The next day found Jonas spending his time moping around the house. His brother was gone (as usual), Taylor was still at camp, and his dad was at work. That left his mom, who was off for the day. That didn’t stop her from working, though; she was scrubbing the entire house from top to bottom, her hair tied up and apron on. Jonas watched her. She used to dance in the kitchen when she cleaned the floors, radio on and arms swaying in time to the music. Jonas couldn’t help but think it was his fault that she didn’t anymore. So he sat on the couch, frowning moodily at the turned-off TV.
Jonas’s mom seemed to pick up on his bad mood and didn’t really engage him, whether to remind him of his doctor’s appointment later that day (the one he didn’t want to go to at all) or to suggest some other activity (that involved leaving the house).
He didn’t feel like being in his room all day, which was strange, because there was usually no place he enjoyed being more. He didn’t really feel up to going out, and his leg hurt, but he didn’t feel like doing nothing.
It was strange. Since he had gone out, since he had given himself the chance to see that he could indeed successfully leave the house, he’d stopped being completely content to stay inside. Like, since he’d given it a chance, it had ruined his contentment with doing nothing.
The only problem was that he wasn’t quite ready to admit that to himself yet, so here he was, camped out in the living room, his own personal compromise between hiding in his bedroom and going out.
Eventually, his mom put away her apron and grabbed her purse and keys. “Time to go,” she said hesitantly, watching him from the door. Jonas wordlessly got up and retrieved his crutches. He’d chosen to wear the prosthetic leg—he’d been wearing it more and more lately because he’d become almost addicted to the visual representation of having two legs; taking the leg off at night was kind of depressing now—but he still wasn’t going to actually walk on it.
“I’ve got to go to the grocery store afterward,” Jonas’s mom said. “If you don’t want to go, you could always drive yourself to the doctor’s?” She sounded like she’d rather take him to see the doctor and then drag him around the grocery store as well.
“No,” Jonas shook his head. “I’d rather not drive.”
“All right,” she said, nodding and heading out the door. Jonas followed her and got into the passenger seat of her van (which was nicer than the Bus: newer, and with air conditioning). He stared out the window as they drove, the trees and the buildings blurring into smears of color as they eventually picked up speed on the highway and headed downtown.
When they reached the doctor’s office, his mom came around to open the passenger-side door for him.
“I’m not an invalid,” he snapped, probably too harshly, he thought, judging by the hurt look in her eyes.
“I know, Bird,” his mom said, backing off. She suddenly looked tired again. Jonas hadn’t realized she’d been starting to perk up over the past couple of weeks, but the change in her now made it evident. “I was just trying to help,” she added softly.
Just, just, always just. “I’m not going to break, Mom.” Jonas avoided meeting her eyes as he got out and positioned his crutches, making his way to the door of the doctor’s office.
The building was home to many doctors, and many specialists, several of whom Jonas had become familiar with over the last year. It was big—too stark and too clean for Jonas’s taste. And it smelled like a hospital, which he hated. (Funny, since you were going to be a doctor.)
There was a list of things Jonas thought about when he thought about hospitals, and none of them were pleasant:
1. Flashes of lights on the ceiling.
2. The faces of doctors and the sound of his mom crying.
3. The sensation of finally giving in to darkness because that was all his body wanted to do and he couldn’t fight it, couldn’t fight it anymore.
He hadn’t always hated the smell of hospitals; it was an after The Accident thing. A side effect. (Like the not driving and the noticing of people’s left feet.)
Back in the present, Jonas eyed the people using the stairs with a frown. He would have used the stairs if he could have. You should eventually be able to walk almost as before, his prosthetist had told him when he was first fitted. With practice, you could even conquer stairs. Jonas hadn’t wanted to conquer anything. He hadn’t wanted to have to. He had wanted to have his leg back.
They got into the elevator. He pushed the button for the third floor. It was all familiar, all robotic movement. Go through the motions; go home afterward.
