It takes the three of us ten minutes to wash and redress me.
Another five for me to hobble back to bed.
They help me under the covers, and after I’m tucked safely inside, my mother brushes back my hair and kisses my forehead.
I manage a weak smile, then close my eyes, destroyed.
RIGOR MORTIS BEND.
It’s a place in the 400-meter race where every cell of your body locks up.
Your lungs ache for air.
Your quads turn to cement.
Your arms pump desperately, but they’re stiff and feel like lead.
Rigor Mortis Bend is the last turn of any track, and at Liberty High you’re greeted with a headwind.
The finish line comes into view and you will yourself toward it, but the wind pushes you back, your body begs you to give up, and the whole world seems to grind into slow motion.
Your determination is all that’s left.
It forces your muscles to fire.
Forces you to stay in the race.
Forces you to survive the pain of this moment.
Your teammates scream for you to push.
Push! Push! Push!
You can do it!
But their voices are muffled by the gasping for air, the pounding of earth, the pumping of blood, the need to collapse.
Rigor Mortis Bend.
I feel like I’m living on Rigor Mortis Bend.
MY SENSE OF SMELL SEEMS HEIGHTENED.
Sometimes it’s what wakes me up.
And it’s not the sickly smell of hospital.
It’s flowers.
Beautiful, bursting bouquets of flowers.
I have no idea who they’re from, although my mother has read me every single card. She’s sniffed every rose, every carnation, and has analyzed every exotic bloom. Stargazer lilies, irises, parrot tulips, tuberoses, sweet williams, columbines, amaryllis …
My mother’s a nut for flowers.
The helium balloons sway in the gentle air currents or stand at attention.
Get Well. They command.
They’re my very own round-faced cheering squad, there in the background, peeking through the fog in my mind. Get Well.
But I’m not sick.
I’m crippled.
Disabled.
A gimp.
Food arrives and overpowers the fragrance of flowers.
Mashed potatoes. Gravy-covered pork, or maybe turkey. Vegetable medley.
“You’ve got to eat,” my mother says.
I sip the juice.
“Just a few bites,” she says, and I try the potatoes just to make her happy.
My stomach flinches. The smell is overwhelming.
“I’m tired,” I tell her, and push the tray away. “Please. Can you get this out of here?”
She takes the tray and leaves without a word. I close my eyes and drift off, only to be awakened by her standing over me with a dish of Jell-O. “Let’s try a few bites of this,” she says, spooning some into my mouth.
It’s cool. Refreshing.
“Thanks,” I whisper. My lips are dry and chapped. I lick them, then accept another bite.
“That’s my girl,” she says as I take the dish from her. She smiles at me and says it again. “That’s my girl.”
THE NURSE TOLD ME IT’S WEDNESDAY.
That makes it day five.
Or four and a half, depending on how you count.
I’m off the morphine drip but still on pain meds, and my head stays cloudy.
A thin curtain separates me from the moans of my new neighbor. It smells sickly in here now. Like diarrhea and disinfectant.
My flowers are drooping and dropping petals. The balloons are sagging too, losing air. It’s like they’re tired of trying to cheer me up. Like they want to give up too.
There have been so many calls, but I don’t want to talk.
Not to anyone.
Mom thinks I should; thinks talking to people would help me.
Dad tells them I’m not ready, then kindly but firmly hangs up.
Except when Coach Kyro calls.
Then he’s more firm than kind.
He’s mad at him, I think, although I’m not sure why.
I don’t even want to talk to my sister. Kaylee’s been in and out, but I always tell her I’m tired.
Or I just pretend to be asleep.
Mom keeps pressuring me to spend more time with her, but Kaylee’s only thirteen. Still in middle school. And I know how freaked out she is to see me like this. I’m freaked out to see me like this, and I’m a junior in high school.
I’m supposed to be the strong one.
I’ve always been the strong one.
But what am I supposed to say to her? To anyone? Hey, don’t worry, I’m going to be fine, when what I want to say is, Why me?
WHY ME?
THE PHYSICAL THERAPIST COMES IN and makes me get up.
Makes me crutch over to a chair.
My mother watches as he stretches out my legs and both arms, then has me use weights and resistance bands. He shows me how to use a towel to stretch and strengthen my limbs.
I don’t care.
“You need to keep your body going,” he tells me. “Work it as much as you can.”
I’m drained. Breathless. I get back into bed and wish hard for him to go away.
He turns to my mother. “Encourage her to do these as often as she’ll tolerate.”
When he finally does leave, there’s a timid knock on the door. And when my mom sees my best friend standing there with a big get-well teddy bear, she looks at me, then waves her in.
“You need this,” she whispers, and on her way out she murmurs to Fiona, “A quick visit, okay? She’s still very fragile.”
Fragile.
Me.
Fiona smiles, and I take in the beautiful sight of her. New highlights in her already blond hair. Matching light blue hoodie and shorts. Asics on her feet.
And those legs.
Long. Tan. Smooth.
I never really realized how beautiful legs could be.
She sees me staring and tugs at the white trim of her shorts. “Oh, I’m an idiot!”
“You’re fine,” I manage.
