Free Slave to the Rhythm by Jane Harvey-Berrick Page A

the meds to work and the piercing pain to ebb.
    Some days I only needed a walking cane, moving slowly like an old lady, grimacing as I tried—and failed—to pull my shoulders back from the safety of a hunched position.
    But other days—most days, in fact—I was just like every other 29 year old, albeit one who wore comfortable shoes and took her meds with an almost religious fervor.
    Sitting at my desk, at a table in a restaurant, I could feel normal.
    I’d planned to dance with Vanessa and Jo wearing my sneakers, the ones with the special gel insoles. High-heeled pumps had no place in my world most of the time, but this weekend, I’d be able to wear them again.
    I glanced at my Louboutins, discarded under the bedroom chair, and smiled, their irreverent red soles flirting with me. I couldn’t walk, but I could show off my fabulous shoes.
    The irony was not lost on me.
    There are certain indignities associated with disability, I thought bitterly. Apart from the doors you can’t reach, or the ones that are too heavy to open from a sitting position, apart from the shops you can’t enter or move around if you do enter, apart from the ramps that are too steep or badly positioned, apart from the pitying glances, or the irritated looks from people who stumble over and around you, apart from the well-meaning but ill-informed people who talk to whoever is with you but not to you, apart from all of that, there is the horror of the disabled toilet.
    Distant, dirty and dire.
    There are the bathrooms that defy belief: with steps, with too-steep ramps, with doors that can’t be opened from a chair, with no handrails, or handrails that are too high, or . . . I could go on, but do you care?
    I was red in the face and sweating hard by the time I reached my gate at O’Hare. My arm muscles burned from the exercise, and my neck and back ached. My thighs trembled from the tension of trying to keep my small suitcase balanced on my knees. I was close to admitting that Collin was right—but that meant admitting defeat.
    A stubborn streak told me it would all be worth it—Las Vegas would be amazing.
    “Are you traveling alone, ma’am?”
    The gate stewardess didn’t seem unduly concerned, although a little surprised by my lone status.
    “Yes,” I smiled. “I left my boyfriend at home. It’s a girls-only weekend.”
    The steward returned my smile politely.
    “I’ll arrange your pre-boarding now, ma’am.”
    While she picked up her phone to make the arrangements, my good mood took a dive. I very much doubted that I still had a boyfriend to come home to. Collin had been so angry—angrier than I’d seen him in a long time. But what had fueled that anger, I wondered. Why had he been so incensed that I traveled alone? Did he want me to become dependent on him? Couldn’t he be happy for me that I wasn’t giving up? Use it or lose it: isn’t that something to be proud of?
    I shook my head. Maybe I was being selfish by making Collin worry. But honestly, what was going to happen in a resort where a credit card could solve every problem?
    No. I’d been right to fight him on this. I was already too reliant on other people. I needed this weekend. The harder it was to get there, the more important it became.
    Hoping it would be a peace offering, I sent a selfie of me by the gate and typed out a short message to Collin.
    Nearly there. Love you .
    My finger hovered over the ‘send’ button. I reread the message twice, then deleted the last two words and sent it.
    It felt like a marathon to get this far, but despite my anxiety—or maybe because of my incessant planning—the airline hadn’t dropped the ball. Three hours later, I was sitting in a window seat watching O’Hare shrink as the plane gathered height, the ugly tangle of concrete buildings and tarmac runways giving way to misty clouds pressing against the Perspex.
    Four hours and two movies later, the plane descended through the bank of cloud and the pale baked Nevada