Endurance

Deb sat on the Teddy Roosevelt bedspread, staring at the door, willing Mal to knock on it. She had wanted to kiss him. She had really wanted it. But when he went for it she chickened out, no doubt humiliating him.

He’s not going to knock. He’s not ever going to try it again.

Deb closed her eyes and fell back onto the bed, sighing deeply.

I can run triathlons, but I don’t have the guts to kiss a guy I like. Pathetic.

She thought back to Scott, her last boyfriend. He patiently waited during her months of recovery, and when they finally tried to have sex again for the first time since her accident, he couldn’t get it up. Her cheeks burned at the memory.

“I’m sorry, Deb. I can’t.”

“Why, Scott? I’m the same woman.”

“You’re... grotesque.”

Mal didn’t seem to find her grotesque. And Deb doubted he’d have any sort of problems in bed.

But Deb knew she had problems. Body image problems. Mobility problems. Self- confidence problems.

She wasn’t comfortable letting another human being see her bare stumps. How was she supposed to get completely naked with somebody?

I’m so sick of hating myself.

Deb opened her eyes, struck by an intriguing thought.

I could go to his room.

Not to sleep with him. Deb knew she wasn’t ready for that. But she could at least kiss the guy good night.

It had been so long since she’d kissed a guy.

Deb pushed herself off the bed, and walked to the door. When her hand rested on the knob, she paused.

Now I’ve gone from being a chicken to being needy.

She thought about what was worse, cowardice or insecurity, and decided cowardice was worse.

Deb stepped into the hall and walked over to Mal’s room. Surprisingly, his door was open a crack.

Is he expecting me?

Deb hesitated again.

Knock? Go back? Or go in?

She knocked lightly.

No answer.

Deb lightly bounced up and down on her Cheetahs, trying to decide her next move. If he left the door open by accident, going in would be a bad move.

But who leaves their door open accidentally?

Deb went inside. Immediately, she realized why he didn’t respond when she knocked. She heard the shower, and saw steam coming out from under the bathroom door.

He isn’t expecting me.

For a moment she debated walking into the bathroom and joining him in the shower. It was purely fantasy— she just wasn’t the type to do that, legs or no legs. But she let herself imagine how it would unfold. Maybe she could say something clever, like, “Is there room for two?” Or maybe she’d just slip in behind him, and start washing his back.

Damn it, I should have just kissed him.

The shower cut off.

I could wait here. Surprise him when he walks out. “Your door was open. I thought maybe we could give that kiss another try.”

The bathroom door creaked, pushing outward.

Deb turned fast and got out of there. Heart pounding, she slunk back into her room and locked the door behind her.

“Nice, Deb,” she said to herself. “Real mature.”

Annoyed with herself, she hobbled into the bathroom to check out the clawfoot tub. Earlier, all she wanted to do was take a nice, hot bubblebath. Deb loved bubblebaths. She loved being weightless while immersed in water, and getting the suds high enough to imagine that under them, her body was whole.

But looking at it now, she saw how steep and high the bathtub’s edges were. Unlike modern hotels, there was no hand bar or railing next to the tub. That meant getting in and out would involve flopping over the edge. The tile floor was probably cold, and there weren’t enough towels to cover it. Then, afterward, Deb would have to put her prosthetics back on to get into bed.

A whole lot of work for a bit of relaxation. Besides, she didn’t like that gigantic framed poster of Theodore Roosevelt that faced the toilet.

It seems to be looking right at me.

Deb decided against the bath. She’d get up early, deal with it then. Right now, she just wanted to sleep and try to forget this day ever happened. She took off her fanny pack, placed it on the sink, and pulled out her toothbrush and toothpaste. The water was gross, but she made do. Afterward, she picked up a hand towel and left the bathroom. Then she sat on the edge of the bed and undressed down to her underwear.

I really hate this part.

Deb hit the release valves on her prosthetics, breaking the suction. She eased them off and set the Cheetahs on the floor, next to the bed. Then she rolled down the gel sock, sheathing the vestige of her left calf. A day’s worth of accumulated sweat dripped onto the floor. Deb wiped the sheath with the towel and gave it a tentative sniff.

Not too funky. I can get another wear out of it.

She pulled the silicone end pad out of the bottom, dried it off, and repeated the process with the other side, setting the sheaths on the night stand. Then Deb finally looked at her legs.

The amputations were transtibial; below the knee. Her left leg was three inches longer than her right, and both came to tapered ends. Deb hated that they were uneven—it made her feel even more deformed. To make the complete package reach eleven on the hideous scale, each leg had raised, ugly scars, from her surgery, and from her cougar injuries. On top of all that, she needed to shave.

Yuck, Deb thought. I’m a monster.

She always thought that when she looked at her stumps.

Her skin below each knee was pruned and red. The gel sheet provided cushioning, but Deb sweat so much she got heat rash. The alternative was to wear stump socks, which would wick away sweat just like regular socks did. Unfortunately, the suction of the prosthetics weren’t as tight when she wore socks, and Deb didn’t want to risk having a leg fall off while in motion. Still, she’d eventually have to come up with some sort of compromise. Even the strongest antiperspirants didn’t do much to help.

She draped the towel over her legs, then began to dry her stumps, massaging the muscles.

For half a second she pictured someone else doing the massage. Mal.

The fantasy ended with Mal gagging and running away.

You’re... grotesque.

Yes. Yes I am. And it’s my own stupid fault.

Deb considered jumping into the self-pity pool and wallowing around, but she was presently too tired to hate herself. Instead she yawned, then flicked off the light switch next to the bed. The room went dark, and Deb buried her face in the Roosevelt pillowcase, letting her mind blank out.

Less than a minute later, she heard something creak.

Like someone is walking toward the bed.

Deb’s eyelids snapped open, and she fumbled for the light switch.

The room was empty.

She waited, riding out the adrenaline, her heart dancing a rhumba. But there were no more noises. No one around.

Okay. Old houses creak. No need to get paranoid about it. The door is locked. I’m alone. I need to go back to sleep.

She hit the switch, adjusted the pillow, and rested her head.