Stumps

She smiled up at him wanly. "More questions."

He waited: they came in a rush: "How long will I be in here, how bad is the pain going to be when I can feel it, what about prostheses -- two and four don't seem like much to work with and I'm going to walk again. And what did you do with the legs?"

He grinned at her, his whole body relaxing in relief at her aplomb. A rare thing, that. "More answers, Carrie. In order. Three weeks max if you heal well and I bet you will; pain we can control without making you an addict, and the fact you don't have huge phantom pain right now is very encouraging. You're right about the lengths-- the short one isn't enough stump for the current generation of articulated whole-leg prostheses but things are improving all the time and you can certainly learn to use the non-articulated variety meanwhile. And there's good news about where the legs went. Want to hear?"

"Sure... Whack me with all the good news, Doc. God knows it's way overdue. What'd you do with the hamburger?" She tried to grin, almost succeeded.

"You carried an organ-donor card, and the fine print covers situations like this. Our transplant and organ folks tore them apart... got half an acre of fine skin, lots of usable bone and marrow, a bundle of smaller veins and arteries, plenty of good tendons. It'll all get used, believe me -- a lot of folks are going to benefit from your misfortune. But the best is the skin. Two days ago our burn-center put out an emergency call for a small boy with about half his back, his buttocks and the backs of his thighs almost charred, deep third degree burns, all skin gone."

After a moment, he slogged onwards: "He happens to be black, almost identical to your coloring. Burns like that are invariably fatal unless you can get them covered up fast. There was enough of your skin to do the entire burned area all at once, instantaneous full coverage -- which is incredibly rare. They're working on him as we speak, and I've talked to the team twice already. My guess is he'll live, probably recover just fine -- he seems to be a tough little bird. Keep your fingers crossed."

Carries eyes filled again, but didn't quite spill. "Sheesh. Good. I mean, GOOD! Burns scare the living shit out of me, so I guess I really could be in much worse shape, yes-no-maybe? If he lives, can I meet him?"

"I'll make sure you do!" he said, releasing her hand. "Now I know you'll be okay -- anyone who can say seriously, as you just did, that things could be much worse, well, you've got hold of reality. Bravo!"

Carrie sniffed, shrugged, said "Logic is me, I guess. Lots of my acquaintances don't like it when I get this way. But elsewhere madness lies." Nurse reappeared with a tray carrying three syringes. "What are those?" Carrie demanded.

Nurse looked inquiringly at Jameson, who nodded and said "Speak completely freely with this one! Anything she wants to know, just tell her straight out. Understood?"

Nurse nodded and said "That'll be a relief, for a change!" Then to Carrie, "One each; antibiotic, pain killer, and antidepressant. All as needed until further notice."

Carrie looked at Nurse, then at Jameson, and said "Yes, Yes, and not only no but HELL NO. I'm not depressed... woozy and angry and put-upon maybe, plus scared and other things as well, but not depressed. At least, not yet, with all this adrenalin. If I want any of that crap I'll let you know. And since I'm sane and conscious and rational, I hereby order you both not to even TRY to slip any of that stuff into my body. Okay? You think I need it, we discuss it, and I have the final say."

Jameson looked at her with something approaching affection, said "Understood, Carrie aka She Who Must Be Obeyed! You'll do just fine. Wish more of my soldiers had handled it like you. Get some sleep. You've got a very busy couple of weeks ahead of you. Like it or not, we're going to give you 24 hours of rest and then start rehab. And by the way, your friend Gail who ran with you in today's race, says to tell you she's used your hidden key to get into your place, and that she'll stay there until you get home, however long it may be. She'll take care of the cat and plants and aquarium. You are to call her any time, day or night. She'll be here camped on our doorstep when visiting hours start tomorrow."

He paused: "She saw the whole thing, you know -- she was just two cars behind you and helped the EMT get you out. Did as told, didn't panic or freak, even though she knew your legs were gone as soon as they got you on the stretcher. Helped the EMT with tourniquets. Rode here with you in the medevac chopper despite being scared shitless of heights. Didn't leave until I ordered her to go home and come back tomorrow. Good friend, that one. Keep her. And I'm sorry about George. See you in the A.M."

