We do hurry. And we do make it. And then we fidget in the waiting room for almost an hour.
The meeting itself is short. When we’re finally in an examining room, Dr. Wells appears almost immediately. “Hello, Jessica!” he says, then wheels over to me on his doctor’s stool. He inspects my stump, prods it, measures it, then says, “Outstanding!” He whips a prescription pad from his white coat pocket. “You are definitely ready for a preparatory prosthesis, and in record time.” He scribbles on the pad, then peels off the prescription and hands it to me. “Good work, and congratulations!”
He’s already on his way out the door when my mom says, “So we take this to Hank Kruber?”
“Or any other prosthetist.”
“Uh—who would you recommend?”
Dr. Wells stops in the open doorway. “Hank’s a good choice. And you do want to stay local. Jessica will be needing regular adjustments—especially since she’s almost certainly still growing.”
When we get home, my mom looks up prosthetists in the phone book, and what she discovers is that if we are going to stay local, Hank Kruber is our only choice.
“Hankenstein’s fine, Mom,” I tell her.
She turns to look at me. “Hankenstein?”
I shrug. “My head was in a bad place in the hospital. He thought a pipe leg was something I should be thrilled about. But if he can get me walking, let’s go.”
“Hankenstein,” she chuckles, then finds the number and makes the call.
When she’s done, she says, “The receptionist was so nice! She’ll work us in at ten tomorrow morning. She says to wear shorts.”
So the next day I miss more school and report to Hankenstein’s lab. It’s on a busy part of Grand Avenue, behind a fenced-off gas station and next to a Laundromat. The asphalt parking lot is full of potholes and there’s trash blown up against the building. A faded blue sign reads QUALITY ORTHOTICS AND PROSTHETICS, so we know we’re in the right place; it just feels wrong.
My mom unstraps her seat belt. “Let’s just go in and see what we think, okay?”
I nod and work myself and my crutches out of the passenger seat. I feel strange in shorts.
Vulnerable.
“If you don’t like it here,” she whispers as we near the entrance, “we’ll take you someplace else.”
I know she’s just being nice and that I don’t really have a choice. Still, I’m glad she said it.
The waiting room is set up like a doctor’s office, only the chairs are plain molded plastic, and instead of carpeting there’s chipped linoleum. There’s an odd smell to the place, too. Not bad, just sort of … industrial.
An elderly couple is already in the waiting room. The man is in a wheelchair, and he’s holding a fake leg across his lap. His wife is sitting beside him with her purse in her lap. They look us over without smiling or saying hello, and the old man seems very unhappy. Like he’d sooner hurl his leg than wear it.
We go up to the reception counter and I try to ban thoughts of my future from my mind.
I do not want to be a crabby old lady holding a leg in my lap.
I just don’t.
The receptionist is younger than my mom. Actually, she’s not that much older than I am. Maybe in her early twenties?
“Hi!” she says across the counter. “You must be Jessica!”
She’s like sunshine through my cloud of uncertainty. I smile and nod, and since she’s wearing a name tag, I say, “And you must be Chloe.” We both laugh, and suddenly I feel more at ease. Nothing’s changed but the vibe in the room, but it helps.
She gives my mom a clipboard with paperwork to fill out, then leans forward a little and says to me, “Hank will have you walking again in no time. He’s really good.”
I nod and smile, and in that moment I believe her.
Then my mom and I sit in the hard plastic chairs, and I’m confronted with the reality of the old man and his leg again.
He just sits there, sullen.
His wife just sits there, quiet.
Mom’s completed about half the paperwork when Chloe appears in the waiting room. She’s not wearing a nurse-type smock or shoes, just regular clothes—jeans, a knit top, and flats. The only thing that gives away that she works there is her name tag.
She smiles at the old man and says, “You can come on back, Mr. Benson.”
His response is a frown and a grunt. It is also, apparently, a signal for his wife to roll him out of the waiting room.
Chloe tosses me a little shrug and follows them.
