Jonas sat on the couch while his mom talked on the phone. He’d asked her to call the therapy place that Dr. Akeson had referred him to. His fingers were tapping on his leg again, a rhythm-less pattern on the hard plastic of the prosthetic socket.
The office was located at the north branch of the hospital Dr. Akeson worked at, closer to Jonas’s house. The building, from the outside, looked about ten years older than the hospital it sat next to. He’d asked his mom to drive by it on the way home from his appointment the other day.
“She’s very good,” Dr. Akeson had told him about the therapist. “She’s worked with a number of amputee patients recently, with good results, and I think she’ll be very helpful.”
Jonas had seen the prosthetist earlier that day and gotten the socket adjusted slightly, just enough to take some pressure off what Dr. Akeson thought was a neuroma. So far, so good. A few steps, and pain free—other than some soreness.
“You have a cancellation tomorrow?” his mom said loudly, as if for Jonas’s benefit. She covered the phone receiver and gestured at Jonas. “Is that okay?” she mouthed.
Jonas shrugged and then nodded.
“Great!” his mom said. “Tomorrow at eleven thirty.” Jonas zoned out again as she finalized details. Bring crutches, bring the prosthesis, blah, blah, blah. He was tapping again.
He looked out the window and frowned.
He really hoped he wasn’t making a mistake.
You have to start sometime. You can’t stay here and do this forever, after all.
He sighed and propped his chin on his hand, watching as a neighbor jogged by, earbuds in, oblivious to the world. Jonas followed him down the road with his eyes for a few moments before looking away.
The therapist’s office was nice, or at least as nice as any other doctor’s office Jonas had been to (and surprisingly nice compared to the dated brick of the building’s exterior). The walls were decorated with pictures of patients, smiling and happy, assisted by therapists and various physician’s assistants. Some were in wheelchairs; some were using walkers. Some were being helped with various exercises. Most of the patients were elderly.
Jonas frowned, looking around, before making his way to the receptionist’s desk and signing in on the offered clipboard. He filled out the new patient paperwork and brought it back to the desk, then returned to his spot on one of the sofas in the waiting area.
He’d had his mom drop him off but requested that she not come in with him. He was half afraid that he’d fall or that he’d not be very good at balancing without the crutches or something to lean on, and he didn’t really want his mom to be there for that.
He felt a little like there was an extra heart in his throat at the thought of starting therapy again. He tried to stop himself from tapping his fingers against his leg but eventually gave up when he realized he just kept going back to doing it, like his mind wouldn’t let him stop.
He got out his phone and absentmindedly checked his email. There were a few from school, a painful reminder that summer would end sooner rather than later. At least if he could walk, people would stare less. His head hurt.
“Jonas Avery?”
He got up, forcing a tight smile as the physical therapist greeted him. He kept his grip tight on his crutches.
“Hi!” she said. “I’m Kim Richards. Dr. Akeson sent your chart over.”
“Hi,” Jonas said in return, rather lamely. She led him back into the office and to a spacious room set up with a couple of chairs, some parallel bars that Jonas recognized from his first post-accident therapy sessions, and various equipment pieces that he’d never used before.
“I thought we’d start with some basics today,” she said. “I know that you’ve had some therapy sessions before with a temporary prosthesis, but I think that it’s best to look at this as a sort of fresh start. I don’t want you to come into it with any expectations of yourself based on that previous therapy. It’s been quite a while since then and, from what Dr. Akeson has told me, you’ve mostly just used the crutches.”
Jonas nodded. “What do you want me to do?”
“First, I want to talk about what your ultimate goals for these sessions are.”
Jonas looked at her in confusion. “I want to walk?” he said, almost like it was a question.
She smiled slightly. “Is that all?” she asked.
He frowned. “What else is there?”
The therapist laughed softly. “Jonas, if you want it badly enough, the sky really is the limit. You can run again—there are even amputees who play sports.”
Jonas thought about it for a moment. His head felt a little fuzzy. The therapist was wearing perfume that, ordinarily, wouldn’t have bothered him, but which was starting to compound the headache he’d come in with. He decided against getting his hopes up. “Just walking for now,” he said. “I think I’ll focus on that first.”
“That’s perfectly fine,” she said, not pushing him.
She stood and walked over to the parallel bars, gesturing for him to follow.
Once he did, she took his crutches and leaned them against the wall, letting him use the bar in front of him for support.
