The Running Dream (21 page)

What’s he supposed to call back for?

To tell me to learn to leave a message?

I don’t even
want
him to call back. I already said thank you—what’s left to say?

Still, every time the phone rings, I jump a little. Every time it turns out to be someone else on the line, I scold myself.

But Monday morning when he sees me from across the courtyard and leaves Merryl’s side to come talk to me, I feel my cheeks flush. I try to be cool and blithely witty as we talk, but me making him laugh makes me laugh, and when he finally goes back to Merryl, I realize that my eyes are shining and my cheeks ache from smiling so much.

Suddenly I feel like crying.

What an idiot I am!

I escape the courtyard, and for the rest of the week I avoid him. I stay away from the main hangouts, I hide out in Kyro’s classroom or drag Fiona into Room 402 at lunch, and I focus on important things like schoolwork and walking.

Especially walking.

I work really hard on my gait.

On my roll-off.

On mastering ramps.

By Thursday I’m confident enough to leave my cane at home, which feels like a huge step forward, and random people who I don’t even know tell me how awesome it is to see me walking.

But then comes a huge step back.

At lunch Kyro breaks it to Fiona and me that Gavin’s newspaper article has brought in only forty dollars. “I don’t understand it,” he says, raking his long fingers along his hair. “I was sure there would be an outpouring of goodwill.”

“Maybe it’s still coming?” Fiona says.

He sighs. “Let’s hope. Unfortunately there’s often a deep, wide abyss between good intentions and concrete action. And as unfair as it is, after a few days any story becomes old news.” He looks at me. “It’s disappointing, but don’t worry. We’ll raise the money.”

Still. I can’t help but be discouraged, and Rosa picks up on my mood in math.

What’s wrong?
she writes in a note.

The running leg’s a pipe dream
.

She slips the note back.

So was walking
.

Ms. Rucker is watching me, so I hide the note and focus on the board.

Until Rosa slides another note my way.

Don’t look so far ahead
.

I slip the note into my backpack and find my mood spiraling even further downward. Looking ahead is what’s been giving me hope. I’ve wanted to believe that somehow we’ll be able to gather twenty thousand dollars. I’ve wanted to believe that I’ll run again.

But hope now feels so fragile.

Too fragile to touch.

A
FTER SCHOOL
I
SEE THE TRACK TEAMS
loading onto a bus.

I stand in the distance and watch, feeling cold and shaky.

How can they even get on a bus?

I remind myself that it’s not their first away meet since the wreck. There have been two of them, plus the Glenwood Relays.

For them the memory must be fading.

For me it feels like yesterday.

And every tomorrow, for as far as I can see.

F
RIDAY WHEN
I
VISIT
H
ANK
, he’s very impressed.

“Fantastic,” he says over and over. “Now
that’s
progress.”

My mom and I exchange glances, and I can tell she’s thinking what I’m thinking: Hank seems so different. It’s like he’s come to life because the monster he’s built has come to life.

He makes lots of little adjustments with his Allen wrench, twisting it inside the little holes in the pipe couplings as he throws around words like
adduction
and
abduction, dorsiflexion
and
plantar flexion, inversion
and
eversion
. He makes me walk, he adjusts, he makes me walk, he adjusts … and when he’s finally done, he smiles at me. “I saw the article in the paper. Great piece. And if your progress this week is any indication, I have no doubt that you will be running again. Soon.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, and it is nice to see him so enthused. The problem, though, is that his enthusiasm doesn’t stick on me. It’s been a long, hard week, and all I can seem to see is that I’m still having trouble walking.

I
T’S STILL DARK OUTSIDE
. The streetlights glow through the curtains, putting a soft spotlight on Sherlock, who is fast asleep on my bed. He’s curled up next to Lucas the bear near the footboard, his back resting against the wall, his chin on the bedspread facing me. Even in his sleep, he’s watching me. Protecting me.

I admire his beautiful coat, the dark lines of his eyes, his pointy ears and droopy whiskers.

I want to kiss his muzzle and tell him what a sweet, sweet boy he is.

And then I get the feeling.

The one I’ve kept buried for so long.

I have to get up.

Get out.

Go
.

Maybe I can do it, I tell myself. Not fast, not hard … but maybe I
can
run.

“Sherlock.” It’s barely even a whisper, but his eyes fly open. “You want to go for a—” I stop myself. “Outside?”

