A Time To Dance Part 13

FIRST STEPS.

"Is this my leg?"

A foot stuck on a metal pipe all-too-visible through the transparent plastic "leg"

that doesn't match the curve or the skin tone of my real leg.

"A trial limb. The clear plastic lets me check the fit.

You can practice with this until the more modern one is ready."

Jim shows me a "silicone sleeve" that looks like a sock made of gel.

The sleeve fits over my residual limb.

A pin at the bottom of the sleeve clicks to rea.s.sure me the leg is on properly and clicks again when I take it off.

Jim's added soft straps above my knee for extra security.

"Ready to take the first step toward your shining future?" Jim says.

Feeling as nervous as if I'm about to go onstage for another dance compet.i.tion, I rise.

My body weight isn't even.

I'm leaning on my strong left side, stunned by the effort it takes to raise my fake leg slightly off the floor.

How much strength did I lose when they sawed off the muscles I once had?

My fake foot is cold, hard, senseless.

I glance down to see if it's correctly stationed.

I take another wavering step.

My brain can command my artificial leg, but plastic can't reply like muscles and nerves can.

Hunched over, watching my hesitant feet I shuffle like the beggar Paati and I met on the way to the temple.

"Trust your sense of touch," Jim says.

"Walk like the dancer you are."

Circling around the room with him a second time, I straighten up-back and neck erect.

It gets easier. My third round already earns me Jim's usual compliment. "Great job!"

I wish I could vent my joy by leaping.

"Start slow, kiddo. Wear this limb a few hours at first.

Build up slowly to an entire day.

Tell me what this limb does and doesn't let you do so I can modify the design we have in mind. Okay?"

I suck in my cheeks to keep from sighing with impatience.

The next time we retrace our route, Jim says, "Back home, my patients can hold a guard rail.

Here, though, I'm all the guard you've got."

I look at my hand tucked snugly in the crook of his elbow.

Sense the blond hair of his arm brushing against my skin.

Indian men don't invite ladies to hold on to their arms.

Feeling like the heroine of a Jane Austen novel being courted by a British gentleman, I giggle.

But my giddiness at being so near him gives way to a spurt of anxiety when Jim says, "Can you walk alone?

I need to see how your limb fits."

He lets go of my arm. "Trust my leg, kiddo.

Your leg, I mean."

"Our leg?" I suggest, surprising myself with my boldness.

Jim's eyes twinkle like the sea on a summer's day.

"As you wish, ma'am. Our leg."

His grin sends warmth rushing up my cheeks.

I move slow and unsteady around the room, feeling the intensity of his gaze as it travels over every bit of exposed flesh.

Observes my every movement.

Jim looks preoccupied. a.s.sessing.

I want him to look admiringly. Appreciatively.

I want him to look at me the way young men looked at me that evening after my dance compet.i.tion.

STUDYING.

GRACE.

"I'm going to study," I announce every evening.

Ma thinks I mean for my upcoming finals.

In my bedroom I study my reflection.

Attention focused on my feet.

After a million miles a trillion minutes walked with no thought at all, I slow the motion down in my mind: flex thigh, bend knee, lift ankle, straighten knee, heel down, then the ball of my foot.

Bring my right foot down light enough so it doesn't thud on the floor.

Lift high so it doesn't sc.r.a.pe or drag.

Match my left foot's pace precisely.

I must learn to walk gracefully first, if I'm ever going to dance again.

BLUE.

DIAMONDS.

My fake leg well hidden under loose salwar trousers, I walk to Chandra's housing development, three roads over.

Her ma wipes her moist eyes with the edge of her sari when she sees me, saying, "Can't believe you walked here. On your very own."

Chandra rushes over, followed by her pa and two older sisters.

The five of us chatter for a while, just as we used to.

Her grandmother ambles over, grumbles to me about her ailments.

I'm relieved none of them treats me differently.

Chandra whisks me away for a private chat.

We sit on the back steps, eating the spicy mixture of chickpeas, chili, and coconut her mother cooked for us.

"Jim's so different from anyone we know," I tell Chandra.

"There's not one continent on earth he hasn't traveled to,

as far as I can tell,

and he knows all about making limbs and about physiotherapy, which is pretty exceptional, I think, but he never shows off."

Chandra raises her eyebrows. "You call your American doc

by name?"

"He's not exactly my doctor. It's like we're friends.

He even guesses my thoughts sometimes."

"So he's cute?"