Stronger (27 page)

“Can’t I get a new socket?”

“It will take a few weeks,” Jules said, handing me the second sock to roll onto my left leg. “And your leg is changing shape fast. If we can make this work, it’s a better option.”

I fit the socket on my leg, then tightened it with the Velcro strap.

“What about the suction cup?”

I hated the Velcro straps. I had a one-hundred-adjustments-per-second microchip in my artificial knee, and I secured it to my leg with the stuff little kids used to hold on their shoes. I wanted to move up to the suction version, which adhered through compression between my leg and the bottom of my socket. Even that seemed like something a middle school kid would come up with for a science fair, but everyone said it was far more effective.

“That’s not a good idea,” Michelle said.

“We prefer to wait for your leg to settle into shape,” Jules confirmed, feeling my socket like a shoe salesman might feel the foot inside a new shoe. “If the fit isn’t perfect, the suction won’t work. Take a few steps.”

I stood up and walked. The leg felt like deadweight. It was lift, clunk. Lift, clunk. All the technology, and all I really had was a door with a hinge attached to my leg.

“Does it hurt now?” she asked.

“It hurts a lot.”

Jules stared at the leg. “Let me think about it,” she said finally. “I’m going to ask for second opinions at the office. We’ll get you sorted.”

I stood still while she adjusted my legs with electronic readings and small screwdrivers. Jules had a whole case full of tiny tools.

“He’s having trouble with the back kick,” Michelle told her.

“Have you tried a piece of paper?”

Geez, I thought, could this get any more high-tech? Freaking typing paper.

Jules made more adjustments, loosening (or possibly tightening) something to make the kick easier. Each person was different. It took hundreds of adjustments, over several months, to find the right balance.

After the adjustments, I walked to the stairs and pulled myself to the top. Michelle stood behind and held me, so I wouldn’t tip backward. I couldn’t kick and bend my knee enough to keep my weight forward.

At the top, I turned to face down the stairs. Michelle showed me how to place my foot halfway over the edge, then lean forward and bend my other leg, then drop it down. It was scary. I couldn’t feel the stair, because artificial legs are basically stilts, and I could see the drop. It felt like I was falling. Instead, the leg kept locking. I couldn’t get my foot down to the next step.

“That’s the safety mechanism,” Jules said.

We tried again and again, working on adjustments. Jules tightened and loosened. I tried to keep my weight and positioning just right. But if the angle of my standing foot changed too much or too quickly, the leg locked. Or if my weight went too far forward… or if I didn’t bend the standing leg correctly… or my feet were on different planes. I don’t know. There were a hundred different problems to solve.

Just give me the pirate leg, I thought. Just give me the wooden peg, like those old-timers on the wall back at the office.

Two weeks before, Erin and I had finally found a house. It was a one-story ranch on a flat lot. The floors were wooden, easier for me than carpet, and the doorways were wide enough for a wheelchair. Uncle Bob lived a few blocks away, and it was ten minutes to Mom’s. It was ideal, except for three small steps outside the front door.

“I’m going to walk up those steps,” I told Erin, when our offer was accepted. “You won’t even need to help me. I’m going to walk up those steps and into our new life on my own.”

The marathon was eight months away, and walking without crutches, especially in front of thousands of people, still seemed like a step too far. I needed a more manageable goal. Something to focus my mind.

The stairs at the house were perfect. Two weeks ago, I hadn’t even wondered if it would happen. I had known I would walk up those stairs.

Now I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t made progress in weeks. I had stopped wearing my legs, except to Spaulding. If the next month went like the last one, Erin would have to carry me up those stairs. And looking failure in the face like that, setting a goal I might not achieve… it was something I’d been trying to avoid for a long time.

“You’ll get it, Jeff, don’t worry,” Michelle said, putting her arm around my sweaty back and helping me down. “It just takes practice, like riding a bike. Once you’ve mastered it, you’ll be able to do it in your sleep.”

I didn’t say anything. I just grabbed my crutches and walked toward the door with Erin. It was time to go home.

39.

W
e went to Manchester, New Hampshire, to meet my dad, Big Csilla, my brother Chris, and my stepsister Erika. Dad had been pressuring me to come to Concord and see him, but his house wasn’t wheelchair accessible, and even though Erin did the driving (another issue), sitting that long in one position bothered my legs.

“Just a quick trip, son,” he said, every time we talked on the phone. “You used to come up all the time.”

People from his church were donating their time and supplies to make his house better for me: a wheelchair ramp and porch, the new first-floor bedroom. He wanted those people to meet me. “It’s so easy,” my dad kept saying. “Why aren’t you coming to see me?” He didn’t understand that things that used to be easy, and that I used to do all the time, were the worst for me now. They reminded me how different my life had become.

So we met halfway, in Manchester, New Hampshire, at a comedy club. Erika knew the comedian performing that night. He was funny. We laughed and had a good time. Afterward, he came over and bought us drinks. I’d been pretty tight with my drinking since my injuries. I always had a few at charity events, to help with my social anxiety. But I didn’t drink casually anymore, and I never drank more than a beer or three (or maybe four). When I was drunk, emotions came up that I couldn’t control.

At the club, though, things got a little tipped. The manager kept offering us free shots of tequila, a form of kindness that had become common since my injuries, but this time I kept drinking them. I can’t tell you why. I don’t know if it was because I was having a good time (I was), or because I was frustrated and in pain (I was that, too), or both. After a while, it didn’t matter. If you have enough drinks, you have the next one just because it’s there. By the time Erin and I left, I was drunk.