Then we sit there for what seems like an eternity. Chloe splits her time between the desk and … somewhere in the back. She apologizes several times for how long it’s taking and finally comes out into the waiting room and sits beside me. “He’s almost done.” She looks at my mom. “I really didn’t think it would take this long. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right,” my mom says. “I appreciate you working us in.”
Chloe looks at me, looks away, looks at me again, and finally says, “Things will change. From here on, they’ll get better.”
She seems to be choosing her words carefully. Like each one carries a meaning beyond its definition.
She gives a nervous laugh. “I don’t usually come out and accost the patients, sorry! It’s just that Hank told me about you and … and I can relate.”
Again, there’s more to these words than I can puzzle out. I’m trying, but I’m not quite there.
My mom’s trying too. “Was somebody in your family in an accident?”
Chloe shakes her head. She knocks on her leg with a solid clunk, clunk. “I’m a BK amputee too. I lost mine to cancer when I was a kid.”
From the hallway we hear, “Chloe?”
She jumps up and hurries across the room, and in the blink of an eye she’s gone, leaving me with my jaw dangling.
MR. BENSON LEAVES IN HIS WHEELCHAIR, his leg still in his lap. He looks even grumpier than he did before.
“Remember to practice with it, Mr. Benson,” Chloe calls after him.
He doesn’t say a word.
Chloe smiles at me. “Your turn.”
As she leads us down the hallway, I watch her legs. Her movements are smooth. Assured.
Part of me doesn’t quite believe she’s got a fake leg.
The rest of me is enormously encouraged.
She takes us to a small room with a patient table and a service sink. The floor is stained dusty white. Like a chalkboard that won’t come clean. It’s not just the floor, either. The cupboard doors, the sink, the chairs … there’s chalky whiteness everywhere.
“Just sit up here,” Chloe says, pulling fresh paper over the table. “Hank will take some measurements, do a cast”—she smiles at me—“nothing that hurts.”
When she’s gone, my mom whispers, “That’s amazing! I sure can’t tell—”
Hank walks in. He’s the same guy I remember from my hospital nightmare: stocky, bald, partially preoccupied. Like half of him is somewhere else.
I notice his shoes, his pants, his shirt … they’re all smudged chalky white.
“Jessica!” he says, like the other half of him has finally arrived. He seems genuinely happy to see me. “Good to see you looking so well!” He turns to my mom. “Hello, Mrs. Carlisle. How are you?”
Mom nods. But he’s waiting for a real answer, so she says, “Better than the last time you saw me.”
“Good.” He scoots a chair up to me and says, “So let’s get you fitted for a leg, shall we?”
He has me take off my shrinker sock, and my left shoe and sock, too. Then he starts measuring. He uses tools like I’ve seen my dad use. A metal caliper. A tape measure. Something that looks just like a carpenter’s square. He takes all sorts of measurements of my stump side, and of my good side, too. And when he’s all done, he nods and says, “And what kind of shoe do you normally wear?”
I point to my running shoe. “These.”
He picks up the shoe and makes a note of the size
, then says, “Okay. We’re ready to make a cast of your residual limb. From that we’ll be able to make a plaster model, and from that we’ll build your first socket.”
Mom asks, “The socket’s the part that goes over her … over the residual limb?”
“That’s right. Once we’ve got a comfortable socket, we’ll add the pylon and the foot. But first things first. We do a cast.” He goes to a cupboard, pulls out a box of supplies, and hands me a long, simple belt with a sliding clasp. “Fasten this around your waist,” he says, then proceeds to untangle three adjustable straps that have little clamps on both ends. He puts the straps aside, then produces a short, very thin stocking, which he pulls onto my stump. It’s smooth and soft. Almost silky.
“We cover your residual leg with this first,” he says, “because it makes it much easier to remove the cast.” Next he attaches the stocking to the belt around my waist with the three straps, and when he’s sure it’s secure and the stocking is on smooth and tight, he says, “Just a few markings and we’re ready!”