Carrie didn't let loose of her logical switch again until midnight: she waited until Nurse was gone, then let herself go, and was down to mere snuffling when Nurse returned. During that first night, through a mild narcotic haze, she pondered, never allowing herself to go maudlin, being her best analytical self. By three she had her plans outlined -- not in detail, but firm. She was going to beat this thing, whatever the hell that meant! She slept surprisingly well once the analysis and decision were on mental record.

Next morning, as promised, Gail was bedside when Carrie awoke. Gail had been briefed by the nursing staff. First thing she did was hand over Carrie's laptop, plugged it in. "Knowing you, I figured you'd want this thing instantly."

Carrie nodded, said "Thanks... good call. I have a lot of research to do. Supposedly they have WiFi."

They chatted, plans were made -- visiting, care of apartment, contacting Carrie's employer. Then, just before Gail had to leave, Carrie asked a favor -- would Gail find a mirror, hold it for her -- she really wanted, needed, to actually see her lower body. Nurse overheard, expressed strong disapproval which Carrie overruled. The mirror appeared. Carrie remained reasonably impassive as she studied the bandage-swathed remnants. After some time she finally said "Well, hell. So much for my love-life, I guess." A pair of tears broke loose: nothing more.

Gail had no idea what to say, but Nurse spoke up with a quiet vehemence that got their attention. "Now you just quit that sort of moping, Carrie. Quit it now! That's utter nonsense! I've been working amputees for thirty-plus years -- there are plenty of men who will find you just as attractive now as before... sure, there are some amputation-fetishists and you'll be able to tell them instantly -- you don't want their attentions, not now, not ever. But any man worth a damn, worth making part of YOUR life, won't care. And there are lots of them out there -- you're just as pretty as ever, you won't lack for male attention. Quite the contrary, oddly enough. Trust me, please? This I do know!"

A long pause. "I know first-hand. I got into this business because my husband lost a leg right after we got married. It's just another personal awkwardness to deal with, not some demon. Trust me!"

When Gail left, Carrie threw herself into the internet. Next afternoon, although she hadn't yet sat up on her own, three wheelchair sales-reps arrived, almost together. Nurse tsk-tsked but allowed the mob in. The racing-chair rep arrived in his product -- the other two wheels were brought, incongruously she thought, by walkers -- truly poor sales tactics! Carrie told the reps that power-driven chairs were off the table at least for now, ordered trial-time on one lightweight racer and two heavier "civilian" versions.

The racer-rep, a youngish man, educated, pleasant, and articulate, had more of a physical problem than Carrie, she had to admit. His legs were shriveled and useless from a childhood spinal injury -- she had movable stumps that would -- once healed -- lend themselves to at least some forms of prostheses.

Extended discussions with the racer gave substance to her plan -- she was going to run --that is, "wheel"- a marathon. ASAP. And otherwise demand of herself as nearly normal an existence as possible. But the focus was going to be a marathon.

The racer-rep waxed enthusiastic but cautious, having done several marathons himself. He gave her personal-experience advice: she paid close attention. She had no significant upper body mass, would have to fix that, weight training and LOTS of miles in a chair -- it would be more work and take more time than she could imagine, but the eventual thrill of blasting down the road in front of, and gaining on, world-class runners was the damnedest adrenaline rush, a special experience forever denied to non-wheels. A karmic balancer.

She believed him.

Day two, as promised, the PT began. She forced herself to be attentive, enthusiastic, uncomplaining, and a serious overachiever. And she healed, as Jameson had predicted, spectacularly well and fast -- even the drain tubes came out in 5 days, near-record time. Experimentation produced a drug cocktail that killed most of the pain but left her reasonably clear-headed.

Day six brought an insurance agent with a check for $250,000; an 'initial deposit on the eventual settlement.' The trucking company and its insurer had researched her already, knew they were on the hook deeply -- a pretty, intelligent, professional young black woman in this condition because of their mechanical negligence. NO, he said, there would be no in-court wrangling over fault, just some careful thought about what it might take to 'make her whole again'. She snorted at the term, he went red. The attitude in a nutshell -- "Shit, man, just pay the lady -- and be the Good Guy by starting immediately. Decide later on a final sum total."

