The Running Dream by Wendelin Van Draanen Page B

Mr. Benson,” Chloe calls after him.
    He doesn’t say a word.
    Chloe smiles at me. “Your turn.”
    As she leads us down the hallway, I watch her legs. Her movements are smooth. Assured.
    Part of me doesn’t quite believe she’s got a fake leg.
    The rest of me is enormously encouraged.
    She takes us to a small room with a patient table and a service sink. The floor is stained dusty white. Like a chalkboard that won’t come clean. It’s not just the floor, either. The cupboard doors, the sink, the chairs … there’s chalky whiteness everywhere.
    “Just sit up here,” Chloe says, pulling fresh paper over the table. “Hank will take some measurements, do a cast”—she smiles at me—“nothing that hurts.”
    When she’s gone, my mom whispers, “That’s amazing! I sure can’t tell—”
    Hank walks in. He’s the same guy I remember from my hospital nightmare: stocky, bald, partially preoccupied. Like half of him is somewhere else.
    I notice his shoes, his pants, his shirt … they’re all smudged chalky white.
    “Jessica!” he says, like the other half of him has finally arrived. He seems genuinely happy to see me. “Good to see you looking so well!” He turns to my mom. “Hello, Mrs. Carlisle. How are you?”
    Mom nods. But he’s waiting for a real answer, so she says, “Better than the last time you saw me.”
    “Good.” He scoots a chair up to me and says, “So let’s get you fitted for a leg, shall we?”
    He has me take off my shrinker sock, and my left shoe and sock, too. Then he starts measuring. He uses tools like I’ve seen my dad use. A metal caliper. A tape measure. Something that looks just like a carpenter’s square. He takes all sorts of measurements of my stump side, and of my good side, too. And when he’s all done, he nods and says, “And what kind of shoe do you normally wear?”
    I point to my running shoe. “These.”
    He picks up the shoe and makes a note of the size, then says, “Okay. We’re ready to make a cast of your residual limb. From that we’ll be able to make a plaster model, and from
that
we’ll build your first socket.”
    Mom asks, “The socket’s the part that goes over her … over the residual limb?”
    “That’s right. Once we’ve got a comfortable socket, we’ll add the pylon and the foot. But first things first. We do a cast.” He goes to a cupboard, pulls out a box of supplies, and handsme a long, simple belt with a sliding clasp. “Fasten this around your waist,” he says, then proceeds to untangle three adjustable straps that have little clamps on both ends. He puts the straps aside, then produces a short, very thin stocking, which he pulls onto my stump. It’s smooth and soft. Almost silky.
    “We cover your residual leg with this first,” he says, “because it makes it much easier to remove the cast.” Next he attaches the stocking to the belt around my waist with the three straps, and when he’s sure it’s secure and the stocking is on smooth and tight, he says, “Just a few markings and we’re ready!”
    Right on top of the stocking, he begins marking places. Around my knee. Along what’s left of my shin. My scar. Points where bones stick out …
    The pencil he’s using is blue, and when he’s done, the stocking looks like a little kid scribbled on it.
    “These markings will transfer to the cast,” he explains. “They’ll show me where we can put pressure, and also where we should relieve it.”
    Next he fills a small bowl with water and brings it and two rolls of chalky-looking white gauze over to the table. “Have you ever had a cast?”
    I shake my head.
    “It doesn’t take long.” He dunks one of the gauzy rolls into the bowl of water, and when it’s wet, he starts wrapping it around my leg, spiraling from the knee down to the end of the stump and back up. “This has plaster of Paris in it,” he tells me as he wraps. “The water creates an exothermic reaction—do you feel it warming up?”
    I nod