The Running Dream (3 page)

Today I’m taking five minutes to go twenty feet.

When I finally get to the bathroom, I see myself in the mirror.

Matted hair.

Puffy eyes.

Chapped lips.

I move on, then pass the crutches off to my mother, grab the support bar, and begin to lower myself onto the toilet.

But I’m weak, and my good leg gives way.

My mother gasps as I fall onto the seat with a painful thump, and then fusses as I pee all over my gown.

“It’s okay!” she says as I bawl into my hands. “It was your first try. What do you expect?” She turns and calls, “Nurse? Nurse!” then tries again to soothe me. “It will get easier. Things
will
get better.” But in her eyes I can see fear.

Fear that her words are lies.

Lies, lies, lies.

“Nurse!” she calls again. Louder. More desperately.

This time one appears. “Oh my,” she says when she’s sized up the situation. “Do we need a new gown?”

It takes the three of us ten minutes to wash and redress me.

Another five for me to hobble back to bed.

They help me under the covers, and after I’m tucked safely inside, my mother brushes back my hair and kisses my forehead.

I manage a weak smile, then close my eyes, destroyed.

R
IGOR
M
ORTIS
B
END
.

It’s a place in the 400-meter race where every cell of your body locks up.

Your lungs ache for air.

Your quads turn to cement.

Your arms pump desperately, but they’re stiff and feel like lead.

Rigor Mortis Bend is the last turn of any track, and at Liberty High you’re greeted with a headwind.

The finish line comes into view and you will yourself toward it, but the wind pushes you back, your body begs you to give up, and the whole world seems to grind into slow motion.

Your determination is all that’s left.

It forces your muscles to fire.

Forces you to stay in the race.

Forces you to survive the pain of this moment.

Your teammates scream for you to push.

Push! Push! Push!

You can do it!

But their voices are muffled by the gasping for air, the pounding of earth, the pumping of blood, the need to collapse.

Rigor Mortis Bend.

I feel like I’m living on Rigor Mortis Bend.

M
Y SENSE OF SMELL SEEMS HEIGHTENED
.

Sometimes it’s what wakes me up.

And it’s not the sickly smell of hospital.

It’s flowers.

Beautiful, bursting bouquets of flowers.

I have no idea who they’re from, although my mother has read me every single card. She’s sniffed every rose, every carnation, and has analyzed every exotic bloom. Stargazer lilies, irises, parrot tulips, tuberoses, sweet williams, columbines, amaryllis …

My mother’s a nut for flowers.

The helium balloons sway in the gentle air currents or stand at attention.

Get Well
. They command.

They’re my very own round-faced cheering squad, there in the background, peeking through the fog in my mind.
Get Well
.

But I’m not sick.

I’m crippled.

Disabled.

A gimp.

Food arrives and overpowers the fragrance of flowers.

Mashed potatoes. Gravy-covered pork, or maybe turkey. Vegetable medley.

“You’ve got to eat,” my mother says.

I sip the juice.

“Just a few bites,” she says, and I try the potatoes just to make her happy.

My stomach flinches. The smell is overwhelming.

“I’m tired,” I tell her, and push the tray away. “Please. Can you get this out of here?”

She takes the tray and leaves without a word. I close my eyes and drift off, only to be awakened by her standing over me with a dish of Jell-O. “Let’s try a few bites of this,” she says, spooning some into my mouth.

It’s cool. Refreshing.

“Thanks,” I whisper. My lips are dry and chapped. I lick them, then accept another bite.

“That’s my girl,” she says as I take the dish from her. She smiles at me and says it again. “That’s my girl.”

T
HE NURSE TOLD ME IT’S
W
EDNESDAY
.

That makes it day five.

Or four and a half, depending on how you count.

I’m off the morphine drip but still on pain meds, and my head stays cloudy.

A thin curtain separates me from the moans of my new neighbor. It smells sickly in here now. Like diarrhea and disinfectant.

