Post by snowkitty on Apr 28, 2007 11:13:50 GMT -5
"I spy, with my little eye...something blue."
"The bicycle."
"Nope!"
"The mailbox?"
"Dad!" Lacey laughs. "You can't possibly see that from here."
Lacey's dad - a tall man with greying hair and a prickly 5-o-clock shadow - grins widely. "Fine, you win. What was it?"
"That waitress's apron," Lacey admits, smiling. She runs a hand through her long brown hair - too brown, if you ask her - and sighs.
"When are we meeting my new doctor?" she asks quietly as their food arrives. "I'm nervous."
"There's nothing to be nervous about," her father tells her. "Dr. Troy is one of the most qualified therapists in the state. If anyone can help you, it's her."
Lacey twirls her fork through her spaghetti, taking time to look around the quaint diner. It is decorated by numerous photographs, statues, and odds and ends. A clown stands to one side of her - frozen, smiling, with pale cheeks and brightly painted eyes - and a carousel horse rears above the entryway.
"I don't need help," Lacey says finally. "As long as I continue the exercises Dr. Forgen gave me, I should be -"
"Dr Forgen was under qualified," interrupts her father. "A few years in medical school doesn't allow someone to -"
"- whatever, just change the subject."
The girl returns to eating, thinking about that day. It was mid-noon, her father - who was driving - was completely alert, and her mother always kept an eye on the road, just in case. It shouldn't have happened.
All I could think about was I'm gonna die I'm gonna die but I didn't.
Her memory skips ahead a notch, past the helicopter and mangled car and news cameras. She thinks about the hospital - the cold, perfect hospital with warmed blankets and plastic floors, and sick children everywhere.
She remembers the girl with the broken arm, sobbing quietly as she was lifted onto a gurney. She remembers the boy in the emergency room that had a cracked tooth, bleeding from his mouth. She remembers the kind doctor and the soft-spoken nurse who looked at her in pity.
And, most of all, she remembers being fitting with knee-ankle-foot orthoses - braces - while a voice explained the damage to her spine.
With that comes the sinking idea of never being able to run again; she will never be able to set foot on that middle school track and hear the dirt crunch beneath her tennis shoes as she runs around it - twelve times makes three miles - and she will never revel in being one of the top ten to finish; she will never double over, breathing heavily, will never run so hard she throws up.
And looking around the diner, Lacey decides that No, she doesn't need help.
"The bicycle."
"Nope!"
"The mailbox?"
"Dad!" Lacey laughs. "You can't possibly see that from here."
Lacey's dad - a tall man with greying hair and a prickly 5-o-clock shadow - grins widely. "Fine, you win. What was it?"
"That waitress's apron," Lacey admits, smiling. She runs a hand through her long brown hair - too brown, if you ask her - and sighs.
"When are we meeting my new doctor?" she asks quietly as their food arrives. "I'm nervous."
"There's nothing to be nervous about," her father tells her. "Dr. Troy is one of the most qualified therapists in the state. If anyone can help you, it's her."
Lacey twirls her fork through her spaghetti, taking time to look around the quaint diner. It is decorated by numerous photographs, statues, and odds and ends. A clown stands to one side of her - frozen, smiling, with pale cheeks and brightly painted eyes - and a carousel horse rears above the entryway.
"I don't need help," Lacey says finally. "As long as I continue the exercises Dr. Forgen gave me, I should be -"
"Dr Forgen was under qualified," interrupts her father. "A few years in medical school doesn't allow someone to -"
"- whatever, just change the subject."
The girl returns to eating, thinking about that day. It was mid-noon, her father - who was driving - was completely alert, and her mother always kept an eye on the road, just in case. It shouldn't have happened.
All I could think about was I'm gonna die I'm gonna die but I didn't.
Her memory skips ahead a notch, past the helicopter and mangled car and news cameras. She thinks about the hospital - the cold, perfect hospital with warmed blankets and plastic floors, and sick children everywhere.
She remembers the girl with the broken arm, sobbing quietly as she was lifted onto a gurney. She remembers the boy in the emergency room that had a cracked tooth, bleeding from his mouth. She remembers the kind doctor and the soft-spoken nurse who looked at her in pity.
And, most of all, she remembers being fitting with knee-ankle-foot orthoses - braces - while a voice explained the damage to her spine.
With that comes the sinking idea of never being able to run again; she will never be able to set foot on that middle school track and hear the dirt crunch beneath her tennis shoes as she runs around it - twelve times makes three miles - and she will never revel in being one of the top ten to finish; she will never double over, breathing heavily, will never run so hard she throws up.
And looking around the diner, Lacey decides that No, she doesn't need help.