“No, I’m an idiot!”
“But you brought a cool bear,” I tell her, and actually grin.
She hands it over and sits in a chair. “His name’s Lucas. Unless you want to name him something else. He just seems like a Lucas to me, so that’s what I’ve been calling him. This is like the twentieth time I’ve been here. They always tell me I can’t see you. I wore pants every time, too! I’m just … I’m …” She bursts into tears, then lunges toward me and hugs me like I’ve never been hugged before. “I’m so sorry, Jess. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been so scared. I miss you so much!”
I hug her back, and the lump in my throat hurts.
Hurts hard.
“I don’t know what to say either,” I finally choke out. “And I don’t know what to do. I’m dying in here.” Tears roll down my cheeks as we look at each other. “Am I pathetic or what?”
“Pathetic is so not you!” she says with a sniff. “And you’re not dying. You’re alive!” She hugs me hard again. “Thank God you’re alive! The whole thing’s horrible. Horrible, horrible, horrible!” She pulls away. “But I keep thinking if you had been Lucy and she had been you, I would have died!”
“Lucy?” I ask, and for a moment the air seems like glass.
And then I remember.
Finally remember.
Lucy in the seat in front of me.
The light.
The sounds.
Screaming.
Crunching.
Shattering.
My breath catches and I can feel it again.
The pain.
My foot, caught, twisted, crushed.
And then darkness.
Blissful, painless darkness.
“ARE YOU OKAY? Jessica! Hey! Hey, look
at me!”
Fiona’s voice brings me back.
“What happened to Lucy?” I choke out, but my gut’s way ahead of her answer.
“You don’t know?” Fiona gasps. “Oh man.” She backs away. “I’m an idiot. I thought for sure you knew.”
“She died?”
Fiona nods. Blinks. “She didn’t suffer,” she blurts out. “She hit her head and was just … gone.”
The whole room starts spinning.
Lucy.
So sweet. Her first year running. Joined the team to make friends. I brace myself. “Who else?”
“That’s it. The rest of us are just cut and bruised and scarred for life.”
She’s serious, and for a moment I forget about my leg. “My father said the guy who hit us was killed.”
“And good riddance to that loser!” she says.
“Was he … drunk?”
“He might as well have been! He was hauling a load of wrecked cars to a junkyard with bad brakes! He missed a turn, went off the side of the road, barreled down the embankment, and smashed into us. Talk about irresponsible. He torpedoed a school bus!”
Torpedoed.
That word was exactly right.
Fiona eyes the covers. “So … do I get to see?”
Oh, yeah.
The leg.
“You don’t have to,” she says. Her face crinkles. “Am I being an idiot again?”
I think about it, then flip back the covers and let her stare. When she’s whiter than my sheets, I cover it back up and say, “You should see it unwrapped.”
“Why couldn’t they save it?” she asks, and her voice is choked. Almost inaudible.
“Smashed beyond repair,” I tell her, and I feel odd.
Like I should be crying.
My mother eases into the room with a smile. “Are we doing okay?” she asks.
We’re both dead quiet. Fiona starts blinking like there’s too much light in the room, then says, “I … I guess my time’s up.” She gives me a long, hard hug and whispers, “You can do this.”
Then she says goodbye to my mother and walks her long, tan legs out the door.
I’M IN AN ENDLESS BLUR of exhausted days and sleepless nights. The nurses are nice about my pain meds. It’s the only way I get any sleep.
Dr. Wells visits every morning and leaves with a cheery prognosis. “You’re healing beautifully, Jessica. Keep up the good work.”
The physical therapist teaches me how to care for my stump.
I have to learn to clean it.
Learn to dress and protect it.
Learn to massage it and desensitize it.
Learn to not vomit at the sight of it.
I finally have a real visit with Kaylee.
I try to be brave, but it’s hard.
“When can you come home?” she asks after we’ve dispensed with the small talk.
“I don’t know if I want to,” I say with a smart-alecky grin. “They wait on me hand and, uh, foot here. They clean up after me and give me massages. You gonna do that when I get home?”
A part of her’s not sure I’m kidding, so I pull her in and whisper, “As soon as I can, okay?” Then I give her some space and ask, “How’s Sherlock holding up? You walking him for me?”
“Dad is.”
“Well, you get out there and do it too. He’ll chew up all my shoes if he’s cooped up too long.” I smirk at her. “Okay, so he can have the right ones, but don’t let him anywhere near the left ones.”
She doesn’t laugh, and I’m feeling dumb for trying so hard. She also doesn’t ask to see my stump. She just hugs me some more and tells me she loves me, and after a game of gin rummy Mom gently informs her that it’s time to go.
I wave goodbye and tell her, “Stay out of trouble! And hey! Stay out of my closet too! You cannot have my clothes, you hear me? I’m coming home, so don’t even think about taking my stuff!”
“You were wonderful,” Mom whispers after she’s passed Kaylee off to Dad. “Absolutely wonderful.”
“Thanks,” I tell her, but my whole chest seems to collapse under the effort of that single, empty word.
Suddenly I’m wrung out.
Exhausted from the effort of pretending to be strong.
I DO MY PHYSICAL THERAPY.