“All right,” she said. “I assume that you’ve already learned to balance—to sit and to stand—without the prosthesis on, and without the crutches.”
“Yes,” said Jonas. “Although I thought we were starting from the beginning?”
Kim smiled. “We are,” she said. “With the prosthetic leg. No sense repeating the sitting and standing lessons if you already use them in your day-to-day life.”
She brought a walker over and gestured for him to turn so he could face her, and then take hold of the walker, balancing himself with it. She instructed him to transfer his weight from his good leg to both legs, including the prosthesis. He did.
“How does that feel?”
“Okay,” he said. “A little sore, but other than that, it feels okay.” He’d done this part a few times at home since his visit with Dr. Akeson. Put down the leg, stand on both feet, try to get used to the feeling of dead space from his left thigh down.
“Okay!” Kim bent and adjusted the walker a bit until it was correct for his height. “This is great. Do you ever feel nervous about putting weight on the prosthetic leg?”
“A little,” Jonas admitted. He felt like an old person, holding on to the walker. “Sometimes I get this feeling that it won’t hold me up, or that it isn’t stable enough, like it might buckle.” I can’t feel it, he wanted to say. It feels dead. It is dead. It’s not a leg. Prosthetic. Fake. Not a leg.
“That’s perfectly normal. A lot of amputees need to learn to trust their new leg.” (Leg, leg, leg.) “It’s something different; it takes getting used to.” She turned to face him. “Eventually, putting weight on the leg will be second nature.”
She picked up her folder. “I think that’s all we’re going to do today.”
“What?” said Jonas, unable to stop himself from sounding incredulous. “That’s it?”
She smiled, turning to look at him once more. “Learning to walk again is a slow project,” she said. “It’s important not to go at it too quickly, to avoid injuring yourself. Best to practice putting weight on it and learning to trust the prosthetic leg. I’m going to give you some homework too—I’d like you to start taking some supported steps. Do you have a walker at home?”
Jonas shook his head.
“We’ll have you take this one, but you can use your crutches as well.” She moved his crutches closer to him, leaning them against the parallel bars so he could reach them. “Basically, you’ll support yourself with the walker or your crutches, and practice taking some steps, a few times a day. I also have some pamphlets with some exercises you can do to strengthen your upper body and remaining limbs. It’s important that the rest of your body serves as a balance for what’s not there anymore. If you’ll just wait here, I’ll have my assistant bring them in for you, and then she’ll take you to the front desk. Same time next week?”
“Yes, I suppose,” said Jonas, a confused frown fixed on his face.
“Okay,” she said cheerfully. “Just wait a few moments.”
Jonas watched over his shoulder until she left the room. When the door closed behind her, he turned back around and looked down at his feet. He had thought maybe he’d leave the office today having at least taken a few steps. He moved the walker forward an inch, then two, stepping in behind it, each step looking more like a limp. He didn’t have pain anymore—the prosthetist had fixed that—but it was like walking when your muscles were sore; there was still an ache.
“Jonas?” He heard a surprised voice from behind him.
He hadn’t heard the door open, and the voice made him jump, his heart picking up, blood thudding in his ears. He whirled around instinctively, forgetting about his prosthetic leg. He slipped, and reached to grab the walker but missed, falling ungracefully to the floor instead.
He sat there for a moment, eyes closed, his face pricking with heated embarrassment. First day of therapy—already made a fool of myself. What a precedent.
“I’m sorry for startling you. I just—I was just surprised to see you here.”
Jonas opened his eyes to see Brennan leaning over him and watching him with an expression of concern.
“B-Brennan!” He half scuttled backward, bumping into one of his crutches where it leaned against the parallel bars and knocking it to the ground with a loud clatter. His embarrassment mixed with frustration, churning in a potent mass deep in his chest. “What are you doing here?”
She hesitated, looking slightly hurt. Her eyes found his left ear again. “My aunt,” she said. “She’s a physical therapist. Well, the physical therapist here. Kim Richards? I was shadowing her today, but I was taking a break during your visit. She sent me to give you some pamphlets . . .” Her voice trailed off.
She frowned, looking down at the various materials in her hands. “About exercises for amputees?” Her eyes traveled to Jonas’s, the confused look still fixed on her face.
Jonas glared at her. His eyes were angry and his face was red. The bottom of Brennan’s stomach had dropped out, leaving the anxiety free to invade her entire chest. She shouldn’t have startled him, shouldn’t have even come in.
