briefly free of the Ace bandage, was a red and shriveled thing, like a mutilated, blood-soaked baseball bat. The skin smelled rank, and the bones inside felt like noodles. Noodle bones. I had a stuffed dog named Feather at the time, a beanbag dog, and his flexible back and body seemed more substantial than the bone that would fit into the artificial leg, but I was tired of the crutches and the walker. If Mom and Dad said it would work, then I believed them.
These were my first real memories of my body. They were al ready memories of a body that would be no more, that was on its way out, disappearing. I remember little of a flesh-and-blood foot, just isolated moments and then the memory of the loss. What I remember most is being told how and when I was going to lose the foot and what would happen next. I thought of myself as linked to Super Stump, the stump I'd been given, the way I could move the muscles on the bottom and the side; the way it was rounded like the end of a bat; the way I could bend it like a length of flexible tubing and fold it across my right leg in order to sit cross-legged on the floor. That was my body. At this young age, I simply accepted the body as it was, while also feeling anxious to be more mobile, to really move.
Chapter Three
A PIRATE'S TREASURE
I crouched on the edge of the pool platform, preparing to dive. The smell of the pool was deep and dark, not unlike the smell of the room where Communion vestments were kept at church. When I pulled out the small, cloth-covered box full of wine and wafers that Dad used to take Communion to older parishioners—we called them "shut-ins"—who could not make the journey to Sunday services, it felt like encountering some dusty secret; the bottom of each thimble-size wine goblet was tinted red and smelled vaguely of vinegar. These odors and stains suggested that the shadow of something holy remained, some crucial remnant had been left behind for the next user to divine and ingest, linking all the communicants to one another.
On that day of my first dive, there was something secret about the water, although it was clear and emitted the scrubbed-clean smell of bleach and chlorine. I had seen many people dive off this same ledge, and today it was my turn. Without my glasses, the black lane markers were blurry; they looked like slow-moving caterpillars under the rocking motion of the water as people getting in and out of the pool disrupted it. My private swimming teacher, Ann, stood at my side, coaching me.
I tipped back and forth on my right leg until I could balance in a crouched position; the blue flipper on my right foot squeaked against the wet tiles. I looked up and noticed people staring at me in my blue one-piece swimsuit, with my stump hanging stiffly next to my body like a kickstand. I looked back at the water and took a deep breath.
"Hold the stump close to your side," Ann said. "Put your arms over your head. That's right. You've got it."
I wanted to dive to a specific point in the water, to the middle of one of the black caterpillar lines, as if there were something special there for me to find. I steadied myself, hunched over, and finally dived into the water. My head went under first, then the cool water closed over my back, my butt, and finally my right leg and my stump. I felt as slippery and slick as the tiny rainbow trout Dad taught me to throw back into the river after we brought them up, wriggling, from the ends of our fishing rods. I felt absorbed, taken under, and enveloped; the water was a cool hand guiding me forward. My body felt light and remarkably even, its asymmetry balanced and supported by the softness of the water.
When I came up for air, I heard Ann clapping. The applause echoed against the pool walls, and I hoped that all the people who had been staring at me were listening to this praise. I began to swim, first freestyle and then the breaststroke; I had been practicing both moves all summer. The fin on my right
These were my first real memories of my body. They were al ready memories of a body that would be no more, that was on its way out, disappearing. I remember little of a flesh-and-blood foot, just isolated moments and then the memory of the loss. What I remember most is being told how and when I was going to lose the foot and what would happen next. I thought of myself as linked to Super Stump, the stump I'd been given, the way I could move the muscles on the bottom and the side; the way it was rounded like the end of a bat; the way I could bend it like a length of flexible tubing and fold it across my right leg in order to sit cross-legged on the floor. That was my body. At this young age, I simply accepted the body as it was, while also feeling anxious to be more mobile, to really move.
Chapter Three
A PIRATE'S TREASURE
I crouched on the edge of the pool platform, preparing to dive. The smell of the pool was deep and dark, not unlike the smell of the room where Communion vestments were kept at church. When I pulled out the small, cloth-covered box full of wine and wafers that Dad used to take Communion to older parishioners—we called them "shut-ins"—who could not make the journey to Sunday services, it felt like encountering some dusty secret; the bottom of each thimble-size wine goblet was tinted red and smelled vaguely of vinegar. These odors and stains suggested that the shadow of something holy remained, some crucial remnant had been left behind for the next user to divine and ingest, linking all the communicants to one another.
On that day of my first dive, there was something secret about the water, although it was clear and emitted the scrubbed-clean smell of bleach and chlorine. I had seen many people dive off this same ledge, and today it was my turn. Without my glasses, the black lane markers were blurry; they looked like slow-moving caterpillars under the rocking motion of the water as people getting in and out of the pool disrupted it. My private swimming teacher, Ann, stood at my side, coaching me.
I tipped back and forth on my right leg until I could balance in a crouched position; the blue flipper on my right foot squeaked against the wet tiles. I looked up and noticed people staring at me in my blue one-piece swimsuit, with my stump hanging stiffly next to my body like a kickstand. I looked back at the water and took a deep breath.
"Hold the stump close to your side," Ann said. "Put your arms over your head. That's right. You've got it."
I wanted to dive to a specific point in the water, to the middle of one of the black caterpillar lines, as if there were something special there for me to find. I steadied myself, hunched over, and finally dived into the water. My head went under first, then the cool water closed over my back, my butt, and finally my right leg and my stump. I felt as slippery and slick as the tiny rainbow trout Dad taught me to throw back into the river after we brought them up, wriggling, from the ends of our fishing rods. I felt absorbed, taken under, and enveloped; the water was a cool hand guiding me forward. My body felt light and remarkably even, its asymmetry balanced and supported by the softness of the water.
When I came up for air, I heard Ann clapping. The applause echoed against the pool walls, and I hoped that all the people who had been staring at me were listening to this praise. I began to swim, first freestyle and then the breaststroke; I had been practicing both moves all summer. The fin on my right
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