They signed in at the front desk.
“Jonas!” The nurse called his name eventually. Jonas wanted to do anything but stand up, force a smile at the nurse, and begin to walk back with her. His mom stood, too, making her way to his side. She always came for his appointments. She was always there, ready to support him, willing to help if she was needed. He wondered, suddenly, if maybe that was a small part of his problem. Too many people to help him, to pity him; too easy for him to just let them. Maybe he really just needed to help himself. He was leaving for college, after all.
“Mom,” he muttered, stopping short. “I-I’d really just rather go alone this time.”
“Oh,” she said, drawing back her hand from his arm. “Are you sure?” She was frowning, worry in her eyes. Her voice wobbled a bit.
“Yes, Mom,” he mumbled. “It’s not a big deal. I just want to go by myself. All right? Please don’t make it a big deal. It isn’t; I promise.”
“Yes, all right. Of course.” She swallowed and patted his arm in what was supposed to be a gesture of comfort, but really just conveyed to Jonas, along with the glistening of her dark eyes, how upset she was. She wanted to go with him; she wanted to feel useful. He wondered if maybe sometimes she felt like she’d somehow failed as a mother, although that was really the furthest thing from the truth. None of this was her fault. Guilt squeezed his stomach again.
He wanted to comfort his mom, so he turned back at the last second, crutched back to her, and kissed her on the cheek, squeezing her arm. “Okay, Mom?” he asked her.
She smiled slightly, swiping at her face with shuddery hands. “Okay, Bird,” she said. “I’ll be just out here if you need anything.”
“I know,” he said, giving her a little smile before turning and following the nurse.
Dr. Akeson, Jonas’s orthopedic surgeon (aka the one who’d neatened up what remained of Jonas’s leg after the metal from the car door had finished with it), was a short man with a balding head and a white beard. He was like Santa Claus, if Santa wore a lab coat and smelled like antiseptic.
“I’ve been—I’ve been trying to walk some,” Jonas started, uneasily. He’d tried to imagine how the words would feel, how they would taste, when he finally said them. He couldn’t quite decide yet if they felt good or bad to say. He looked down at his lap, his fingers absentmindedly tapping his leg just above the prosthetic socket, a nervous tic that came out just about every time he was at a follow-up appointment. He was self-conscious in the hospital gown they always had him wear. He knew it was so they could examine his leg more easily, but he felt cold and a little exposed. He quit tapping and crossed his arms tightly across his chest.
“Really?” said Dr. Akeson, peering at Jonas over his glasses from his chair next to the computer. He made a note of something in Jonas’s chart. “That’s good news. How is that working out? Are you having any problems with the socket fitting?”
“I-I’m not really sure,” he muttered. “It’s all a little much. I haven’t worked with a prosthesis much since the practice one I wore during those first weeks in physical therapy. To be honest, the main thing that’s bothering me is that I’ve had an increase in pain since I started trying to walk.”
“Does the pain mostly happen when you’re using the prosthesis or do you have it other times as well?”
Jonas thought about it a bit. “Mostly when I’m wearing it. Occasionally when I’m not, but I always had occasional phantom sensations before, so I guess that’s not really new. My leg’s been a bit sore; I think it’s just because it’s not used to bearing weight.”
“That would most likely be correct,” Dr. Akeson said. “It’s usually best to start slow with these things. Work up to it. Can you describe the pain you feel when you wear the prosthesis?”
“It’s sort of a shooting pain. Sometimes it feels kind of like a burning sensation, almost. But only when I’m putting weight on it, or sometimes just when I’m wearing it. I don’t know if maybe I’m walking wrong, or something. Like a misstep.”
He tapped his fingers on his leg again. In the ceiling, the air conditioning kicked on, ruffling Jonas’s hair. Dr. Akeson was making another note.
