by Ruth Behar
But please, God, Shiva, and Frida, it would be nice if you could help me get over my limp. Between all of you, I know you can pull that off.
I feel bad for Dr. Friendlich. He put me in a body cast so my legs would heal properly, and now he’s disappointed to see me limping. So if you could please go ahead and work your miracles, Dr. Friendlich won’t have to know that it was really you that did it with a little extra help from the saints in Cuba.
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Ruthie
a new Ruthie
School is over, and Mami and I have a new routine of taking the subway on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday to the clinic on Continental Avenue. I must look funny limping alongside my pretty mother in my big old saddle shoes—the only shoes that feel sturdy on my feet. People stare, but I find that if I look back at them and smile, it surprises them, and then they have to smile at me.
At the clinic, I see others who are recovering from all sorts of injuries. There is the soldier who lost a leg and is learning to walk with a prosthesis. His name is Jimmy and he says, “Howdy, Ruthie.” There’s the factory worker whose hands were flattened like corn tortillas by a machine. She is trying to regain enough strength to be able to do simple things, like eating with a knife and fork. Her name is María, and she says, “Hola, corazón.” There is the grandmother who slipped in the shower and broke her hip and is learning to use a walker. She is a sophisticated lady with silver hair freshly teased at the beauty parlor and manicured nails painted red. Her name is Lucy and she calls me “Ruthie dear.”
Jessica, the physical therapist, makes me do lots of exercises. I have to squeeze a rubber ball between my legs. I have to lift weights that are tied around the ankle of my right leg. I have to lie on a table on my back with my feet planted down and lift my hips and make a bridge with my body.
I think Jessica is too beautiful to be working at a dreary clinic with rubber balls and rusty gym equipment. She has platinum blond hair and used to be a cheerleader in high school.
“Did they throw you in the air and catch you?” I ask her.
“Oh yes! And I could do shoulder stands and twirl around like a ballerina and stand tall at the very top of the pyramid of all the cheerleaders.”
“I wish I could have seen you. You must have been amazing!”
“That was a long time ago,” she says. She looks away wistfully for a moment as if she were reliving those days. “The years pass and things change. You’re not the person you were when you were younger, so you better like who you are now. I feel good helping people who are going through a dark time in their life.”
She smiles big huge smiles, claps, and jumps when I make a little progress. She’s always yelling out, “Hip, hip, hooray!”
But my limp doesn’t go away.
“You’ll get there,” Jessica says. “Don’t lose hope.”
Every time she says that, I nod and remember the words from one of my favorite Emily Dickinson poems: “‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul.”
I see a lot of hope at the clinic.
I see hope as Jimmy takes a shaky step with his prosthesis.
I see hope as María struggles to hold a fork in her flattened hands.
I see hope as Lucy shuffles along on her walker.
“Bye, Jimmy! Bye, María! Bye, Lucy!” I say as I leave the clinic. “See you next time!” And they smile and look at me with eyes that know we belong to the same club. We are the wounded of the world. But we know we are lucky to be getting help.
After I’m done at the clinic, Mami takes me to my favorite place. We cross Queens Boulevard, not rushing, stopping at the center island and waiting for the next green light, terrified of the racing cars. Finally we get there.
Nestled behind two old maple trees is the public library. I never know what treasures I’ll find there. I love the old sign in the library that greets us: “Sing Out for Books.” It shows kids reading books atop a big book of stories, flying as high as the moon.
Each week I pick up more art books, storybooks, poetry books, and anything that strikes my fancy. The books are heavy and Mami offers to help. But I feel like I should carry my own books.
When we get back to the neighborhood, Ava and June are playing hopscotch. Danielle stands there watching. She has been so faithful and kept her vow not to play hopscotch until I can play.
She smiles when she sees me coming. She has on a pretty flowered dress, perfect for the sunny summer weather.