He cocks his head, not entirely sure whether what he thinks I’m asking is what I’m really asking.

For that matter, neither am I.

“Get your Frisbee,” I tell him.

He jumps off the bed and darts down the stairs, but he knows it’ll be a little while before I can get down there.

I slip on the nylon, then pull on a stump sock.

I layer on another sock.

My leg’s still shrinking, so I need the extra padding to keep my socket snug.

Then I put on the liner, push into my pipe leg, and roll up the suction sleeve.

It feels solid, but still … foreign.

Like we’re still getting to know each other.

I sit on the edge of the bed and dress, pulling on my zip sweats, lacing on my left shoe, zipping up a sweatshirt.

I’m better at the stairs now but still very careful.

Up is easier than down.

Sherlock waits patiently at the bottom, tail wagging, Frisbee at his feet. “Good boy,” I whisper, then leave a quick note and ease out the front door.

The air is cool and moist from a light fog—perfect running weather. I breathe in deeply and close my eyes. Something in my mind doesn’t know I can’t run. Something inside me believes I can just take off.

Sherlock puts down the Frisbee and looks up at me. He’s holding his breath. Hoping.

I pick up the Frisbee and say, “Heel.”

He falls into place on my left side as we go down our
walkway, but he’s keyed up, waiting for something big to happen.

When I get to the sidewalk, I turn left instead of our usual right.

I sense his confusion.

His disappointment.

“Fetch!” I tell him, and toss the Frisbee a straight, controlled distance down the sidewalk.

He tears off after it, and while he’s gone, I take a few jogging steps.

It’s enough to tell me that I cannot run.

Sherlock is already back.

I toss the Frisbee again.

I try jogging again.

I make it ten steps this time.

Twenty the next.

But it doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel like running. It doesn’t feel like anything but hard, hard work.

I think of Kaylee, counting steps.

I try again; try not to count.

I feel like a lifeless machine moving forward.

I rest at the corner, more disappointed than tired. Sherlock, however, is enjoying the Frisbee game immensely, and so we turn the corner and press on. I try jogging a few more times, but eventually I just give up and walk. I tell myself I should be happy with walking.

Walking is a miracle.

I press on, and then through the misty air I hear my name.

It’s soft, drifting toward me from the left.

“Jessica!”

I turn, and it’s like I’m thrown into a dream. There’s a mermaid fountain in the middle of the yard and, beyond it, a girl sitting on the porch, wrapped in a white blanket.

“Rosa?” I ask.

“Jessica!” she says again.

It takes me a moment to understand that I’m
not
dreaming. When I do, I clap twice, bringing Sherlock running back to me, and we both head up the walkway. There’s a ramp up the side of the porch steps, just like there still is on ours. “I can’t believe you’re up so early,” I say with a laugh.

“Look who’s talking,” she says back.

“But … why are you out here?”

“I love mornings,” she says. “They’re so peaceful.” She’s got her eye on Sherlock. “He’s gorgeous!”

“Sherlock, this is Rosa,” I say, making the official introduction. “Say hi.”

“
Aaarooo!
” Sherlock says, wagging his tail.

Rosa reaches out tentatively to pet him.

“He’s very friendly,” I say, sitting on a bench that’s near her wheelchair. “Don’t worry.” Soon she’s hugging Sherlock around his neck, giggling from being slobbered with doggie kisses.

“You were taking him for a walk?” she asks when Sherlock’s settled down a little.

I shrug. “I actually wanted to see if I could run.” I eye her and add, “Which I can’t.”

“You will, though,” she says with her lopsided smile. “I put that article on my bedroom wall.”

“You did?”

She nods. “It’s so cool.” Then she says, “Tell me about running. Why do you like it?”

No one has ever asked me this so directly before. Either people like running or they don’t. Either people get it or they don’t. And if they don’t, they just think people who like it are crazy.

Which is okay.

That makes us even.

But now I have to explain
why
I like it, and I’m not sure where to start. “Uh … running, or racing?”

She thinks, then says, “Running. Like this morning.”

“Hm.” I try to put my finger on it. “Because it feels like freedom?”

She nods thoughtfully.

“And your mind travels places where it doesn’t normally go.…”

“Huh?”

“Like dreaming in real time?” I laugh. “Never mind. It sounds crazy.”