Right on top of the stocking, he begins marking places. Around my knee. Along what’s left of my shin. My scar. Points where bones stick out …
The pencil he’s using is blue, and when he’s done, the stocking looks like a little kid scribbled on it.
“These markings will transfer to the cast,” he explains. “They’ll show me where we can put pressure, and also where we should relieve it.”
Next he fills a small bowl with water and brings it and two rolls of chalky-looking white gauze over to the table. “Have you ever had a cast?”
I shake my head.
“It doesn’t take long.” He dunks one of the gauzy rolls into the bowl of water, and when it’s wet, he starts wrapping it around my leg, spiraling from the knee down to the end of the stump and back up. “This has plaster of Paris in it,” he tells me as he wraps. “The water creates an exothermic reaction—do you feel it warming up?”
I nod because my stump is getting warmer and warmer. It’s not uncomfortable. More like a hot towel wrap.
He uses both rolls, then tells me to relax my leg and begins massaging the plaster of Paris around. “We need good contact,” he says, “so we get an accurate impression.” When he’s done massaging the plaster, he smooths it down with his hands, then presses his thumbs around the bottom part of my kneecap, getting a good impression of that area. “There,” he says. “Now we wait a few minutes for it to harden, and that’s it. Easy, huh?”
He cleans up while we wait. There are plaster drips here and there, including on his shoes, and a scuff of it on his pants. He chuckles when he sees me watching him. “Yes, it’s hopeless,” he says, “but I still try.”
I can feel the cast start to lose its heat, and after a few more minutes Hank checks it, then unclamps the straps and says, “Ready?”
I nod, and after some gentle wiggling, the cast slides right off. He looks it over and smiles. “Beautiful.”
Mom asks, “So how long does it take for you to make the socket?”
“Usually about a week.” He looks from her to me, then says, “But how about I shoot for Friday?”
“That would be great,” she says.
He nods. “We’ll give you a call when it’s ready.”
I tie on my left shoe and gather my crutches, and on the way out I run into Chloe in the hallway. “Oh, excuse me!” she says, and dances out of my way.
We smile and say our goodbyes, and as I hobble out to the car on my crutches, I’m filled with a very strange feeling.
One I thought I might never feel again.
Hope.
I MISSED MATH ON MONDAY because of my appointment with Dr. Wells, and although Fiona got the homework for me, I had trouble with the lesson and don’t want to miss another day of math if I can help it.
So after my fitting at Hank’s, Mom and I go through the Taco Bell drive-through, and I gobble down lunch and get back to school in time for fifth and sixth periods.
I manage to catch Fiona up on the day’s events during fifth, and I make her laugh, too, by calling it Hankenstein’s lab.
“Wow,” she says as she’s walking with me over to the math wing, “Chloe sounds amazing.”
“She is! If she hadn’t knocked on her leg, I would never have known which one was fake.”
So I hobble into math in a fine mood, and sit in a chair that I pull up next to Rosa. “I missed you yesterday!” she says. And as I’m watching her lips, working at decoding her words, she adds, “I was a little worried.”
“I’m fine,” I assure her, and I feel good that she missed me. So I start babbling about being fitted for a leg at Hankenstein’s lab. She laughs too, and I’m really enjoying that I’m making people laugh instead of squirm or turn away. I’m also feeling good that Rosa missed me and was worried about me. Something about it is incredibly … sweet.
Then the tardy bell rings.
“Pass your homework all the way over,” Ms. Rucker commands. She’s looking even more stony-faced than usual, sizing up the class from behind her podium.
“All the way over?” somebody asks. “We’re not grading them?”
“All the way,” Ms. Rucker replies.
“Oh boy,” I grumble, because my paper is incomplete.
Barely started is more accurate.
I’d planned to get help from Fiona, but … it hadn’t happened. And I’d planned to “fill in the blanks” during the explanation, like a lot of people do … but there’s no getting away with that now.