“I’ll come back down in a little while,” I tell her. “I need to drop my books off and I’m a little tired from the physical therapy.”
“Sure, Ruthie, I understand. I’ll wait for you.”
I go upstairs with Mami and sit down in the chair by the window in the living room where I like to read. There I can look out at what’s happening in the street, while feeling safe at home. I want to start one of my new books, but I see Ava and June have left. Danielle is standing alone at the edge of the hopscotch board, waiting for me.
I tell Mami I’m going outside.
“Good, mi niña, get some fresh air,” she says.
Going down the five steps from the building to the street, I remember the first time I descended those steps after all the months being an invalid, both legs shaking, my hands trembling as I gripped the crutches. And there stood Danielle, greeting me with a dandelion.
Now the lawn is green again and full of humble yellow dandelions. The sign is still there that says: “Keep Off the Grass!” I don’t hesitate. I slip my hand through an opening in the fence, reach in, and pull a dandelion from the earth.
I bring it to Danielle and say, “Here, for you.”
Danielle understands the meaning of this gift and she smiles and says, “So will you try to play hopscotch? Just take one step?”
“All right, Danielle,” I say, surprising myself.
I watch as Danielle hops across the board, as graceful and light as always.
When she’s done, Danielle says, “Now it’s your turn.”
“Please don’t make me.”
“But you said you would, Ruthie. Come on, nobody’s here but you and me.”
“I can’t jump yet, Danielle. That’s the problem.”
“All right. Then just walk across . . . for old times’ sake.”
“Okay, just for you.”
I’m excited and afraid as I step on the hopscotch board.
I set my feet inside the boxes and prepare to move from end to end. I recall the girl who could do this so easily, who could bound her way down the board feeling confident that her legs would hold her up. Now this is a difficult task. I must think about every step.
Slowly, carefully, I limp across the hopscotch. I look up and see Danielle smiling at me. I want to please Danielle. I think I can hop forward just on my left foot. But I stretch too far and lose my balance. “I’m going to fall!” I yell. Danielle stretches out a hand just in time, and I grab it and keep from toppling to the ground.
Danielle cheers, “Bravo, Ruthie! You see, you can do it! With practice, you’ll get better, and you’ll be Miss Hopscotch Queen of Queens again.”
“Thank you, Danielle. But I’m never going to be Miss Hopscotch Queen of Queens again.”
“Don’t say that, Ruthie.”
“Danielle, I’m a different Ruthie now. I’ve been through a metamorphosis. Now I am a girl who reads books and makes pictures. I like to be still. I like quiet. I can’t go back anymore and be the old Ruthie. That Ruthie is gone forever.”
When I see tears in Danielle’s eyes, I take her hand and tell her, “Danielle, I’m so lucky you’ll be my true friend always.”
I see Danielle breathe a sigh of relief. “Come, let’s go to my house. I will ask Maman to make some puffs for us to celebrate the birth of the new Ruthie.”
Seeing me coming i
n the door, Mrs. Levy-Cohen exclaims, “It’s always wonderful, chérie, to see you walking!”
“But I still have a limp,” I mumble.
“That shall pass,” she replies, waving her hand. “The less you think about it, the faster it will go away.” And she smiles. “So you girls would like some puffs?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” Danielle and I reply eagerly.
We eat our puffs—a heavenly dozen—and then Danielle takes me to her pink room and pulls the black go-go boots out of the closet.
“Try them, Ruthie,” she says.
“But it’s summer. Let’s wait until winter.”
“No, try them now, to see if you like them.”
I sit on the edge of Danielle’s bed and remove my clunky saddle shoes. I slip on Danielle’s boots. They are made of the softest leather. I zip them up and feel the boots hugging my legs very gently. My feet feel as if they’d sunk into the silky sand of Little Cow Beach in Cuba.
I stand up in the cautious way I’ve learned to move. But I feel so good in the boots, my body relaxes, and without thinking I place equal weight on both feet.