She threw herself into PT -- went at the equipment with a vengeance, and on day ten she managed to get herself out of bed and into the chair -- and back again -- entirely unaided, using a trapeze-bar hung from the ceiling. Nurse watched, was impressed. Outside of the PT, she contemplated and prepared for the future, mostly doing internet shopping and research.

Carrie was out of the hospital in two weeks, with entry-level calluses on her hands from wheeling (often far too fast) through the corridors, and her shoulders were giving gentle hints of eventually mimicking those of a competitive butterfly-stroke swimmer. When she was discharged, Gail and a specialty-motors fellow met her with the new van, outfitted for a wheel to operate -- hydraulic ramp and door, special controls, the works -- and (pure bureaucratic idiocy!) NO special training or license required by the State! Any old driver's license would do! Carrie got the needed instructions, and for practice drove the beast around the lot for ten minutes, then accepted it and set off home quite confidently.

Her apartment was going to be a problem -- third floor, tiny elevator, lousy layout for wheels. One day of that and she called the insurance people -- she would need their guarantee of another $500k so that she could go new-apartment shopping at once. She got no argument -- negotiations weren't complete, but the final settlement would be well into the several millions, they had no problems advancing against it.

She found a condo project not far away, still in the "selling air" stage. A long confab with the architect and builder, discussing worst-case survival scenarios. She wasn't afraid to pay, and got what she decided upon, including special modifications and facilities. Ground floor with dead-level entry, special parking arrangements, all doors pocket-style in special steel frames to be earthquake-proof. Sprinkler system. Hallway wide enough for two chairs side-by-side. No bumps on the floor anywhere. Bedroom to be double-raftered and then ceiled and walled in ¾ inch plywood so she could string up ropes and such anywhere she chose. All doorknobs and handles low enough for her to reach easily while lying on the floor. Oddly-shaped floor molding that would give a good finger-grip for dragging one's self along the floor. Wide entryway with room off to the side for three parked chairs, out of traffic. Utilities all normal-height rather than specialties for wheels, since she fully intended to stomp about the place on artificial legs sometime in the reasonably foreseeable future, and meanwhile a few inches of pillow in her chair would raise her adequately.

For the six months the condo was a-building she struggled with the old apartment --feeling that doing so was probably good for her, a constant training ground for the real world that -so she discovered on wheel-day one- failed so utterly to accommodate wheels.

Meanwhile, she flung herself back into work, politely refused most co-workers' condolences and invitations. And developed an all-consuming training program that gave her an interesting reputation at the gym -- a strikingly pretty woman utterly consumed by her bodily goals, a loner without even a steady gym companion male or female, apparently un-social if not anti-, and without an emotional compadre of any sort.

The reputation was accurate -- she shut herself off from male companionship, buried herself in work plus these activities to the utter exclusion of things emotional or sexual, despite her strong pre-accident involvements in both.

In fact, she was excruciatingly well aware of her estrangement from such things, and in her bouts of self-analysis acknowledged a terror at the prospect of having to deal with her new condition in those contexts... hence she opted out of even trying. Her non-work world was the impersonal weights and machines at the gym, and going 'round the local high-school track in her wheel, miles and miles, rain or shine.

The condo wasn't quite done when she'd entered that first race, learnt its lessons. After the run she'd thanked Alpha and Beta profusely. They had chattered disarmingly frankly about her injuries and the consequences, and they had helped slog her chair through the deeply muddy parking lot to her van. She gave them a short demo ride (the men eventually --not immediately!- christened it the Stump-Mobile). And they'd arranged to meet again at another 10k two weeks later. That one she had handled much more satisfactorily. At it, the men hugged her at the start and finish, and again escorted her across the finish line - the beginnings of a tradition.

Having moved into her new digs, she briefly contemplated having a housewarming, then rejected it as emotionally unworkable -- she didn't need to expose herself to multiple happy-couples, or to the possibility of rejection by A&B for whatever reason once they saw her outside of the racing milieu. More sensible to just hold her course, use that time for emergency drills such as pulling herself about in the bedroom using the half-dozen strategically place knotted ropes, and practicing 'worst-case' escapes, like "EARTHQUAKE!" -- in which she was knocked out of bed and onto the floor on the far side of the bed from her chair. In the dark. Get to the chair, use the ropes to get into the seat, then GET OUT! She practiced until she was very good at it. Paranoia, perhaps, but recheck -- nothing on the walls, no shelved materials, no art, that could fall into her escape path. Nothing.

