while the warm plaster cooled. I leaned back against the table, and Dad and I stared down at the mummified stump, not saying a word. We listened to Schmidt bellowing the words to a country song in the other room. The plaster finally set, and the cast was stiff enough to remove.
"A-ha!" Schmidt exclaimed as he twisted the cast off gently. It resembled a snakeskin newly shed. Using a pencil, Schmidt made several marks on the outside of the mold. "This is the house for the residual limb," he said, tapping it with his index finger. He looked up at me. "Like a little house."
I didn't know what residual meant, but I understood that my stump would live in that house made of plaster and that's how I would walk. It was another type of brick house, but unlike the other one that had imprisoned me, this one, made of wood and metal, would set me free. The mold reminded me of a gingerbread house, the way you'd put the wet pieces of cake together and wait for them to dry into something solid, something real, something that could be called by name.
"Now we can make the leg," Schmidt said.
"Using that as a model?" Dad asked, clarifying.
"Yes, for the socket." Schmidt looked at me. "The little house. Now, the metal hinges at the sides of the socket will mimic the motion of a knee." He moved his hand back and forth through the air. "It's a simple motion, simple system." He stood up and opened and shut the door of the exam room with his plaster-covered hands, leaving two white handprints on the door. "The knee is like a hinge," he said. "Just like a door hinge."
After Schmidt left the room, Dad pushed the door back and forth. "That makes sense," he said.
While we were making another appointment for the next week in the "reception area," which was a tiny front room with a smelly old couch, a few chairs, and a pile of outdated Time magazines stacked on a dusty table, the bell on the door rang. For a few moments, the open door let the sounds of traffic rush in. As Schmidt flipped through the waterlogged appointment book, I turned around and saw a man who was very tall and looked older than Dad, but not as old as Schmidt. His dark, wavy hair was streaked with silver, and his leathery skin made him look like the ranchers who attended Dad's church. He wore khaki shorts; his right leg was shiny and wooden with bright metal hinges where a normal person's knee would be. When he walked, his foot swung out to the side. It was an odd, awkward movement, as though the fake leg might fly off his body at any moment. The leg made noises like a squeaky door as the man came closer. Was I going to look and sound like that when I walked?
I looked up at Dad and saw that all the color had drained from his face. His eyes looked wide behind his glasses; one of the lenses was smudged with a bit of white plaster. The hinges of the man's leg made a scraping sound as he crouched in front of me. I thought he looked like a robot, and not a very modern one. I knew it was rude to stare, so I looked at his face, my mouth partly open. His face and neck were sweating. "High-five, little lady," he said, and held out his tanned, perfect hand. When he smiled his teeth were white and even. I slapped his warm hand and giggled.
"Good luck!" he called to us as we left the building.
Driving back from Denver to Laramie, a three-hour drive, I asked Dad, "What did Schmidt mean by a good one?"
"He meant that your stump is healthy and looks strong."
"Really?"
"Yes. It all healed perfectly."
Healthy and strong was good. I felt proud, as if I had had something to do with how well I had healed. It meant that I wouldn't walk like that nice man I'd met on the way out of the office. I felt better, although I hadn't realized until that moment how unsettled I'd felt.
"What does 'residull' mean?"
"You mean 'residual'?" Dad was silent for a moment. "It means what's left after something is taken, goes away. What's left over."
"Like leftovers?"
"I guess so."
Residual. What's left when
"A-ha!" Schmidt exclaimed as he twisted the cast off gently. It resembled a snakeskin newly shed. Using a pencil, Schmidt made several marks on the outside of the mold. "This is the house for the residual limb," he said, tapping it with his index finger. He looked up at me. "Like a little house."
I didn't know what residual meant, but I understood that my stump would live in that house made of plaster and that's how I would walk. It was another type of brick house, but unlike the other one that had imprisoned me, this one, made of wood and metal, would set me free. The mold reminded me of a gingerbread house, the way you'd put the wet pieces of cake together and wait for them to dry into something solid, something real, something that could be called by name.
"Now we can make the leg," Schmidt said.
"Using that as a model?" Dad asked, clarifying.
"Yes, for the socket." Schmidt looked at me. "The little house. Now, the metal hinges at the sides of the socket will mimic the motion of a knee." He moved his hand back and forth through the air. "It's a simple motion, simple system." He stood up and opened and shut the door of the exam room with his plaster-covered hands, leaving two white handprints on the door. "The knee is like a hinge," he said. "Just like a door hinge."
After Schmidt left the room, Dad pushed the door back and forth. "That makes sense," he said.
While we were making another appointment for the next week in the "reception area," which was a tiny front room with a smelly old couch, a few chairs, and a pile of outdated Time magazines stacked on a dusty table, the bell on the door rang. For a few moments, the open door let the sounds of traffic rush in. As Schmidt flipped through the waterlogged appointment book, I turned around and saw a man who was very tall and looked older than Dad, but not as old as Schmidt. His dark, wavy hair was streaked with silver, and his leathery skin made him look like the ranchers who attended Dad's church. He wore khaki shorts; his right leg was shiny and wooden with bright metal hinges where a normal person's knee would be. When he walked, his foot swung out to the side. It was an odd, awkward movement, as though the fake leg might fly off his body at any moment. The leg made noises like a squeaky door as the man came closer. Was I going to look and sound like that when I walked?
I looked up at Dad and saw that all the color had drained from his face. His eyes looked wide behind his glasses; one of the lenses was smudged with a bit of white plaster. The hinges of the man's leg made a scraping sound as he crouched in front of me. I thought he looked like a robot, and not a very modern one. I knew it was rude to stare, so I looked at his face, my mouth partly open. His face and neck were sweating. "High-five, little lady," he said, and held out his tanned, perfect hand. When he smiled his teeth were white and even. I slapped his warm hand and giggled.
"Good luck!" he called to us as we left the building.
Driving back from Denver to Laramie, a three-hour drive, I asked Dad, "What did Schmidt mean by a good one?"
"He meant that your stump is healthy and looks strong."
"Really?"
"Yes. It all healed perfectly."
Healthy and strong was good. I felt proud, as if I had had something to do with how well I had healed. It meant that I wouldn't walk like that nice man I'd met on the way out of the office. I felt better, although I hadn't realized until that moment how unsettled I'd felt.
"What does 'residull' mean?"
"You mean 'residual'?" Dad was silent for a moment. "It means what's left after something is taken, goes away. What's left over."
"Like leftovers?"
"I guess so."
Residual. What's left when
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