“And I’m Mrs. Wahl,” the teacher calls with a friendly wave. “You must be Jessica.”
I nod and smile, but I feel a little uncomfortable that she already knows who I am.
Rosa gets right down to the math. She shows me her homework and points me through the steps as she explains the problems. “Okay. To find the first three iterates of this function, here’s what you do.…”
I struggle to understand her, especially since she’s speaking math—a language I’m already having trouble with. But seeing her work really helps, and at the end of each problem she forces me to get it by making me do the problem on my own without looking at her paper.
She’s patient and encouraging, and every time I solve a problem right, she says, “See? You’re getting it!” And as I begin solving them on my own, she smiles and says, “See? It’s easy!”
And with her help, that’s what it becomes.
Well, almost, anyway.
When the warning bell rings, I pack up my things and Rosa says, “I can help you anytime.”
“Thanks,” I say back, and this time I know that I’ll take her up on it.
“I can come over, too,” she says.
I hesitate, wondering how in the world that would work, or how she could even offer. It would probably be a lot easier for me to go over to her house … but again, my mind is defaulting to relying on Fiona for help.
Then she totally surprises me by saying, “I would love to meet your dog. He seems so … happy.”
I blink at her. “How do you know my dog?” I’m feeling very strange. Not fully grounded. And it flashes through my mind that I’ve been stalked by a girl in a wheelchair.
She laughs at my expression. “You used to run by my house. I live on Marigold. The house with the mermaid fountain.”
For some reason she’s becoming easier to understand. I barely have to decipher at all. “I know that house! You’re about half a mile from me. I’m on Harken.”
“See?” she says with a lopsided smile as she motors toward the door. “We’re neighbors.”
Mrs. Wahl calls, “Bye, girls!” as we leave, and adds, “Come back anytime, Jessica. You’re always welcome!”
“Thanks,” I call back.
Then I hobble off to class.
THAT NIGHT I have the running dream again. When I wake up, I cry like I always do, but my tears are interrupted by the memory of something new in the dream.
A mermaid fountain.
A mermaid fountain and Rosa, waving from her porch as I run by.
In the dream I don’t really see her. I don’t turn my head and look. She’s a ghost on the porch, a cloudy vapor to my right.
But I know she’s there.
I know it’s her.
I wonder about her appearing in the dream. The dream’s been the same for so long, and this new dimension feels a little … invasive. This is my dream. My escape to the place I love most in the world. The roads, the river, the trees, the bridge …
Sherlock gives me a hopeful nudge and lets out a soft whine.
“Sorry, boy,” I tell him. “After school we’ll throw the ball, okay?”
He hasn’t given up on our old routine but seems to like the new one just fine. I give him a hug and a nuzzle, and it crosses my mind that after I get my leg, I could walk him over to Rosa’s.
The thought, in its own small way, makes me feel better.
THERE IS SOMETHING DIFFERENT about Fiona. Something … radiant. She denies it, but I don’t believe her. “Are you in love?” I finally ask during science. She assures me she’s not.
“Then what is going on with you?” I whisper. “And don’t tell me nothing!”
She finally caves, but only a little. “You’ll see!”
“See what?” I demand, but she refuses to say any more.
So now I’m suspecting that it’s not about her at all—that it’s about me.
But what could it possibly be?
More cupcakes?
She leads me to Kyro’s room at lunch. “Why?” I want to know. “What is going on?”
She’s bursting at the seams. “Kyro has something amazing to show you!”
“What?” I demand.
“Stop asking! This is his surprise.”
From the buildup I’m expecting a room full of people, but it’s just Kyro.
Kyro and his laptop.
Kyro has ancestors from Poland and Ethiopia. He has dark skin and light eyes and the most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen. The fingers are long and graceful, and they do a little flip upward near the tips. But the overall impression is one of strength; that his hands could move mountains.
Kyro’s hands are busy on the keys of his laptop when Fiona and I come in. “Jessica!” he says with a smile, then hits a few keys and turns to Fiona. “How much did you tell her?”
“Nothing!”
He grins. “I’m impressed.”
“You should be!” she says with a laugh.
“Will one of you please tell me what this is about?”
He motions me over. “Have a seat.”
So I sit in his seat and watch his computer screen as he activates a YouTube video.
It’s footage of a track. A race. Some big event.
The commentator is speaking in a language I don’t know.
Italian?
“What is this?” I ask.
“Shhh,” Kyro says. “Just watch.”
There’s a close-up now. A close-up of something I don’t recognize. It’s got little nails sticking out of a rubberized pad, and the pad is connected to a long, dark piece of curved metal.
And then the camera pulls back and I see that there are two of these spiky padded pieces of curved metal and that they’re attached to … legs.
It’s a runner?
Yes.
A runner on curved, spiked feet.
“That’s Oscar Pistorius,” Kyro says softly. “He’s a four-hundred-meter sprinter, and a double below-knee amputee. Those are running prostheses.”
