The Opposite of Falling Apart [Formerly Three and a Half Good Legs]

12 (free sample)

J O N A S

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 an appointment available tomorrow?" His mom said, loudly, as if for Jonas's benefit. She covered the phone receiver and gestured at Jonas. "Is that ok?" she mouthed.

Jonas shrugged, and then nodded.

"Great!" his mom said. "Tomorrow at 11:30." 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, giving walking another shot. Putting himself back out there...leaving behind the little safe place he'd built for himself at home.

You have to start sometime. You can't stay here...do this...forever, after all.

He sighed and propped his chin on his hand, watching as a neighbor jogged by, headphones 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 (surprisingly nice compared to the dated brick 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, before returning 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 (even though he'd already walked some, and been relatively fine), 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.

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.