Ms. Rucker strolls toward us down the aisle, collecting papers as she approaches. I know better than to try to explain about going to Dr. Wells and getting my leg cast today. I know that in Ms. Rucker’s eyes no excuse could validate such a miserable attempt at the homework.
Rosa sees my paper and her eyes grow wide. She passes hers to me and whispers something, but I can’t understand it and I’m not in the right frame of mind to try.
Instinctively, I place her work on top of mine. The penmanship is jagged. Like her hands can’t quite produce a smooth line. The numbers are a combination of miniature lightning bolts and uneven curves. But the work, the process, the steps … they’re all tidy and easy to follow, with the answers clearly boxed.
Ms. Rucker takes the papers from me, inspecting them as she turns and walks toward the front of the classroom. It takes only three steps for her to stop and level a look at me over her shoulder.
The look lasts maybe two seconds, but in that time she manages to convey disappointment, doubt, and resentment. Here she let me slide on half the problems for all the days I was absent—why can’t I show more effort?
I want to scream, Because I’ve missed a month of school, that’s why! Because I just about died, that’s why! Because everything I do is hard now, that’s why!
Instead, my chin quivers and I turn away.
Rosa passes me a note. I can help you after school.
My mom’s picking me up right after, I write back.
Way inside, though, I know this is an excuse.
The truth is, I’d rather have Fiona help me.
I can understand Fiona.
She’s my friend.
She’s … comfortable.
Rosa writes, Call me if you want, and jots down her phone number.
I smile and nod, and tuck away the note, then turn my attention to the board, where Ms. Rucker has begun the lesson.
It’s hard to concentrate, though.
I sailed into class feeling sunny and hopeful, but now here I am.
Crashed against the rocks again.
THAT NIGHT I BURY MYSELF in my homework, but at bedtime I still don’t feel like I’ve made a dent. There’s so much reading to do. Especially in language and history. But what worries me most is math.
Especially the new assignments.
Today’s math.
Yesterday’s math.
They’re adding up quickly to tomorrow’s headache.
I try calling Fiona but can’t
reach her. First she’s at track, then she’s out with her mother, then she’s busy with something else. At ten-thirty I give up and tell myself that I’ll get her to help me in the morning.
But in the morning Fiona calls to say she overslept, and Mom barely gets me to school on time. There is absolutely no chance for Fiona to help me during the morning classes, and at lunch she rushes off to some meeting.
“Hey!” I call after her. “I really need help with math!”
“I’m sorry!” she calls back. “If I could get out of this, I would!”
She’s gone, and I’m left leaning on my crutches not even knowing where she’s going that’s so important.
“Darn!” I grumble, and I’m feeling very frustrated as I hobble toward the courtyard to eat the lunch Mom packed me. I’m hating math, hating Ms. Rucker … plus I don’t even know where I’m going to eat, or who I’m going to sit with. It’s been ages since I’ve had lunch in the courtyard, and the closer I get to it, the more I do not want to go there. Especially without Fiona.
I’m also feeling really dumb about Rosa.
Why didn’t I call her last night?
So I’m mad at Ms. Rucker, and mad at myself. And I’m hobbling by the 400 Wing when I remember—Rosa eats in Room 402.
I stop for a second, then turn and find the room. And when I peek through the door, there’s Rosa in her wheelchair, laughing with two other girls in wheelchairs.
There are also two boys and a teacher in the classroom. The boys are working on an impressively large Lincoln Log house that’s made out of pretzel sticks. The teacher’s reading a book.
“Hey!” Rosa calls, beaming a bright smile my way.
I hobble in and sit in a chair near her. “I am so lost in math.”
“I’ll help you!” she says. Her voice sounds a little like voices do when you try to talk underwater, but now it’s music to my ears.
“Oh, thank you,” I say, and pull out the assignment.
First Rosa introduces me to her friends. “This is Leesha and Panny.… The guys are Illy and Twent.”
I translate this to mean Alisha and Penny, Billy and Trent, but I’m not entirely sure.
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