feel strangelyinvisible as she goes off to fetch two mandarin chicken salads. Everyone seems to have somewhere to go, someone to see. It’s not that people are trying not to look at me—they’re just into their own things. It feels like I’m in a movie where everyone has a role and a place and a purpose, and I’m one of those silent extras they pay to sit and look like they’re part of the show.
I’m relieved when Fiona returns. “Sorry that took so long!” she says, handing over my salad. She checks me over. “You doing okay?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I was so up yesterday, but I’ve definitely crashed back to earth today.” I snap open the salad lid and sigh. “It’s nice of the team to want to help, but do you remember how long it took to raise two thousand dollars for a new discus cage? It was almost two years! How are we ever going to raise
twenty
thousand?”
“Look,” she says, zigzagging dressing across her salad, “you are not a discus cage. You are a flesh-and-blood person who this tragic thing has happened to. People will
want
to help.” She smiles at me. “Give them a chance.”
This should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. A dark cloud has formed between me and the dream of running again.
A dark cloud called reality.
I HAVE A SOCKET FITTING scheduled at Hank’s after school.
A socket fitting.
I don’t really even know what that means.
I’m quiet on the drive over, and so is Mom. I wonder what’s going on with her and Dad and the whole money issue, but I don’t ask.
I just watch the road ahead.
So does she.
The exterior of Quality Orthotics and Prosthetics does nothing to lift my mood, but the instant we go inside, Chloe certainly does.
“Jessica!” she says from behind the counter. “Are you excited?”
I can’t help but smile, because
she
sure seems to be. “I guess,” I tell her.
“Well, come on back—he’s ready for you.”
My mom and I exchange looks as we follow Chloe—no Mr. Benson holding us up this time.
Chloe leads us to the same room we were in before, andHank comes in holding a clear plastic version of the cast he took on Tuesday. My name and the date are written right on it in black marker, and along the back are two screws holding the plastic together.
He greets us, then has me roll up my pant leg and take off my shrinker sock while he gets a stockingette out of a cupboard. After the stockingette is on, he holds up the plastic cast and says, “So this is your test socket. What we’ll do today is check for pressure points, distribution of weight bearing, and fit. If there’s anywhere that hurts, be sure to tell me. It should feel snug, and there’ll be pressure, but after you get used to that, it shouldn’t hurt.” He smiles at me. “Ready?”
I nod, and he gets down on his knees and slips the socket over my stump.
I feel like a freak-show Cinderella, getting a strange glass slipper put on, but that image vanishes when I realize that the socket feels … good.
“How is that?” he asks.
“Surprisingly comfortable,” I tell him.
He pushes up on it from the bottom. “How’s that?”
“Okay,” I tell him.
He pushes harder. “No pain?”
I shake my head.
“The clearance here,” he says, pointing to the base of the socket, “should be enough so that you don’t feel it when the leg is complete and you’re standing on it, but not so much that it creates an area where your residual limb can pool with fluids.” He nods. “I think we’ve got a good fit here.”
Next he has me bend my knee, and he checks all aroundit, especially in back. The kneecap is exposed, and the socket is cut away so I can flex, but it does pinch a little behind the knee.
“Does this need to come down some?” he asks.
“I think so.”
He goes on to check the socket from all angles, making small marks on the plastic as we go over the pressure points. Then he has me stand and lean my short leg on a big block of wood.
It’s the first
I’m relieved when Fiona returns. “Sorry that took so long!” she says, handing over my salad. She checks me over. “You doing okay?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I was so up yesterday, but I’ve definitely crashed back to earth today.” I snap open the salad lid and sigh. “It’s nice of the team to want to help, but do you remember how long it took to raise two thousand dollars for a new discus cage? It was almost two years! How are we ever going to raise
twenty
thousand?”
“Look,” she says, zigzagging dressing across her salad, “you are not a discus cage. You are a flesh-and-blood person who this tragic thing has happened to. People will
want
to help.” She smiles at me. “Give them a chance.”
This should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. A dark cloud has formed between me and the dream of running again.
A dark cloud called reality.
I HAVE A SOCKET FITTING scheduled at Hank’s after school.
A socket fitting.
I don’t really even know what that means.
I’m quiet on the drive over, and so is Mom. I wonder what’s going on with her and Dad and the whole money issue, but I don’t ask.
I just watch the road ahead.
So does she.
The exterior of Quality Orthotics and Prosthetics does nothing to lift my mood, but the instant we go inside, Chloe certainly does.
“Jessica!” she says from behind the counter. “Are you excited?”
I can’t help but smile, because
she
sure seems to be. “I guess,” I tell her.
“Well, come on back—he’s ready for you.”
My mom and I exchange looks as we follow Chloe—no Mr. Benson holding us up this time.
Chloe leads us to the same room we were in before, andHank comes in holding a clear plastic version of the cast he took on Tuesday. My name and the date are written right on it in black marker, and along the back are two screws holding the plastic together.
He greets us, then has me roll up my pant leg and take off my shrinker sock while he gets a stockingette out of a cupboard. After the stockingette is on, he holds up the plastic cast and says, “So this is your test socket. What we’ll do today is check for pressure points, distribution of weight bearing, and fit. If there’s anywhere that hurts, be sure to tell me. It should feel snug, and there’ll be pressure, but after you get used to that, it shouldn’t hurt.” He smiles at me. “Ready?”
I nod, and he gets down on his knees and slips the socket over my stump.
I feel like a freak-show Cinderella, getting a strange glass slipper put on, but that image vanishes when I realize that the socket feels … good.
“How is that?” he asks.
“Surprisingly comfortable,” I tell him.
He pushes up on it from the bottom. “How’s that?”
“Okay,” I tell him.
He pushes harder. “No pain?”
I shake my head.
“The clearance here,” he says, pointing to the base of the socket, “should be enough so that you don’t feel it when the leg is complete and you’re standing on it, but not so much that it creates an area where your residual limb can pool with fluids.” He nods. “I think we’ve got a good fit here.”
Next he has me bend my knee, and he checks all aroundit, especially in back. The kneecap is exposed, and the socket is cut away so I can flex, but it does pinch a little behind the knee.
“Does this need to come down some?” he asks.
“I think so.”
He goes on to check the socket from all angles, making small marks on the plastic as we go over the pressure points. Then he has me stand and lean my short leg on a big block of wood.
It’s the first
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