The physical therapy room was a huge bright space with four broad, vinyl-covered beds along one wall and windows along another. There were two sets of silver parallel bars anchored to the linoleum floor. Scattered throughout the rest of the area were a variety of steps with and without handrails attached to them, yoga-type mats, physio balls in all sizes and colors, stacks of hand weights, Thera-Bands, and a collection of walkers and crutches.
First, Conny had Jolene warm up. She rolled onto her side on one of the bright blue yoga mats on the floor, and stretched out as far as she could, imagining her foot still there, pressing out, reaching for the end of the mat.
With each movement, Conny charted her range of motion and encouraged her to do better.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” she said, breathing hard.
“Oh. It is. Stretch farther.”
Jolene gritted her teeth and kept at it, stretching her stump until pain made her scream out. Sweat dripped into her eyes and off her face, making the mat beneath her slippery.
“One more inch,” Conny said.
“I hate you,” she said, trying to give him what he wanted.
“I wouldn’t be doing my job if you didn’t,” he said, laughing. “That’s good.” He patted her shoulder. “Now let me see some sit-ups.”
“You are worse than any drill sergeant I ever had. You know that?”
“I aim to please.” While she did her sit-ups, he went to get her wheelchair and rolled it toward her. “Okay. That’s enough. Get in.”
She looked up at the chair, hating it. Sweat dripped down from her hair. She wiped her hands on her tee shirt, leaving damp streaks behind.
Conny lifted her onto the workout bench, got her seated, then rolled the wheelchair closer. “I’ll show you how to get into your chair. Here, make sure this brake is set. Wipe your hand so you don’t slip, and remember, don’t put any weight on your right hand. Just use it for balance. Let me help you, Jolene…”
She licked her lips nervously. “Who would have thought it took all this work to sit down. I used to run marathons. I tell you that? One time—”
“You’re stalling.”
She steeled herself again and began the work it took just to get from the bench into a wheelchair. Groaning at the exertion, she angled herself forward, stood slowly on her good leg. Balancing, she waited until she felt steady, holding the chair in her good hand. Already she was breathing hard again, sweating. And afraid she would fall. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Before, she could have lifted one leg and balanced with ease. Now her equilibrium was as shaky as her sense of herself.
With exaggerated care, she turned on her good foot and sat down in the chair; her bandaged residual limb stuck out like a bowsprit.
“You did it,” Conny said, smiling brightly.
He gave her about ten seconds to revel in her triumph, and then he had her back at the yoga mat, working again. She didn’t have the core strength to lower herself to the mat on her one good leg, so Conny helped her. “More sit-ups,” he said when she was ready. “Two hundred.”
“Two hundred? Are you mental?”
“I told you you’d hate me. Quit whining and start.”
She lay down, wishboned her arms behind her and pulled upward. “One … two … three…”
She hadn’t noticed before how your feet anchored you for sit-ups. Now, she was constantly moving, sliding, feeling unsteady on the ground as she went up, down, up, down.
“Two hundred, Jolene,” Conny said. “Don’t slow down.”
“Screw … you,” she said in between breaths. She wanted to give up, wanted it badly, but every time she considered quitting, she thought about her children, and her family, and how much she wanted to be herself again, and she kept trying.
When she finished, Conny wheeled her back to her room. “I’ll send an aide to help you shower,” he said, positioning her wheelchair by the window.
“Conny?” she said, looking up at him.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry about your son.”
He gave her a slow, sad smile. “I’m sorry about your leg, soldier girl.”
* * *
For the next week, Jolene spent her nights battered by memories, and her days pretending she was getting better. She called her daughters every evening and let them tell her about their day; at night, she called Germany and talked to Carl about Tami. Most of all, she kept working. Every morning, when she woke, her first thought—in the split second when she hadn’t yet remembered the truth—was I wonder if it’s too cold to run.
By the time she opened her eyes, that question was gone, tossed onto the pile of lost chances that made up Before.
Now, her room was dark; the door was closed. She turned her head just enough to see out the small window. Beyond the glass, she saw a bare tree, its spindly limbs sporting puffs of green moss and a few tenacious, multicolored leaves.
She grabbed the trapeze and pulled herself to a sit. By the time she was upright, she was breathing hard. Tired again. She couldn’t believe how much muscle mass she’d lost in such a short period of time.
Today she would get fitted for her temporary prosthesis. Her new leg. She wanted to be excited about it, but the truth was that she was scared. The new leg meant that she would be up and around, that she would be walking, that she would go home, to her ruined marriage and her frightened children and a life that had no foundation. She wasn’t a pilot anymore, wasn’t a soldier, wasn’t really a wife. Who was she?