than anything,” she wrote, “but now sometimes I wish I could go back. Isn’t that silly?”

  It wasn’t silly to me. We were safe at the Sheltering Arms, cocooned in Room 202, where everyone understood what it was like to have polio. Getting around in the normal world, even in our own homes, was more diffcult than hospital life.

  In April, I got permission to return to school. I was still on my walking sticks, but I could go up and down stairs if I held the railing with both hands and had someone carry my sticks for me. I was slow because both feet had to touch every step, but I could make it.

  Dad bought me a backpack for my books. I was to start by attending only in the mornings. If I could manage that, I would gradually work up to a full day.

  On my first day back, I was so nervous my hands began to sweat and I was afraid the sticks would slip out of my grasp. What if people never quit staring? What if no one would carry my sticks up and down stairs for me? What if I couldn’t get around in the crowded halls, and fell? Worst of all, what if I discovered that I was hopelessly behind the other kids in every class?

  When I walked into my first-period class, which happened to be English, the students whistled and
clapped and cheered, welcoming me back. All morning, kids begged for a turn to carry my sticks up or down the stairs. They offered to help me with the backpack. They walked ahead of me in the halls, clearing space.

  Without knowing it, I had become a celebrity. Since I was the only person in Austin to get polio that year, the whole town had followed my progress while I was in the hospital. It seems all of Austin had been pulling for me, hoping I would walk again.

  Rather than falling behind in my classes, it quickly became clear that I had remained equal or even pulled slightly ahead. By the end of the morning, I felt sure that I would pass the final exams.

  My last class of the morning was chorus practice. Thanks to all those songs in the dark, my singing voice was improved, even though I now used my stomach muscles rather than my diaphragm.

  As I found my seat and placed my sticks on the floor beside me, I remembered how my skirt had jumped because of my twitching thigh muscle on Homecoming day, and how I had collapsed in the hall when chorus ended.

  I had been gone seven months. I had been gone a lifetime. Although I returned on walking sticks, moving slowly and taking small steps, I knew that in many ways, I was stronger than when I left.

  I opened my music and began to sing.

  Epilogue

  Within a year of leaving the Sheltering Arms, I was able to walk without the sticks, attend school full-time, and lead a nearly normal life. I graduated from Austin High School and spent a year at the University of Minnesota.

  Peg Schulze became Peg Kehret when I married my best friend, Carl Kehret. I wept for joy the day our children, Anne and Bob, got their first polio vaccinations.

  My dream of being a writer never faded. I wrote short stories, magazine articles, plays, and adult books before discovering that what I like best is writing books for young people. I have published forty-three books; all but two are for children. Perhaps I like to write from the viewpoint of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old because I remember that time in my life so clearly.

  Although I never became a veterinarian, animals enliven

  most of my books. I volunteer for animal welfare causes, and because I had the good sense to marry a man who loved animals, I’ve always shared my home with various rescued creatures. For many years, Carl and I took two cats and a dog along in our motor home when we traveled across the United States for my talks at schools and library conventions.