The Running Dream (4 page)

“She died?”

Fiona nods. Blinks. “She didn’t suffer,” she blurts out. “She hit her head and was just … gone.”

The whole room starts spinning.

Lucy.

So sweet. Her first year running. Joined the team to make friends. I brace myself. “Who else?”

“That’s it. The rest of us are just cut and bruised and scarred for life.”

She’s serious, and for a moment I forget about my leg. “My father said the guy who hit us was killed.”

“And good riddance to that loser!” she says.

“Was he … drunk?”

“He might as well have been! He was hauling a load of wrecked cars to a junkyard with bad brakes! He missed a turn, went off the side of the road, barreled down the embankment, and smashed into us. Talk about irresponsible. He torpedoed a school bus!”

Torpedoed.

That word was exactly right.

Fiona eyes the covers. “So … do I get to see?”

Oh, yeah.

The leg.

“You don’t have to,” she says. Her face crinkles. “Am I being an idiot again?”

I think about it, then flip back the covers and let her stare. When she’s whiter than my sheets, I cover it back up and say, “You should see it unwrapped.”

“Why couldn’t they save it?” she asks, and her voice is choked. Almost inaudible.

“Smashed beyond repair,” I tell her, and I feel odd.

Like I should be crying.

My mother eases into the room with a smile. “Are we doing okay?” she asks.

We’re both dead quiet. Fiona starts blinking like there’s too much light in the room, then says, “I … I guess my time’s up.” She gives me a long, hard hug and whispers, “You can do this.”

Then she says goodbye to my mother and walks her long, tan legs out the door.

I
’M IN AN ENDLESS BLUR
of exhausted days and sleepless nights. The nurses are nice about my pain meds. It’s the only way I get any sleep.

Dr. Wells visits every morning and leaves with a cheery prognosis. “You’re healing beautifully, Jessica. Keep up the good work.”

The physical therapist teaches me how to care for my stump.

I have to learn to clean it.

Learn to dress and protect it.

Learn to massage it and desensitize it.

Learn to not vomit at the sight of it.

I finally have a real visit with Kaylee.

I try to be brave, but it’s hard.

“When can you come home?” she asks after we’ve dispensed with the small talk.

“I don’t know if I want to,” I say with a smart-alecky grin. “They wait on me hand and, uh,
foot
here. They clean up after me and give me massages. You gonna do that when I get home?”

A part of her’s not sure I’m kidding, so I pull her in and whisper, “As soon as I can, okay?” Then I give her some space and ask, “How’s Sherlock holding up? You walking him for me?”

“Dad is.”

“Well, you get out there and do it too. He’ll chew up all my shoes if he’s cooped up too long.” I smirk at her. “Okay, so he can have the right ones, but don’t let him anywhere
near
the left ones.”

She doesn’t laugh, and I’m feeling dumb for trying so hard. She also doesn’t ask to see my stump. She just hugs me some more and tells me she loves me, and after a game of gin rummy Mom gently informs her that it’s time to go.

I wave goodbye and tell her, “Stay out of trouble! And hey! Stay out of my closet too! You cannot have my clothes, you hear me? I’m coming home, so don’t even
think
about taking my stuff!”

“You were wonderful,” Mom whispers after she’s passed Kaylee off to Dad. “Absolutely wonderful.”

“Thanks,” I tell her, but my whole chest seems to collapse under the effort of that single, empty word.

Suddenly I’m wrung out.

Exhausted from the effort of pretending to be strong.

I
DO MY PHYSICAL THERAPY
.

Mom makes me.

“It’ll make you strong, darling.”

Dad makes me.

“You don’t want to spend the rest of your life in a bed, Jess. Get up.”

Fiona makes me.

“I miss you! We need to get you out of here!”

The phone rings as I’m panting from a therapy session with Fiona. She snatches it up and says, “Jessica Carlisle’s room, Nurse Bartlett speaking.”

Her mouth stretches into a long, pink O as she turns to me. Her eyes are enormous. “One moment, please,” she says in a very professional manner, then hands the phone over with the mouthpiece palmed. “It’s Gavin Vance!”

I take the phone from her. “Hello?”

“Jessica? It’s Gavin.”

Something about hearing his voice stuns me silent.

I’ve wished for this call for almost two years.

“Uh … Gavin Vance?” he says, and I imagine him wondering how there could possibly be any confusion. After all, he
is
the mayor’s son.

“Oh, hey,” I say back.

“Uh … I just wanted to say … you know … I hope you’re … you know …” His voice trails off.

“Back on my feet soon?” I ask.