Mom makes me.
“It’ll make you strong, darling.”
Dad makes me.
“You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in a bed, Jess. Get up.”
Fiona makes me.
“I miss you! We need to get you out of here!”
The phone rings as I’m panting from a therapy session with Fiona. She snatches it up and says, “Jessica Carlisle’s room, Nurse Bartlett speaking.”
Her mouth stretches into a long, pink O as she turns to me. Her eyes are enormous. “One moment, please,” she says in a very professional manner, then hands the phone over with the mouthpiece palmed. “It’s Gavin Vance!”
I take the phone from her. “Hello?”
“Jessica? It’s Gavin.”
Something about hearing his voice stuns me silent.
I’ve wished for this call for almost two years.
“Uh … Gavin Vance?” he says, and I imagine him wondering how there could possibly be any confusion. After all, he is the mayor’s son.
“Oh, hey,” I say back.
“Uh … I just wanted to say … you know … I hope you’re … you know …” His voice trails off.
“Back on my feet soon?” I ask.
He laughs. It’s a nervous laugh, mixed with relief.
“I know,” I tell him. “What can you say, huh?”
“Yeah,” he says, with another nervous laugh. “Everyone feels terrible about what happened.”
“Not as bad as me,” I quip.
He laughs again, and this time it’s not so nervous. “Hey. I’m doing an article for the Liberty Bell and—”
“About the accident?”
“Right. There are a lot of rumors flying around and—”
All of a sudden my body flashes hot. “Look. I’m not up to reliving that nightmare for the school paper, okay?”
“No! I’m sorry. I’m just wondering … well, everyone’s wondering when you’re going to be back at school.”
I’m still feeling hot.
And shaky.
“I’m not sure,” I say quietly. “Not for a while.” And even though this is Gavin Vance, I really want to hang up on him. So I say, “I need to get back to my physical therapy,” and end the conversation.
Fiona is completely bowled over. “Gavin Vance called you!”
“A dream come true,” I grumble, because really, if it took losing a leg to get him to notice me, I’d rather be ignored.
MY MOTHER COMES IN with a to-go bag from Angelo’s.
“Lasagna?” I ask.
She beams as she opens the sack. “What else?”
It smells heavenly, and for the first time since I got rushed into Mercy Hospital, I’m hungry.
Really, truly hungry.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, scooting up in bed so she can wheel the tray across my lap. It takes a few scoots because the stump is very tender. Still mad at the world.
Hospital regulations say that I have to wear a gown, so when I’m situated, my mother shakes out a napkin, tucks it in my gown collar, and fusses until everything’s arranged and I’m digging in.
“Mmm,” I tell her with a contented smile. “It’s wonderful.”
She’s relieved, I know, and I’m happy to not be pretending. Angelo’s lasagna is amazing on any ordinary day, but at this moment it is the best thing I have ever tasted.
I close my eyes and just savor it.
And then an excruciating pain shoots up my leg.
My eyes fly open and I scream, “Get off my leg!” Only my mother is nowhere near my leg. She’s standing right beside me.
“Something’s on my leg!” I cry. “Get it off!”
“There’s nothing on your le
g,” she says, looking from me to the covers, back to me. “Absolutely nothing!”
I’m at a slant and I can’t really see what’s past the hospital tray, but I know she’s crazy. The pain is so real. So strong. There’s something on my shin, twisting my foot!
I shove the tray aside before I remember that I don’t have a shin.
Or a foot.
“Another phantom pain?” my mother asks quietly.
I nod and stare at the flat covers where my foot should be. Every time I have a phantom pain, it freaks me out. They’re unpredictable. And always different. Sometimes the missing part of my leg burns. Sometimes it stabs. Sometimes it feels twisted. Sometimes it’s a combination. The nerves are cut, but they’re still connected to my brain.
“Do you want me to get the nurse?” my mother asks, and her glowing face has been replaced by a pale, worried one.
“No,” I tell her. “It’s going away.”
But I’m panting.
Sweating.
Her mouth quivers uncertainly. “Are you sure?”
I nod and pull the tray back toward me. And after a minute I pretend to be hungry, but really I’m not. The pain has made me nauseous, and on the other side of the tray I can still feel my leg.
It may be gone, but that’s not stopping it from insisting it’s still there.
I HAVE THE DREAM AGAIN:
Dawn is breaking.
Sherlock’s whole body is wagging as he dances in a circle by the front door.
We ease out of the house, then bound down the porch steps, turning right when we hit the street to head toward the river.
The world is quiet.
No cars.
No people.
No hustle and bustle.
Just the rhythmic padding of our feet against pavement.
Sherlock is happy beside me. His white fur seems to flow through the morning mist, and he doesn’t miss a beat. I turn, he turns. I speed up, he speeds up. No leash to connect us. No commands to control him. We’re bound by the joy of running.
We reach the river, and the air is heavenly. It sparkles my face, washes my lungs, fills me with a sense of fluid motion. I glide beneath the trees, transform into wind.
We breeze up to Aggery Bridge and I begin the long sprint across it. My legs and lungs burn, but I welcome the pain.
The Running Dream Page 2