Poster Child by Rapp Emily

Author:Rapp, Emily [Rapp, Emily]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
Published: 2008-12-02T05:00:00+00:00

The year I was in the seventh grade, Vince moved his office to an industrial town near Denver where smokestacks belched black smoke and the bumpy, potholed roads were clogged with diesel trucks. There were no high-rise buildings or any of the happy hustle and bustle associated with cities. Although the gaze of the used-car guys had been disconcerting, at least there had been people around. Vince's new office felt completely disconnected from the larger world. The only buildings visible through the windows were warehouses, physical plants, and oil refineries.

"I hate this," I said. "It's only trucks and road and smoke. Gross."

Mom had the day off and was driving us to my first appointment at the new office.

"Look," she said. "Horses." She pointed at a trailer passing us in the left lane. Bits of the horses' brown bodies were visible as they stomped and shifted; their tails stuck out of the trailer slats and waved in the air like soft flags. "They're not trucks and smoke."

"They're probably taking them somewhere to make glue out of them," I said.

"Oh, c'mon," she said. We didn't say anything more about the neighborhood.

I didn't see Hal in the new group of patients, and Tanya had apparently been fired or sought different employment. I missed them both. The new receptionist was quiet and unfriendly, with a fondness for tight, brightly colored skirt suits. The tables in the waiting room were littered with half-filled coffee cups, some with cigarette butts floating in the black, pungent liquid. Two dead ferns drooped from rusted hooks in each corner of the waiting room. A little bell attached to the front door made a sad, tinny jingle to mark a patient's arrival.

When I was small, I had imagined my feet were quickly and easily produced by happy little elves who punched them out of a clever machine. I pictured a strong, handsome man sitting on a table as a prosthetist carefully created a cast of his foot that would later be used to make a fake one for amputees like me. I envisioned feet on pedestals or under glass, as if they were famous pieces of art or ancient artifacts on display at a museum.

At Vince's, I saw the whole leg-making business for what it was: dirty and sordid. The process was reductive and strange. I felt as if my leg—this indispensable part of me—were being built as cheaply and heartlessly by Vince as a factory might make ugly plastic dolls or flimsy lawn chairs.

Vince still seemed determined to speak as little as possible. I explained to him what I needed. "The hinge is squeaky," I said, standing in a small partitioned room, my right foot bare on the chalky floor. I picked up the leg to show him, impressing him, I knew, with my ability to maintain rock-solid balance on the right leg. Although he made me feel uncomfortable, I also wanted to please him. I was indiscriminate in my search for others' affirmation.

"I need a new foot, too." It looked as if an animal had been gnawing on the heel.

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