Over the next couple of years fifteen or twenty races ensued, including a few half-marathons, nice in themselves but always seen by Carrie as merely training for the real event. A&B were always present, solicitous, helpful, open and warm and friendly in a way she encountered almost nowhere else.

Increasing compliments on her developing upper body -- she was strongly -- and beautifully -- muscled now, up perhaps twelve pounds of pure muscle in her torso and arms, and all of it in prime condition. Even an occasional oblique compliment from The Twins on the changes in her chest -- she'd always been proud of her boobs, the added muscle certainly enhanced their firmness, gave an illusion of an extra cup-size, but she knew the reality -- two inches of added chest yes, but with cup size holding steady. Such comments were rare, the twins understanding intuitively that they were on the edge acceptability, but that they were also vitally-needed ego-strokes. Sparingly applied, they were welcomed with minor embarrassment and obvious appreciation.

Chapter 3: Denouement

So here it was, marathon day at last. All participants had arrived early at the finish line in the stadium, parked, been bussed en-masse to the start several miles away, a huge exercise in public transportation.

Announcement -- loud! -- "Wheels ONLY, get in place NOW please, starting gun WHEELS ONLY in two minutes." She stripped off the black plastic trash-bag that made a perfect disposable warmup shirt, stuffed it into a roadside box labeled "recycle only". She had studied the weather predictions, opted for maximum ventilation, and was sans bra. Who needed a sport-bra anyhow, if there were no vertical accelerations to counteract? In the dawn cool her nipples stood up rigidly erect and obvious under the racing singlet.

The Twins openly ogled her boobs for a second: Alpha muttered "Well, lookie who's here!" while Beta shook his head approvingly and said with a near giggle "Stumps, after all these races, it's about time -- dammit -- that you brought the girls out to play!" Before she could react the two men bent down together, hugged her one final time, stood up, grinned at her, said "See you at the finish! We'll meet you near mile 25 if we can. You look GREAT! Love your little friends! Remember, don't go out too fast!"

BANG! Starting gun, then twenty seconds before she could roll -- the rest of the wheel-pack had to move first. The twenty counted on total time, too. Things were much worse for the runners -- the back of the pack wouldn't even be able to walk for two or three minutes after their gun, probably five minutes to get to real running-room. She set off, pacing herself carefully, but even so she passed more than a dozen wheels before the runners' gun went off far behind them.

Rolling smoothly on the first, nicely level, mile, she felt good, kept checking her speedometer -- she COULD go faster -- much! -- but doing so would destroy her long before race's end.

Moderation, no heroics!

Mile three, the front-running professional speed-demons steamed past in a tight knot, silent, intense, efficient. A pause in the flow-by and then came the long surge of fast, really good amateurs, less intense, openly friendly, throwing occasional words of encouragement at her. Mile five and The Twins caught up, ran beside her for a few seconds, with Alpha saying again how strong she looked, and that they would come back upstream and meet her at mile 25 or so - if they didn't drop dead at the finish. Then they were gone, she was on her own, no coach, no companion.

Onwards she rolled, sweating, sucking water from her stash -- six level miles, then the long, 300 vertical foot downhill that would have to be made up just before the end, no overall net change of altitude permitted in a sanctioned run like this. She worried about that hill-- as a wheel she'd been unable to go over the course in the detail possible for runners, but she HAD driven it repeatedly, trying to be hyper-sensitive to road conditions and slopes.

So far, so good. Right turn, a slight uphill through orange groves, past teenage junior and senior highschool girl cheerleaders. Watching them jump about on their lovely legs gave her a momentary envious gut-clench, but it passed -- she was preoccupied. Out into the sun, hard left, and BINGO, face to face with an all-MALE cheerleading squad from Chippendale's, working the crowd beside a big sign reading "Something for the Ladies!" -- five gorgeous hunks in running shoes, breast-cancer pink jockstraps and little masquerade-ball eye-masks, nothing else, bumping and grinding and handing out drinks as needed. She grinned at them, waved, wondered if they were straight or gay, declined the water, and kept on.