“YES!” Dana shrieked.
The guys clapped, and I put my arms around Dana. She was actually shaking with joy.
Suddenly, the evening’s lessons tilted in a way that hurt my heart. Dana’s big risk had paid off. She’d found her tribe. The big bunch of purple-shirted girls hugging her now was not insubstantial. I smiled a face-cracking smile, and was so happy for her.
At the same time, it cost me.
Chapter Seven: Your Poster Boy
— Corey
By the time the leaves finished turning yellow and red, midterms were almost over. I’d aced my Spanish test, and limped through calculus. Economics was my favorite class now, since Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays always found me seated in the gimp section with Hartley. And after class it was off to our lunch in Commons.
The only dark spot in every week was Physical Therapy.
“How are we doing on the stairs these days?” Pat asked, as she always did.
“Fine. Slow.” For some reason, P.T. turned me into someone who spoke only in monosyllables.
“Let’s practice,” she said.
“Yes, let’s,” I deadpanned.
Pat led me out into a stairwell that I’d never seen before. “Okay, have at it,” she said. “Let’s see your technique.”
One at a time, I placed my crutches onto the first step, and then hopped my feet up to meet them. Then I did it all again. And again. But when I was seven steps up, I turned to look at Pat.
That was a mistake.
I could see exactly how easy it would be to trip, and fall down those seven concrete steps. I had a vision of my body bouncing over their edges. Falling backwards. It was the very thing that terrified me.
I was suddenly stranded there, in the middle of the flight of stairs. I was afraid to keep going up, and I couldn’t turn around to go back down.
Then Pat stood behind me. “I’m spotting you,” she said, her hand on my shoulder blade. “Just a few more.”
Sweating, I sucked it up. After each step she touched my back, so I’d know she was still there. When I made it to the landing, we stopped.
Pat tapped her chin, making thoughtful faces while I panted. “I know that you were taught to use two crutches,” she said. “But I think you might do better with one, plus the railing.” She guided me over to the handrail, and took my right crutch away.
The second span of steps was easier, because I had a death grip on the banister.
“We’ll take the elevator back down,” Pat announced when I’d made it to the top. She gave me back my crutch, and pressed the button.
Grim and perspiring, I followed her back into the therapy room. She had me sit down on the mat and remove my braces. “You know, Corey…”
I hated when people began a sentence that way. It almost always led to nagging.
“…The more we can get you walking, the better you’ll feel. You haven’t plateaued yet. I know walking feels ungainly to you, but there are some great things we can do to make your stride more natural.”
“Like what?” My straight-legged “stride” could hardly be less natural.
“There are new braces which bend when you want them to and lock when you need it. I think you’re a really good candidate. But the manufacturer requires that you to commit to eight more months of therapy on them.”
“If a brace needs eight months of therapy to work, how good could it be?”
Pat smiled the smile of someone who was trying to be patient. “I think they’re miraculous. But you have to train your trunk, torso and glutes to help you. Think about it. In the meantime, let’s work on crawling.”
I gave Pat a weary look, because crawling was one of the more exhausting things we did.
“Hands down on the mat, please,” she said.
With a barely cooperative sigh, I turned over, placing my hands on the mat. Then I curved my back like a cat, pulling with my weak quads into something resembling all fours. Pat adjusted my uncooperative legs behind me.
“Let’s go,” she said. “There’s only eight minutes left, anyway.”
I stepped one of my hands forward on the mat.
“This is easier if you move the hand and the opposing leg together,” she said. “Let me show you.” Pat got onto her hands and knees too, demonstrating the proper way to unweight the leg that I wish to move.
The door to the therapy room swung open, and a voice said. “Oh goody. Women on all fours.”
“Mister Hartley,” Pat’s voice was frosty. “That is not an appropriate way to speak to me or my patient.”
“Don’t worry, Pat,” Hartley said. “You get to punish me for the next hour, and Callahan will get her chance to punish me over RealStix later.”
“Damn straight,” I said, sitting my butt down on my useless lower legs, which is a total no-no, for circulatory reasons. At the rehab center, they used to have a fit if I sat on my feet even for a second.