My flowers are drooping and dropping petals. The balloons are sagging too, losing air. It’s like they’re tired of trying to cheer me up. Like they want to give up too.

There have been so many calls, but I don’t want to talk.

Not to anyone.

Mom thinks I should; thinks talking to people would help me.

Dad tells them I’m not ready, then kindly but firmly hangs up.

Except when Coach Kyro calls.

Then he’s more firm than kind.

He’s mad at him, I think, although I’m not sure why.

I don’t even want to talk to my sister. Kaylee’s been in and out, but I always tell her I’m tired.

Or I just pretend to be asleep.

Mom keeps pressuring me to spend more time with her, but Kaylee’s only thirteen. Still in middle school. And I know how freaked out she is to see me like this.
I’m
freaked out to see me like this, and I’m a junior in high school.

I’m supposed to be the strong one.

I’ve always been the strong one.

But what am I supposed to say to her? To anyone? Hey, don’t worry, I’m going to be
fine
, when what I want to say is, Why me?

WHY ME?

T
HE PHYSICAL THERAPIST COMES IN
and makes me get up.

Makes me crutch over to a chair.

My mother watches as he stretches out my legs and both arms, then has me use weights and resistance bands. He shows me how to use a towel to stretch and strengthen my limbs.

I don’t care.

“You need to keep your body going,” he tells me. “Work it as much as you can.”

I’m drained. Breathless. I get back into bed and wish hard for him to go away.

He turns to my mother. “Encourage her to do these as often as she’ll tolerate.”

When he finally does leave, there’s a timid knock on the door. And when my mom sees my best friend standing there with a big get-well teddy bear, she looks at me, then waves her in.

“You
need
this,” she whispers, and on her way out she murmurs to Fiona, “A quick visit, okay? She’s still very fragile.”

Fragile.

Me.

Fiona smiles, and I take in the beautiful sight of her. New highlights in her already blond hair. Matching light blue hoodie and shorts. Asics on her feet.

And those legs.

Long. Tan. Smooth.

I never really realized how beautiful legs could be.

She sees me staring and tugs at the white trim of her shorts. “Oh, I’m an idiot!”

“You’re fine,” I manage.

“No, I’m an idiot!”

“But you brought a cool bear,” I tell her, and actually grin.

She hands it over and sits in a chair. “His name’s Lucas. Unless you want to name him something else. He just seems like a Lucas to me, so that’s what I’ve been calling him. This is like the twentieth time I’ve been here. They always tell me I can’t see you. I wore pants every time, too! I’m just … I’m …” She bursts into tears, then lunges toward me and hugs me like I’ve never been hugged before. “I’m so sorry, Jess. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I’ve been so scared. I miss you so much!”

I hug her back, and the lump in my throat hurts.

Hurts hard.

“I don’t know what to say either,” I finally choke out. “And I don’t know what to do. I’m dying in here.” Tears roll down my cheeks as we look at each other. “Am I pathetic or what?”

“Pathetic is so not you!” she says with a sniff. “And you’re
not
dying. You’re alive!” She hugs me hard again. “Thank
God you’re alive! The whole thing’s horrible. Horrible, horrible, horrible!” She pulls away. “But I keep thinking if you had been Lucy and she had been you,
I
would have died!”

“Lucy?” I ask, and for a moment the air seems like glass.

And then I remember.

Finally remember.

Lucy in the seat in front of me.

The light.

The sounds.

Screaming.

Crunching.

Shattering.

My breath catches and I can feel it again.

The pain.

My foot, caught, twisted, crushed.

And then darkness.

Blissful, painless darkness.

“A
RE YOU OKAY?
Jessica! Hey! Hey, look at me!”

Fiona’s voice brings me back.

“What happened to Lucy?” I choke out, but my gut’s way ahead of her answer.

“You don’t know?” Fiona gasps. “Oh man.” She backs away. “I’m an idiot. I thought for sure you knew.”