Danielle smiles. “I think they fit you perfectly, Ruthie. You look very nice, very chic! They go well with your glasses and your books! Why don’t you walk in them and see how they feel?”
I step forward first with my left leg, my good leg, as I’m accustomed to doing. My right leg, my bad leg, follows. But as I take the next step, and the next, something unexpected happens. Suddenly I trust my broken leg! I’ve been putting all my weight on my left leg, trying to protect my right. That’s why I’ve had a limp.
I keep on walking in Danielle’s boots. I feel like I could walk to the end of the world and back.
Danielle claps and starts singing:
These boots are made for walkin’
And that’s just what they’ll do . . .
“Let’s go show my family I am learning to walk normally again!”
Mrs. Levy-Cohen claps her hands too as we go out the door. “You see, chérie, didn’t I tell you? Everything passes, the good and the bad.”
When I ring the bell and Mami sees me in the boots, she says, “Ruti, whose boots are you wearing?”
“They’re Danielle’s boots. They’re a gift to me.”
Danielle says, “Look at Ruthie walk! Look!”
And I come into the apartment, walking with so little a limp that only I notice it.
“Mi niña, mi niña,” Mami yells, laughing and crying at the same time.
Izzie comes home and sees the commotion. “What’s going on here?” he asks.
“Your sister isn’t limping anymore. Look!” Mami says.
I take a few steps back and forth to show him.
“Wow, Roofie! I’m going to tell Baba and Zeide!”
He rushes down the stairs and in minutes he comes back upstairs in the elevator with Baba and Zeide, who have just gotten home from Super Discount Fabric, bits of thread and lint clinging to their clothes.
And just then Papi comes home. “¿Qué pasa? Why is everyone here?” he asks. He sees me in Danielle’s boots and says, “Where did you get those boots? I didn’t give you permission to wear black boots.”
“Papi, wait, don’t get angry,” I say. “These are Danielle’s boots and something magical happened when I put them on. Look, I can walk again, without limping.”
I walk a few steps. Papi and everyone watch me and then they let out a gasp like they’ve all come up for air at the same time.
“Dios mío, at last!” Papi says. He wraps his arms around me and Mami does too. Then Baba and Zeide kiss each other, whispering, “Ay qué bueno, qué bueno.” And Baba sighs and says, “Now I will be able to sleep at night again.”
I notice Papi has a package in his hand.
“What’s in that box?” I ask.
He smiles. “A gift for you. But maybe you don’t need it.”
I open the box and pull aside the tissue paper. There they are: a pair of new white go-go boots, shiny and bright like two moons.
I look at Papi and he smiles at me again and nods.
I turn to Danielle. “These boots are for you . . . Do you like them?”
“I love them! They are très jolie,” she says, and slips them on.
The boots fit Danielle perfectly. She floats in them like an angel.
I think about how Danielle and I are decked out in boots as though it were the winter, reminding us there will be cold, dark days ahead. But for the moment, life cannot be more beautiful.
We hook elbows, like two Rockettes, and Danielle and I belt out our song:
These boots are made for walkin’
And that’s just what they’ll do . . .
Within minutes the doorbell rings. It’s Chicho! He heard us all from down the hall.
“Qué amigos más falsos,” he says, shaking his head. “How can you have a party and not invite me?”
“The party just started, Chicho,” Mami reassures him. “Ruti is walking without a limp! It’s the boots that Danielle gave her. They’re magical.”
“What wonderful news! I knew this day would come. Let me bring something for the party. Ruti, would you like a piñata?”
“Oh yes, Chicho! Yes!”
That’s enough to send Izzie running down to tell Dennis and Lily. Before you know it, they arrive, panting up the stairs, Uncle Bill and Aunt Sylvia following behind in the elevator. When they see me walking so easily, Aunt Sylvia sheds a tear and Uncle Bill proudly says, “That doctor didn’t fiddle around. I told him to fix you up like new. And he did.”