“There are a few possible explanations, but one stands out to me at this time, based on what you’ve said.” He scooted his stool forward a bit and gestured to Jonas’s leg. Jonas was used to this, even if it was his least favorite part of being in the doctor’s office. He stared straight ahead, refusing to look at his leg as Dr. Akeson shifted the gown and examined the fake leg and the socket, and then took the leg off, examining Jonas’s residual limb. He massaged a few places, stopping when Jonas winced in pain. “There it is,” the doctor murmured, as if to himself.
“What?” asked Jonas, massaging his leg again. Still not looking at it. Never looking at it (if he could help it.)
“I’m thinking it’s most likely a neuroma,” said his doctor, moving back to make another note on the computer. “Amputees are known to get them, especially in traumatic amputations, as yours was. Think of it like a tangle of hair, except in this case, it’s a tangle of nerve endings. It can be sensitive, especially to pressure.”
“Can it be fixed?”
“Usually it’s as simple as adjusting your prosthesis. In this case, you’ll just need another visit with your prosthetist. It would explain why the pain has only started now that you’re working on walking. It usually takes a few months after an amputation to show up, and if it hadn’t been exposed to pressure, it wouldn’t be a cause for concern. But since you’ve started wearing your prosthesis, it’s starting to put some pressure on it.”
He nodded toward Jonas’s leg. “Does that help?” he asked, watching Jonas massage a particular spot.
“Yes,” said Jonas. “It usually does.”
“That’s good,” he nodded. “Massage is one of the ways to relieve pain from a neuroma.”
The doctor stood, preparing to leave. “Just make sure to make an appointment with your prosthetist to get your socket refitted. Not only for the neuroma but, as time goes on, the residual limb atrophies a bit and the prosthesis can be too loose.” He paused, meeting Jonas’s eyes. “Additionally, if you’re going to start walking more frequently, it may be a good idea to see a physical therapist again.”
Jonas started to protest, but Dr. Akeson held up a hand. “Now I know you didn’t like the therapy when you did it after the initial amputation, but it’s something I would recommend now. It can be very helpful for amputees to work with someone.”
Jonas frowned. Dr. Akeson smiled. “I’m honestly glad to see that you’re starting to work toward walking, Jonas,” he said. “It’s always a good step.” He chuckled a little at his own pun, then picked up his papers and opened the door. He stopped one final time. “Follow up in another month,” he said. “I’d like to see you one more time before you head off to school.”
“Okay,” Jonas said. Dr. Akeson left the room, and Jonas got dressed once more, grabbing his crutches and making his way out to his mom, who immediately put down the magazine she was reading and came to his side.
“How’d it go?” she asked, smiling widely.
Jonas forced a smile. “Fine,” he said. “He says I should make an appointment with the prosthetist to get the socket fitting adjusted on my leg.”
“All right,” she said. “We’ll do that.”
They turned to leave. Once they were on the elevator, his mom turned to look at him. “Are you okay, Jonas?”
“Fine, Mom,” he said. Always fine. He was always fine. And then: “Dr. Akeson also thinks I should start physical therapy up again, before I go off to school.”
“Really?” she said. “Are you going to try to start walking again?” Jonas could tell she was trying not to sound too hopeful.
“Yeah,” he said, nonchalantly, as if this was nothing of consequence. He watched the floor number change as they went down. “I think I might.” His mom suddenly stepped forward and wrapped her arms tightly around him, almost knocking him over. He hadn’t realized how much taller he had gotten compared to her until she was there, standing a head shorter than him. Everything was so different now.
“Mom?” he asked her hesitantly. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, stepping back and shaking her head, still smiling. “I’m just so proud of you.”
He almost rolled his eyes, somewhat embarrassed, but this was his mother. So he smiled instead, hesitantly. The most real smile he’d smiled in quite some time.
They went to the grocery store and he helped her get things off the high shelves instead of just following behind her like last time. When they went to the deli, he nonchalantly glanced around, looking for Brennan—for messy dark hair and big round glasses—but she wasn’t there.