The Running Dream (6 page)

My mother packs my things as I wait in the wheelchair with Lucas the bear in my lap. But it’s another hour and a half before I’m being rolled down the corridor by a nurse.

Mom’s not allowed to push me.

I’m not allowed to roll myself.

I guess they want to make sure they get me out of here in one piece, and that no one rolls off with Mercy Hospital property.

Dad’s waiting outside the big glass doors of the hospital’s front entrance. He’s holding the handles of a smaller wheelchair, one that is, apparently, all mine. “Jessica!” he says, and he looks happy, too.

“Hey, Dad,” I say, and my eyes sting with tears. It’s the first real smile I’ve seen on him in forever.

I demonstrate a flawless wheelchair transfer, and after we all say goodbye to the nurse, Dad and Mom walk me across the parking lot to Dad’s van.

They’re all smiles and coos until I’m standing at the open passenger door trying to figure out how to “transfer” to a seat that’s up so high.

I can’t swing into it.…

I can’t exactly
hop
inside.…

I can’t grab the frame of the van with both arms and hoist myself in.…

We have crutches, but I’m not sure how to use them in this situation.…

I’m just … stumped.

Mom tries to help, but she’s really just in the way. Dad has collapsed the wheelchair and put it in back with Lucas the bear and the rest of my things, and after watching me agonize over how to get inside his van, he simply gathers me in his arms and hoists me onto the seat.

“We’ll figure it out, sweetheart,” my mom says with a reassuring pat of my hand. “We’ll figure it all out.” She kisses me on the cheek. “For now let’s just get you home!”

She tells Dad she’ll see him at the house, then goes off to her car.

Dad fires up the van and tries smiling at me, but his eyes are heavy again and I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking:

There’s no such thing as easy.

Not anymore.

M
Y HEART BEGINS RACING
as Dad turns onto Harken Street.

I don’t really know why.

The whole ride has been snail-paced. Careful turns, complete stops, below-limit speeds. I can’t decide if he’s scared of jostling me or scared of having me home.

Finally we pull up to the curb behind my mother’s car. A flood of emotions comes over me as I look at our house and see snapshots in my mind:

Mud castles in the flower beds.

Hide-and-seek under the porch.

Dad taking the training wheels off my bike.

Kickball.

Hula hoops.

Running through the sprinklers.

Sherlock as a puppy, chasing his tail.

Fiona and me giggling, climbing out my window and dropping to the ground.

And then I notice the ramp—the one that goes up the left side of the porch steps.

And the guardrail made of pipe—the one attached to the right side of the porch stairs.

They’re nasty scars across a cheery entrance.

I face my dad. “I can do steps, you know. I don’t need a ramp.” I don’t mean to, but I sound angry.

“It’s just temporary,” he says softly. “Until you get your leg.”

I grab my crutches. “In the meantime, I can use crutches or hop.” I open the passenger door defiantly, then look down at the curb.
You can do this
, I tell myself.
You can do this. Down is way easier than up
.

But the curb seems miles away, and I’m suddenly gripped with fear.

Dad’s already around to my side, and he seems to understand that picking me up would be the wrong move to make. “Grab the handle and the frame,” he says, coaching me forward. “Do it once and you’ll have it conquered.”

So I give up on the crutches and I do as he says, letting him be my spotter as I swing down to earth.

“See?” he says with a smile.

Mom’s rushing from the house. “You’re here!” she cries, but my dad gives her the take-it-easy signal as I saddle my armpits over the crutches.

“Uh …,” she says as I swing toward the steps.

She’s worried.

She wants me to use the wheelchair.

I ignore her concerns as I hobble forward, and I can sense my dad pulling her back.

At the steps I put both crutches in my left hand, grab the pipe rail with my right, then hop up.

One step.

I feel off balance.

Two steps.

Like I should be grabbing the rail with my left hand. Three.

I steady myself at the top, then saddle the crutches again and move on.