He laughs. It’s a nervous laugh, mixed with relief.

“I know,” I tell him. “What can you say, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, with another nervous laugh. “Everyone feels terrible about what happened.”

“Not as bad as me,” I quip.

He laughs again, and this time it’s not so nervous. “Hey. I’m doing an article for the
Liberty Bell
and—”

“About the accident?”

“Right. There are a lot of rumors flying around and—”

All of a sudden my body flashes hot. “Look. I’m not up to reliving that nightmare for the school paper, okay?”

“No! I’m sorry. I’m just wondering … well,
everyone’s
wondering when you’re going to be back at school.”

I’m still feeling hot.

And shaky.

“I’m not sure,” I say quietly. “Not for a while.” And even though this is Gavin Vance, I really want to hang up on him. So I say, “I need to get back to my physical therapy,” and end the conversation.

Fiona is completely bowled over. “Gavin Vance called you!”

“A dream come true,” I grumble, because really, if it took losing a leg to get him to notice me, I’d rather be ignored.

M
Y MOTHER COMES IN
with a to-go bag from Angelo’s.

“Lasagna?” I ask.

She beams as she opens the sack. “What else?”

It smells heavenly, and for the first time since I got rushed into Mercy Hospital, I’m hungry.

Really, truly hungry.

“Oh, thank you,” I say, scooting up in bed so she can wheel the tray across my lap. It takes a few scoots because the stump is very tender. Still mad at the world.

Hospital regulations say that I have to wear a gown, so when I’m situated, my mother shakes out a napkin, tucks it in my gown collar, and fusses until everything’s arranged and I’m digging in.

“Mmm,” I tell her with a contented smile. “It’s wonderful.”

She’s relieved, I know, and I’m happy to not be pretending. Angelo’s lasagna is amazing on any ordinary day, but at this moment it is the best thing I have ever tasted.

I close my eyes and just savor it.

And then an excruciating pain shoots up my leg.

My eyes fly open and I scream, “Get off my leg!” Only
my mother is nowhere near my leg. She’s standing right beside me.

“Something’s on my leg!” I cry. “Get it off!”

“There’s nothing on your leg,” she says, looking from me to the covers, back to me. “Absolutely nothing!”

I’m at a slant and I can’t really see what’s past the hospital tray, but I know she’s crazy. The pain is so real. So strong. There’s something on my shin, twisting my foot!

I shove the tray aside before I remember that I don’t have a shin.

Or a foot.

“Another phantom pain?” my mother asks quietly.

I nod and stare at the flat covers where my foot should be. Every time I have a phantom pain, it freaks me out. They’re unpredictable. And always different. Sometimes the missing part of my leg burns. Sometimes it stabs. Sometimes it feels twisted. Sometimes it’s a combination. The nerves are cut, but they’re still connected to my brain.

“Do you want me to get the nurse?” my mother asks, and her glowing face has been replaced by a pale, worried one.

“No,” I tell her. “It’s going away.”

But I’m panting.

Sweating.

Her mouth quivers uncertainly. “Are you sure?”

I nod and pull the tray back toward me. And after a minute I pretend to be hungry, but really I’m not. The pain has made me nauseous, and on the other side of the tray I can still feel my leg.

It may be gone, but that’s not stopping it from insisting it’s still there.

I
HAVE THE DREAM AGAIN:

Dawn is breaking.

Sherlock’s whole body is wagging as he dances in a circle by the front door.

We ease out of the house, then bound down the porch steps, turning right when we hit the street to head toward the river.

The world is quiet.

No cars.

No people.

No hustle and bustle.

Just the rhythmic padding of our feet against pavement.

Sherlock is happy beside me. His white fur seems to flow through the morning mist, and he doesn’t miss a beat. I turn, he turns. I speed up, he speeds up. No leash to connect us. No commands to control him. We’re bound by the joy of running.

We reach the river, and the air is heavenly. It sparkles my face, washes my lungs, fills me with a sense of fluid motion. I glide beneath the trees, transform into wind.

We breeze up to Aggery Bridge and I begin the long sprint across it. My legs and lungs burn, but I welcome the pain.

I’m stronger than pain.

Sherlock races ahead and I let him. He lives to run the bridge. Reaching two legs forward, kicking two legs back. He waits for me on the other side, wagging, panting, grateful for this stretch of freedom.

He falls in beside me as I drop back the pace and glide along the streets, back past familiar houses, back home.

On the porch again, he kisses me and pants as I tousle his ears. “Good boy!” I tell him. “You are such a good boy!”