The Running Dream

He doesn’t even try to lie to me. What’s the use? He knows what this means.

My hopes, my dreams, my life . . . it’s over.

It’s a new personal best for me.

A new record for the league.

It’s also the last race of my life.

My finish line.

But I’m not sick.

I’m crippled.

Disabled.

A gimp.

I can’t help thinking that Lucy is the lucky one.

For Lucy there’s no pain, no rehab, no learning to live disabled.

There’s no anger or self-revulsion.

For Lucy there’s just resting in peace.

I know it’s not my fault. I know I haven’t done anything wrong. I know it’s irrational. But still, I’m mortified.

Mortified to be me.

Everywhere I go, I feel like the elephant in the room. A lot of people do say hi and welcome me back, but a lot more don’t.

Fiona notices it, too, whispering, “Maturity check!” in my ear when people pretend I’m not there.

I feel myself shutting down.

Withdrawing.

She gives me the same advice Kaylee did. “Smile,” she whispers. “Be open. If you’re friendly, they’ll be friendly.”

This is not easy for me. And it seems backward. But I don’t want to be treated like I’m invisible, so I try.

I suddenly realize how much I miss these people.

It’s not just running.

It’s the team.

But I also think about my terror in returning to school. Feeling like a freak.

Is that how Rosa feels?

I’ve never stared at her, but I have . . . overlooked her.

No—the truth is, I’ve totally acted like she isn’t there.

It’s been easier.

Less uncomfortable.

For me.

We smile and say our goodbyes, and as I hobble out to the car on my crutches, I’m filled with a very strange feeling.

One I thought I might never feel again.

Hope.

Way inside, though, I know this is an excuse.

The truth is, I’d rather have Fiona help me.

I can understand Fiona.

She’s my friend.

She’s . . . comfortable.

I’m not really part of the team.

Not anymore.

My eyes burn as I hurry away.

It was a nice fantasy, but that’s all it was.

“It’s symbolic.” I nod too, because I’m sure I know what she means, but then she adds, “Because it’s also the starting line.”

“She asked me, If you could change one thing, what would it be?” I look up from the note. “Not like a wish; it had to be something real.”

“And what did you say?”

“That I could run again. But when I asked her the same thing, she said”—I turn to the note—“That people would see me, not my condition.”

Who’s always there when he comes up to talk to me?

Who is caring and involved and a doer, just like him?

My beautiful, long-legged best friend, Fiona.

“But I thought . . .” I shake my head. “Why else would he have come along?”

She scoots in and gives me a hug. “You are worthy, okay? Quit telling yourself you’re not.”

All of a sudden I’m crying. “Thanks,” I whisper, and hug her tight.

At first I switch legs in the car, but it’s cramped and cumbersome, and I finally get the guts to walk out to the infield on my “flex foot” leg and then, in front of God and athletes and middle-aged joggers, switch to my running leg.

I’m getting good at the switch. It only takes me about ten seconds now. And I’m more comfortable with the leg; more comfortable with people’s curiosity.

“Her biggest wish isn’t to cross a finish line or have people cheer for her. It’s to have people see her instead of her condition. That’s all anybody with a disability wants. Don’t sum up the person based on what you see, or what you don’t understand; get to know them.”

It’s disturbing how fast weeds take root in my garden of worthiness.

They’re so hard to pull.

And grow back so easily.

That wasn’t a finish line for me.

[…]

Eight months ago I couldn’t do anything.

This race has made me believe that there’s nothing I can’t do.

This is my new starting line.