To my surprise the screen door doesn’t fight me as I pull it open. Dad’s disconnected the automatic closer so it swings easily and stays cooperatively to the side.

I push open the front door and cross the threshold. I’m shaky from the effort. My stump is throbbing. I just want to collapse.

Then I smell something.

Onions and oregano and garlic—Mom’s spaghetti sauce heating up on the stove.

I crutch forward a few steps and take a deep breath.

From behind a gate in the kitchen Sherlock lets out a happy bark.

“Hey, boy!” I call, which makes him go berserk.

I have no ruby slippers, and I won’t wake up from this dream, but still.

There’s no place like home.

K
AYLEE AND HER PACK
of friends blast through the door after school.

Our house has always been their hangout.

“Oh, hey!” they say, stopping in their tracks when they see me in the hallway. It’s a warm day, and they’re all wearing shorts.

“Hey,” I say back, and put on my best smile.

“When did you get home?” Kaylee asks.

“A little while ago,” I answer.

“Hi, girls!” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Come on in!”

Kaylee’s friends are trying hard not to look at my leg, and I can’t help looking at theirs.

None of us seem to have anything to say.

I’m a stranger.

A freak.

“Well, I need to sit down,” I finally tell them, because my stump is throbbing.

I sound angry.

Annoyed.

They move aside as I crutch past them, and in a flurry of whispers they escape up the stairs to Kaylee’s room.

I retreat to the family room, take my pain meds, and turn on the TV.

I
LEARN TO HOP AROUND THE HOUSE
. I stay near furniture and walls to steady myself, and although I feel like I’m lumbering and loud, it’s easier than using crutches.

My bed and dresser are downstairs in the family room. Instead of sleeping in the last room on the right upstairs, I’m now in the first room on the left after you come in the front door. I’m separated from the entry hall by a half wall with white balusters.

I don’t know where they moved the couches, but I do know they did a lot of heavy lifting to set this up for me, and that I should be more appreciative than I am. It’s hard, though, because I feel like a stranger in my own house. I can’t get to the things I want, I can’t find the things I need, and I spend way too much time watching TV. The only time I feel halfway normal is when we’re at the kitchen table. It’s like seeing each other from the waist up helps us forget about the stump lurking beneath the surface.

I also feel like a stranger to myself.

Everything irritates me, and cheery people just make that worse.

My friends call. They come by. They bring me plants and chocolate and get-well cards. They want to
cheer
 … 
me
 … 
up
.

It isn’t working.

When they’re here, I’m quiet and awkward and I can’t wait for them to leave.

When they’re gone, I cry.

I cry, and wish they’d come back.

They won’t, though, and I know it.

I probably wouldn’t either.

I
’VE BEEN PUSHING THE CLOCK
on my pain meds.

Taking them early.

Slipping in an extra when I really need it.

I tell myself that tomorrow I’ll feel better.

That I’ll take one less rather than one extra.

But the only time I feel better is when the meds kick in.

I’m afraid of the pain without them.

Afraid of the day without them.

Then I tell my mom I need a refill, and somehow my father gets involved.

I hear them whispering.

Arguing.

I hear him make a phone call and I pray it’s to the pharmacy, but I’m pretty sure it’s not.

I pretend to be asleep when he comes to see me, but this doesn’t stop him.

“Jessica!” he whispers hoarsely, shaking my shoulder.

“Hm?” I answer, acting groggy.

He’s holding the bottle of pills. “How often do you take these?”

“Hm?” I sit up a little. “Oh. Just when I’m supposed to,” I lie.

“Are you sure?”

I nod.

He studies me.

My conscience flinches, and he sees it.

“The truth,” he says.

I shrug. “I’ve taken a couple extras. Only when I really needed to.”

He studies me a long, hard time.

He studies the pill bottle a long, hard time.

He and I both know there are only two pills left, and the math is easy.

Finally he heaves a sigh and stands. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “But we’re through with these.”

“No, wait!” I call after him, but he leaves the room without turning back.