Free Poster Child by Emily Rapp Page B

shot into action, as was her way. She roamed the pool area and the locker rooms until she tracked down the thief and shook him down. Carrying it carefully in her arms, her steps sure and steady, Sarah returned the leg to me.
    I frantically wiped down the socket and the hinges with my beach towel, as if to remove the mark that this foreign handler—this thief—had left on a part of my body. "He does that again," Sarah promised, "and I'll make his nose bleed." I nodded, thankful and vindicated. We never had problems at the pool again, although one of my cousins would always work on her tan in order to stand watch over the leg where it leaned against a plastic pool chair, completely covered by a beach towel. When I was ready to get out, the wrapped prosthesis was brought like an offering to the edge of the pool. I dried the stump as quickly as I could and slipped on the sock, my hands sometimes shaking. I didn't like strangers staring at my body, at my deformity, although I was perfectly comfortable having my leg off around friends and family. I shoved the stump into the sun-warmed socket, buckled the strap, and tied the towel around my waist to cover my lower half. Immediately I felt better, like any another girl having just finished her swim.
    At slumber parties, I clung to the leg inside my sleeping bag with both arms wrapped around it as if it were a favorite stuffed animal, a beloved pet, or, much later, a lover; as an adult, on overnight train trips, I zipped it into my coat and used it as an uncomfortable but functional headrest, wrapping both my arms around it to hold it firmly in place. If anyone tried to take my leg—as a joke, as a way of being cruel—he or she would have to take me with it.
    Years later, when I began doing research into the history of prosthetics, one of the first images I came across was that of Captain Hook; one of the oldest images of a disabled person, this villain gestures with his hook-hand, his evil eyes narrowed in mischief. How, I wondered, had the idea of being a pirate ever comforted me?
    Soon after, I had a vivid dream. I was on a pirate ship, being forced to walk the plank in my first wooden leg, with my blue flipper on my right foot; neither fit me properly, because in the dream I inhabit my adult body. Schmidt was there, too. He stood on deck with a heavy-looking wooden treasure chest balanced in his arms, telling me to come back, that it was dangerous, that he had a special gift for me that he couldn't hold on to much longer, but I hobbled on, dragging my left leg and then the right one in its ill-fitting flipper, unable to stop myself, wanting to feel the freedom of diving in the water. At the very end of the plank, I turned around and held out my hands for help, but it was too late; the heel of the SACH foot had gone over the edge of the plank without my realizing it, and I fell backward. Once in the water, the prosthesis dragged me down, fell off, and disappeared. The flipper came off, too, and I could not kick hard enough with my right foot to move anywhere. I was trapped underwater as the contents of the treasure chest, thrown overboard, emptied around me. Suddenly coins were everywhere; they shot into the water and whizzed past my face. I grabbed at them, and they made a dull clink against my fingertips. As I failed to capture a single one, the coins floated down and away, entirely useless and inaccessible to me, but still holding the promise of riches, gleaming and glittering gold.

Chapter Four
     
    POSTER CHILD
     
    In 1980,1 was chosen as the March of Dimes poster child for the Medicine Bow chapter of Albany County, Wyoming. Reporters from the Laramie Boomerang took pictures of me playing ball, climbing a rope, and doing jumping jacks in gym class. Photos were snapped as I strolled around in public parks, fed ducks, and sat beneath evergreen trees. Reporters were invited to document my participation in "Jump Rope for Life," a program to raise heart health awareness that