Erin usually didn’t drink, but she’d put down a few shots. She didn’t feel comfortable driving back to Chelmsford, so she suggested sobering up at Lindsay’s house. Lindsay was a friend of hers who lived in Manchester.

“I want to go home,” I said.

“It will be fun, Jeff,” she said. “You know how much Lindsay loves you.”

I knew how tough Erin’s social life had been since her move to Chelmsford. She hadn’t even seen Remy and Michele in a month. Remy had no permanent damage from the bombing. Michele would have permanent scars on her legs and, because of her Achilles tendon damage, she would never be able to jump off her left leg. Michele didn’t seem too concerned about that.

“No,” I said, “I want to go home.”

“I don’t feel comfortable driving, Jeff.”

“Just take me home.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have drank so much.”

“Call me a cab,” I said. “I’ll take a cab to Chelmsford.”

“Jeff…”

“Call me a helicopter.”

“Jeff…”

“I want a damn helicopter ride home. I can afford it. You know that, right? I can afford a goddamn helicopter ride.”

By then, Erin had pulled up in front of Lindsay’s house. When I saw it, I lost my shit. It was a hundred-year-old, two-story Victorian, the kind you see all over New England. You had to climb five or six steps just to get to the front door, and I could tell from the street, even in the dark, that those stairs were warped and full of splinters.

“No.”

“Please, Jeff.”

“No. I am not doing this.”

“This is my friend—”

“No,” I screamed.

“I need—”

“No,” I screamed again, punching my fist into the dashboard. I hit the radio, and the faceplate shattered. I could see the lights in the console flash and go out, but I couldn’t feel any pain.

Erin got out of the car and went inside. I knew she was crying. I almost didn’t care. I just wanted to be home. But I was stuck in a car I couldn’t drive, in the dark, in New Hampshire. Somehow, I managed to haul myself up the stairs and into the house. I remember drinking more. Lindsay made me a cup of coffee, and I remember angrily punching it out of her hand. At one point, I tried to climb the stairs to the second floor. Erin was up there. Each stair had a hard lip that stuck out, battering me as I hauled myself up with my arms. There was a turn in the middle. I didn’t make it to the top. I remember lying on the steps, exhausted and ashamed. I knew this would happen. I knew, as soon as I saw the house, that I’d be crawling on the floor.

I hated, right then, but I’m not sure exactly what.

In the end, we slept over. But I couldn’t sleep. I had bad nightmares about applesauce and missing legs and the pool of blood. I heard the explosion. I smelled it, like I always did at my worst moments. I tossed on the floor. I lay awake, watching the ceiling spin. At 4:00 in the morning, I pulled myself to the refrigerator for a bottle of water. It was one of those fridges with the freezer on the bottom. Even sitting up, I couldn’t reach the shelves.

I grabbed the refrigerator handle and pulled myself onto my legs. I was standing now, without my prosthetics. My weight was driving down on the ends of my femurs. It was like jamming your elbows into the ground and lifting your body with them. I wanted to scream, and maybe I should have. Maybe that was what I needed.

Everything hurt that night. Everything. But the water saved me, because the next morning, it was just my legs that were killing me, and not my head.

We woke up late. It was so late, in fact, that our breakfast was lunch at Taco Bell. “You need to find a way to deal with your emotions,” Erin said, as she watched me crunch into a taco wrapped in a Dorito.

“I know.”

“You can’t let everything build up.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

It was a long ride back to Chelmsford, especially since the radio wasn’t working. It had broken when I punched it, something I only hazily remembered. There were a lot of details I didn’t remember from the night before: things I’d said to Erin, things I’d said about the bombing and my legs.

“You need to talk to me,” Erin said. “And not just when you’ve been drinking. You need to talk with me when you’re sober, too.”

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Back at the apartment, Erin packed her things. Before we left for the comedy show she had already planned to stay at her parents’ house for a few days. Our house closing was supposed to be the following week, but it had been pushed back for the third time. When Erin heard the news, she said she needed to go home. For a haircut. Her friend was getting married the next weekend, and she was in the wedding. She had to get her dress fitted, organize our overnight trip, coordinate reception details, and help me with my outfit. Because of the bulkiness of my sockets, none of my long pants would fit over my thighs.

“I’m wearing my penguin shorts,” I finally told her. “Who is going to complain?”

I knew things were unresolved when she left, and I knew that was because of me. I sat in Mom’s apartment for most of the next two days, mostly alone, playing
Battlefield 4
and thinking on and off about Manchester. Erin wanted me to be more open with my emotions, but I’d never been that way. Before Erin, I hadn’t even known it was possible to trust someone that much.

I’d always kept my emotions to myself.

“I’m the only one he ever gets mad at,” I heard Erin tell someone once.

It was true. And Erin was the only person I was ever sad around, too.

With everyone else, I tried to be the positive one, the person who picked up the mood, who assured the world that everything was fine. With Erin, I realized, it had always been the other way around. On top of everything else, I had relied on her to do that for me.

It was a heavy burden; I knew this from experience. Especially after five months of carrying it. Especially now that my legs weren’t fitting right, and I couldn’t walk stairs, and I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever live another day without pain.