The Running Dream (2 page)

Tears continue to run down my face.

I don’t seem to have the strength to hold them back.

Dr. Wells softens. “The surgery went beautifully, Jessica.” He says this like he’s trying to soothe away reality. “And considering everything, you’re actually very lucky. You’re alive, and you still have your knee, which makes a huge difference in your future mobility. BK amputees have it much easier than AK amputees.”

“BK? AK?” my mom asks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, turning to my mother. “Below knee. Above knee. In the world of prosthetic legs, it’s a critical difference.” He prepares to leave. “There will obviously be an adjustment period, but Jessica is young and fit, and I have full confidence that she will return to a completely normal life.”

My mother nods, but she seems dazed. Like she’s wishing my father was there to help her absorb what’s being said.

Dr. Wells flashes a final smile at me. “Focus on the positive, Jessica. We’ll have you up and walking again in short order.”

This from the man who sawed off my leg.

He whooshes from the room, leaving a dark, heavy cloud of the unspoken behind.

My mother smiles and coos reassuringly, but she knows what I’m thinking.

What does it matter?

I’ll never run again.

I
AM A RUNNER
.

That’s what I do.

That’s who I am.

Running is all I know, or want, or care about.

It was a race around the soccer field in third grade that swept me into a real love of running.

Breathing the sweet smell of spring grass.

Sailing over dots of blooming clover.

Beating all the boys.

After that, I couldn’t stop. I ran everywhere. Raced everyone. I loved the wind across my cheeks, through my hair.

Running aired out my soul.

It made me feel
alive
.

And now?

I’m stuck in this bed, knowing I’ll never run again.

T
HE PROSTHETIST IS STOCKY
and bald, and he tells me to call him Hank. He tries to talk to me about a fake leg, but I make him stop.

I just can’t listen to this.

He gets the nurse to put a new bandage on my leg. One that’s thinner. With less gauze.

I’m cold.

The room’s cold.

Everything feels cold.

I want to cover up, but Hank is getting ready to put on the shrinker sock. It’s like a long, toeless tube sock. He pulls it through a short length of wide PVC pipe, then folds the top part of the sock back over the pipe. I don’t understand what he’s going to do with it, and I don’t care.

Until he slips the pipe over my stump.

“Oh!” I gasp as pressure and pain shoot up my leg.

“I’m sorry,” Hank says, transferring the sock from the pipe onto my leg as he pulls the pipe off. “We’re almost done.”

Half the tube sock is now dangling from my stump. Hank slides a small ring up the dangling end, then stretches out the
rest of the sock and doubles it up over the ring and over my stump.

There’s pressure. Throbbing. But Hank assures me it’ll feel better soon. “The area is swollen,” he tells me. “Pooling with blood. The shrinker sock will help reduce the swelling and speed your recovery. Once the wound is healed and the volume of your leg is reduced, we can fit you with a preparatory prosthesis.”

“How long will that take?” my mother asks. Her voice starts out shaky, but she tries to steady it.

Hank whips out a soft tape measure and circles the end of my stump. “That’s hard to say.”

His mind seems to wander, so my mom asks, “Well, in a typical situation?”

Hank takes a deep breath. “Typical is a person in poor health. Someone with circulatory problems. Someone who’s old, overweight, or suffering from diabetes.” He glances at me. “A case like Jessica’s will not have the same timeline. Her recovery will be much quicker.”

“So what is
their
expected recovery time?” my mother asks, and she’s sounding testy.

“We usually don’t fit them with a preparatory prosthesis for about six months.”

“Six months?” my mother gasps.

“But Jessica could have hers in a fraction of that time. It all depends on her healing and how soon she can tolerate it.”

They talk some more, but I stop listening.

What does it matter how long it takes?

I’ll never recover.

I can’t see how I’ll ever even adjust.

I
CLOSE MY EYES
and drift off.

I see the race.

Vanessa Steele’s in lane five, stretching out. Her long nails painted deep red, her racing glasses flashing back the late-morning sun.

I remember thinking that Vanessa has been good for me. Her superior attitude, her mind games, her domination of the 400-meter.

It’s been good for me.

Vanessa glances over her shoulder, waiting for me to get into my blocks before she gets down in hers.

It’s part of her game. She likes to be the last one standing.

This time I don’t mind. I’m through being sucked into her psych-out.

I feel calm.

Confident.

Kyro has been helping me focus. He’s been building me up mentally and physically, coaching me for this moment.

I give Vanessa a little smile and nod from my position in lane four. She’s in red and yellow—Langston High’s colors.
I’m in Liberty High’s blue and gold. Even my colors feel light—like the sun and the sky floating above me.

I’m down in the blocks now, ready to fly.

Vanessa makes her final adjustments, then holds steady.

The gun goes off and all runners shoot forward. It’s a fury of steps, spikes against track. They thunder all around me but somehow sound miles away.

By the first bend we find our stride. My kick is good. Strong and long.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!

My arms are pumping, but they’re smooth, almost relaxed.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!

My breathing’s open, flowing, and I barely feel my feet touching down.

Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!

Suddenly I’m floating.

Flying.

Soaring around the track.

The thunder fades behind me, and the staggered start has me at a mental advantage—I can see Vanessa, but she can only feel me behind her, moving in.

At the 200-meter mark the field has widened.

All except for Vanessa and me.

We’ve tightened.

We crest at the 300, then face Rigor Mortis Bend.

Vanessa knows I’m here.

On her tail.

We’re down to grit and guts, so I dig in.

Dig deep.

She does the same.

We battle along the straightaway, my legs burning, aching, empty. Shoulder to shoulder, I force one last push and duck over the finish line in front of her.

“Fifty-five flat!” Kyro shouts. “Fifty-five flat!”

It’s a new personal best for me.

A new record for the league.

It’s also the last race of my life.

My finish line.

N
URSES COME IN AND OUT
. Conversations happen around me. Whispers, like a heavy fog, hang on in my mind.

But then there’s my father’s voice.

And Dr. Wells’s.

Outside my room their words drift in through the crack in the doorway.

My father asks about things he’s researched online. Rigid removable dressings. Speedier recoveries. I-pops. He sounds like a doctor.

Dr. Wells’s replies revolve around small-town practicalities, insurance allowances, and the tried-and-true methods employed by Mercy Hospital.

Dad comes in and checks on me, and although he pretends to be upbeat, he’s irked. He likes to fix things. Now.

He checks out the stump protector that’s been put on over the shrinker sock. It holds my leg straight and keeps me from bumping the wound. He seems pleased with it and throws around phrases like “controlling edema” and “preventing knee flexion contracture.”

He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.

But really he’s a self-employed handyman.

And I’m not something he can fix.

T
HE CALL LIGHT’S BEEN ON
for fifteen minutes and I’m just sick of waiting.

I’m sick of bedpans.

“Hand me the crutches,” I growl at my mother.

She’s unsure. I haven’t done so well with the physical therapist.

“Hand them to me!”

She does, and I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Carefully. Slowly. It takes a little doing, but I stand, supported by the crutches.

I’m already panting.

My mother pushes along my IV stand as I hobble toward the bathroom. “You’re doing great,” she says, but she’s wrong. I’m dizzy. Shaking.

“Maybe I should get the nurse?” she asks as I come to a halt, exhausted from the effort.

I shake my head, angry that this is so hard.

“You’re doing great,” my mom repeats as I start up again. “I’m so proud of you!”

My hands death-grip the crutches and I hobble forward. A few days ago I ran a fifty-five flat in the 400-meter.