Chicho brings the biggest piñata he has in his apartment. It’s in the shape of a heart, red tissue paper on the inside and pink tissue paper on the edges.
“I was saving it for Valentine’s Day, but that’s months away, and anyway I think this is a much better occasion,” he says.
“I wanna break it!” Izzie says.
“Me too!” Dennis shouts.
“And me!” Lily shouts after him.
“I’d also like to give it a try, if I may,” Danielle says politely.
“You’ll all have a chance to break it,” Chicho says.
One at a time, he blindfolds Izzie, Dennis, Lily, and Danielle and spins them around and around, so they are facing the wrong direction and totally miss the piñata.
Finally it’s my turn. I let Chicho spin me around and around. I know he will place me in front of the piñata so I can be the one to break it.
I give the piñata a strike with the broom, and sure enough, I hit it on the first try.
The paper heart comes undone, releasing its multicolored confetti over all of us like soft summer rain.
I lift my palms to catch the confetti and something I can’t describe lands on me.
Is that what it feels like to receive a blessing?
It must be. For I was once a broken girl. And I’m not broken anymore.
I am lucky, after all.
One day I may even go on the journeys I dreamed of. People will say, “Look at her, she spent a year in bed, and now she travels far and wide.” But wherever I go, I know I will feel most at home with the wounded of the world, who hold their heads up high no matter how broken they may seem.
I tear off the blindfold and watch the last bits of confetti pour out of the paper heart and fill the air with happiness.
But wait! What’s that sound?
Music from Cuba . . .
Cha-cha-cha, qué rico cha-cha-cha . . .
Everyone is dancing and I am dancing too. It’s so easy in the magical boots. I am light on my feet and feel like I am a little girl in Cuba again, lifted by the breeze, way up to the sky.
And what’s happening now? My real heart, why does it hurt?
I think it wants to break open too.
That must be my heart’s way of making room for all the love the world still has to give.
THE END
Author’s Note
the grown-up Ruth remembers Ruthie
Many years ago, I wrote an essay, trying to tell the story of my childhood accident from the point of view of the grown-up woman looking back at the broken girl I had once been. It was not easy to tell the story. I cried as I wrote. Then it was finished and I thought, “Oh, good, I’m done with that story.” I sighed with relief and moved on. But really I had barely begun to tell it.
Someone—I don’t remember her name—read the essay and liked it so much she asked to speak to me on the phone. And she said to me, “Why don’t you tell the story from the girl’s perspective?”
She was right. Ruthie needed to speak for herself.
When I sat down to write Lucky Broken Girl, my childhood memories of being in a body cast for close to a year came flooding back. These memories didn’t arrive as a coherent whole, but in bits and pieces, like pottery shards. Initially this book was a kaleidoscope of vignettes. I hoped I might find some documents from that time to enrich the story. I remembered we kept one of the white plaster casts stashed in a closet for years, but then we moved to a different apartment and it got discarded. My mother likes to create albums of old family photos, so I asked her if there were pictures of me in the cast. “No, of course not,” she replied, horrified I’d asked. They had not wanted to take any pictures of me in that condition, she told me.
This was a story I was supposed to forget. But I trusted my memory. And I did find the front-page story in the Daily News about the car crash. But most of all, I trusted the truths my body told me. This story is etched into my physiology, my nerves, and my many fears. It’s what they call trauma. All those who’ve been wounded know what I mean. Maybe all who’ve been wounded are told, as I was, “It could have been worse.” In other words, don’t ask for too much sympathy. I remember feeling as a child that it was wrong to talk about my pain. Wrong to feel any pain. I buried the pain inside, where only I could feel it piercing me.
It took fifty years for me to release that pain and to honor the voice of the broken girl. I feel blessed to have found the words to tell this story, though I don’t recommend that anyone wait that long. Pain is pain. Speak up. Tell your story.