Audrey Indigo the Writer

Five Weeks, Three Days, Fifteen Words Per Minute

     My shoes clap against the rubber tile of the physical therapist's lobby.

     Proudly, I walk towards the door.

     I thought the physical therapist would be terrible. I didn't want to become a pathetic crippled person who goes to a doctor to learn how to do something bodies should be able to learn by themselves. Now I think the opposite. I feel confident when walking into the office.

     I started two weeks ago. I went to three sessions that week. Going to the first one I was reluctant, but as you can see I liked it.

     Today I mastered holding onto a spoon. I can now eat cereal with no problem. But as exciting as that is, it's not the reason I'm so confident. I reached fifteen words per minute today. I can type fifteen entire words in a minute. To my old self that would have been nothing at all, but to me, the new me, that's everything.

     So I slowly but confidently walk to the glass doors that lead to the parking lot. We're going out to celebrate, mom and I. It'll be just us since I'm an only child and she's a single mother. But we're celebrating, and it's going to be great.

     I'm surprised of how comfortable I am with cars. I guess I just realized that it's only a one-in-a-million chance that a car driving on the wrong side of the road crashes into the right side of your car and tears off your arm. It has only been five weeks since that happened, but it feels like a million years ago.

                                                                                           ***

     I hold my champagne glass that's filled with coke. My mom sips her glass that's actually filled with champagne. She sees me gazing at her and smiles.

     "You should feel great," She says, "I mean, fifteen words."

     I sip my glass as fancifully as I can.

     "You're right, and I do," I respond, smiling.

     I've resumed writing my book as of yesterday. I've never felt better about myself about anything.

     "We should toast," She says.

     "Yes, great idea," I answer.

     She stares at the ceiling for a second as if deciding what exactly to say. Finally, she says, "To your not giving up."

     Smiling, I raise my glass and say, "To my not giving up."

     As I drink my coke with my mom in my favorite restaurant celebrating my accomplishment, I feel so happy I don't even care about the people who stare at me from the corner of their eyes or when they think I'm not looking. I don't even care at all.