“He runs on those?” I gasp, because it doesn’t seem possible. His legs are sickles. Hooks. I don’t understand how he can even stand on them, let alone run.
And yet he walks along the track, and then … he gets down in the starting blocks.
I hold my breath, not believing my eyes.
Kyro leans in and points out the other runners. “Look what he’s competing against.”
Every other runner getting into blocks has two legs.
Two flesh-and-blood legs.
The runners are set and the gun goes off, and the guy with hook legs fires out of the blocks just like the rest of the runners.
I watch, my heart pounding.
He can run!
He can run.
And not only can he run, he’s fast. While other runners struggle through Rigor Mortis Bend, he gains ground, finishing the race in second place.
My jaw drops when the screen displays his time. “A forty-six nine?” I gasp.
Kyro grins. “Impressive, even on regular legs.”
Kyro shows me two more videos—one with a woman named Amy who’s missing one leg below the knee just like me and runs marathons, and another with an amputee my age racing for her track team.
When they’re done, he closes the laptop and looks right at me. “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Thoughts race through my head.
It’s amazing.
Unbelievable.
And freakish.
These people look like cyborgs.
Since I lost my leg, I’ve wanted to cover up. Hide what I’m missing. Make others forget there’s something different about me.
There’d be no covering that up.
Is running worth becoming a cyborg?
Kyro gently prods me for an answer. “What I’m asking is would you want one?”
My heart races at the thought of being able to run again, and my moment of doubt vanishes.
“Yes!”
He nods.
“Okay, then, here’s the situation: Running prostheses are expensive. We already have plenty of problems with insurance companies covering your basic medical issues, but even if we didn’t, getting them to pay for one of these is almost certainly out of the question. So we had a team meeting yesterday and formed the Help Jessica Run campaign. Every runner volunteered for at least one of four committees: Bake Sale, Raffle, Car Wash, and Community Donations.” He takes a deep breath. “Our goal is to buy you a running leg so you can get back on the track and compete on the team your senior year.”
I look from Kyro to Fiona and back again.
I want to say something, but what can I possibly say?
There are no words for this moment.
And I’m almost afraid to believe that I actually might be able to run again.
AT HOME I’M STILL HAVING TROUBLE believing it’s true.
I’m going to be able to run again?
I watch the YouTube videos on our computer over and over, and slowly it sinks in.
I’m going to be able to run again!
I make my mother watch them.
She’s amazed. “I have never seen anything like that!”
I make my sister watch them.
She’s … direct. “That is freaky,” she says after seeing the clips.
“It’s awesome,” I tell her, and give her a playful shove.
She wants to watch them again, and when we’re done, she says, “You’re really going to get one of those?”
“My team is doing this huge fund-raiser and they’re going to buy me one! They’re doing bake sales and raffle tickets and car washes.…”
“Seriously?” Kaylee asks.
“Seriously.”
My dad, however, is secretly not convinced. I hear him in the kitchen later, talking to my mom. “How are cookies and raffle tickets going to raise twenty thousand dollars?”
I hold my breath, eavesdropping from around the corner.
Twenty thousand dollars?!
For a curved piece of metal?
The team will never be able to raise that much money!
“Don’t give her doubts,” my mom whispers sternly. “She’s happy. She’s hopeful. She needs this.”
My dad’s voice is hoarse as he whispers, “But if it’s a pipe dream, it’s cruel! And what about the hospital bills and the twenty thousand for her regular prosthesis? Does he have any idea what we’re going through to cover those bills?”
I hold my breath harder.
Twenty thousand?
Twenty thousand?
My mind is reeling.
If a leg costs that much, what did the hospital cost? For that matter, what did it cost to cut off my real leg?
“Look,” my mom whispers. “Let’s hire that lawyer and let’s apply pressure. But let’s not say anything negative about the team’s plan to raise money. They’re just trying to help.”
“The lawyer wants half of whatever settlement we reach, and it might take years!”
“So let’s interview another lawyer. And if they tell you the same thing, well, half of something is better than half of what we’ve got right now.”
My dad sighs, and I can feel the tiredness that he seems to carry around everywhere. “Why can’t they just step up to their responsibilities? Haven’t we been put through enough?”
The kitchen falls silent, and even though it’s hard to hop quietly, I do my best to hurry away without being found out.
And I do get away, but I can’t escape the guilt.
Maybe the team’s money should go to pay my medical bills.
Or pay for my regular leg.
Maybe there really are more important things than running.
I feel like such a burden.
Is it fair to even hope?
FIONA PICKS ME UP FOR SCHOOL the next morning, and she’s a little chatterbox, which I find exhausting. Especially since it feels like I didn’t sleep a wink the whole night. “They cost twenty thousand dollars!” I finally blurt. “Twenty thousand dollars!”
She pulls into the student parking lot. “What do?”
“Those running legs. I looked it up online.”
She shrugs. “So we’ll raise twenty thousand dollars.”