He reached up and grasped one of the parallel bars for support, pulling himself clumsily up until he was standing, ignoring her when she offered him her hand to help.
Brennan studied Jonas. He didn’t look like an amputee and hadn’t the other times she’d seen him. Her eyes darted to the sweatpants he was wearing. Then again, he’d always worn long pants—if he did have a prosthetic leg, she wouldn’t have known it. And it would make sense; it would explain what was off about him.
“Jonas?” she said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. He had turned his back on her and didn’t seem to hear, so she cleared her throat, eliciting an angry “What?” from him.
“Are you, I mean, are you—” She was tripping over her words. She didn’t want to say it aloud because she got the feeling that this—finally, the explanation—was the reason he was so frustrated all the time.
Jonas whirled to face her, much better balanced now that he was back on the crutches. “Am I what?” he snapped. “An amputee?” He said it like he was disgusted by it.
Brennan didn’t even nod; she was too mortified that she’d created this situation in the first place. She took a step backward. Stupid, stupid, STUPID, her brain shouted, until the word rang in her ears like someone was actually shouting into the stillness of the therapy gym.
Jonas was directly in front of her now, glaring down at her. She hadn’t quite realized before how tall he really was. It made her want to shrink even more than she already had. “Yes,” he snapped. “Yes, I am.” He forced a short, bitter laugh. “Now you know my little secret.” He shook his head, looking annoyed. Brennan wasn’t sure if he was annoyed at her or at himself. Probably both.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she said falteringly, as he turned to leave. “Did you think it would have mattered?” Her mind went to the car accident, and she realized suddenly. “And the fender bender—it wasn’t really because you weren’t paying attention, was it?”
“No,” he said darkly, over his shoulder. “It was partly because I wasn’t paying attention. But probably not for the reason that you think. And yes, partly, the leg thing. But don’t you get it? I didn’t want you to know that! I’m tired of the leg being the first thing people notice about me! I’m not just the guy with the missing leg!” Brennan stopped short as his face went slack, like he’d said a little bit more than he’d meant to.
His features hardened, his dark eyebrows drawing low over his eyes. He continued on his way out, and she followed him, trying to convince him not to leave, her words spilling out, one attached to the other in a long stream of blather that felt sort of useless (but she had to try anyway). “You still have to make your appointment for next week! I was supposed to show you to the front desk.” She was holding his walker and the pamphlets.
Jonas shook his head, continuing doggedly onward. “I’m not making an appointment for next week. I’ll go somewhere else—if I go at all. This has all been a terrible idea. It was a mistake.”
“Please.” Brennan was begging now, her voice wavering. Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, which was stupid, because she was angry. Angry at herself. Angry at Jonas for giving up so easily. Angry at the fact that she was losing one of her aunt’s clients on the first day of shadowing. ANGRY, not sad, she yelled at her stupid brain. “My aunt is lovely,” she tried. “It’s all my fault. Don’t blame her. I’ll never be here again. If you come back, you can count on that—”
Jonas whirled around once more, causing Brennan to have no choice but to stop short or run face first into him. She tried not to be distracted by all the things she could notice when she was this close to him, like the little crease that formed on his forehead between his eyebrows when he was irritated (always) and how soft his dark hair looked up close. “Listen,” he said, his teeth gritted. “Your aunt is fine. But this—this walking thing—it’s clearly a mistake. I’m not going to embarrass myself again. So I’m not coming back. Okay?”
Brennan didn’t say anything; she didn’t trust herself to. She swallowed.
He turned around once more and called for the nurse going down to hold the elevator, before disappearing onto it.
The doors closed with a ding, leaving Brennan standing there, with the pamphlets and the walker in her hands and half the office occupants staring at her. At some point, she became aware of how she must look, watching the elevator like maybe if she watched hard enough, Jonas would step back out.
She snagged a nurse and managed to get out that her aunt’s last patient had left without his walker and pamphlets, shoving them clumsily into her hands and watching as the nurse headed off to the stairs to hopefully intercept Jonas.
Her face flushed even hotter as she muttered “Sorry” to the still-watching waiting room occupants and disappeared into the back offices, going immediately to the bathroom to hide from everyone. She closed the lid on the toilet and sat down, hugging her arms and staring at a crack in the tile flooring. She wasn’t ready to tell her aunt that she’d just lost one of her patients.