I blink at her for a full minute, then shake my head and slouch in my seat. “You’re dreaming.”
She just smiles at me and starts chattering about something else.
First and second periods seem to drag on forever, and at break I seriously consider going home “sick.” But I’ve already missed way too much school, so I tough it out, convincing myself that it’s important to stay.
At lunch Fiona decides we should eat in the courtyard. “It’s gorgeous out today! Who wants to be inside?” She parks me on a bench near a scrawny elm tree, where I feel strangely invisible as she goes off to fetch two mandarin chicken salads. Everyone seems to have somewhere to go, someone to see. It’s not that people are trying not to look at me—they’re just into their own things. It feels like I’m in a movie where everyone has a role and a place and a purpose, and I’m one of those silent extras they pay to sit and look like they’re part of the show.
I’m relieved when Fiona returns. “Sorry that took so long!” she says, handing over my salad. She checks me over. “You doing okay?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I was so up yesterday, but I’ve definitely crashed back to earth today.” I snap open the salad lid and sigh. “It’s nice of the team to want to help, but do you remember how long it took to raise two thousand dollars for a new discus cage? It was almost two years! How are we ever going to raise twenty thousand?”
“Look,” she says, zigzagging dressing across her salad, “you are not a discus cage. You are a flesh-and-blood person who this tragic thing has happened to. People will want to help.” She smiles at me. “Give them a chance.”
This should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. A dark cloud has formed between me and the dream of running again.
A dark cloud called reality.
I HAVE A SOCKET FITTING scheduled at Hank’s after school.
A socket fitting.
I don’t really even know what that means.
I’m quiet on the drive over, and so is Mom. I wonder what’s going on with her and Dad and the whole money issue, but I don’t ask.
I just watch the road ahead.
So does she.
The exterior of Quality Orthotics and Prosthetics does nothing to lift my mood, but the instant we go inside, Chloe certainly does.
“Jessica!” she says from behind the counter. “Are you excited?”
I can’t help but smile, because she sure seems to be. “I guess,” I tell her.
“Well, come on back—he’s ready for you.”
My mom and I exchange looks as we follow Chloe—no Mr. Benson holding us up this time.
Chloe leads us to the same room we were in before, and Hank comes in holding a clear plastic version of the cast he took on Tuesday. My name and the date are written right on it in black marker, and along the back are two screws holding the plastic together.
He greets us, then has me roll up my pant leg and take off my shrinker sock while he gets a stockingette out of a cupboard. After the stockingette is on, he holds up the plastic cast and says, “So this is your test socket. What we’ll do today is check for pressure points, distribution of weight bearing, and fit. If there’s anywhere that hurts, be sure to tell me. It should feel snug, and there’ll be pressure, but after you get used to that, it shouldn’t hurt.” He smiles at me. “Ready?”
I nod, and he gets down on his knees and slips the socket over my stump.
I feel like a freak-show Cinderella, getting a strange glass slipper put on, but that image vanishes when I realize that the socket feels … good.
“How is that?” he asks.
“Surprisingly comfortable,” I tell him.
He pushes up on it from the bottom. “How’s that?”
“Okay,” I tell him.
; He pushes harder. “No pain?”
I shake my head.
“The clearance here,” he says, pointing to the base of the socket, “should be enough so that you don’t feel it when the leg is complete and you’re standing on it, but not so much that it creates an area where your residual limb can pool with fluids.” He nods. “I think we’ve got a good fit here.”
Next he has me bend my knee, and he checks all around it, especially in back. The kneecap is exposed, and the socket is cut away so I can flex, but it does pinch a little behind the knee.
“Does this need to come down some?” he asks.
“I think so.”
He goes on to check the socket from all angles, making small marks on the plastic as we go over the pressure points. Then he has me stand and lean my short leg on a big block of wood.
It’s the first time I’ve stood on both legs since the accident.
“How is that?”
“Very strange,” I tell him.
“But is there pain? Excessive pressure? Close your eyes and feel it.”
“Maybe a little right here,” I tell him, pointing to a spot on the inside of my knee.
He marks it, and when he’s sure there are no other spots, he has me sit down again and slips off the socket.
“I think we’re set. I should have your leg ready a week from today. It will be a temporary prosthesis, Jessica, because your leg is still changing. But after you’re trained on the temporary and your residual limb has had a few months to stabilize, we’ll do this again, only with parts that are more suited for your lifestyle.”
“Meaning?”
He looks at me. “You’re an active young lady. We want to get you a leg that can keep up with you. But first things first, and that is to get you walking.”
I’m about to ask him what he knows about running legs, but before I can, my mom says, “Could I have a word with you about … administrative matters?”
He glances from her to me and catches her drift. “Sure. Why don’t we talk in my office?”
So they leave while I pull my shrinker sock back on and pin my pant leg up.
I try not to think about what “administrative matters” might be, because it’s clearly about money.
I try to block the thought of running from my mind.
The Running Dream Page 9