Since being poisoned, Sara felt as if she were trapped in a cadaver. And perhaps she was, her spirit evicted from the Other Side and forced to reoccupy this veritable corpse.
All her mother told her was that she had to go back. Not so much as a hint why. Or that she'd be stuck like this. At least she slept a lot, to pass the time. Whether or not time was in her favor was another story.
She had but one hope to ever be normal again.
But, as with life in general, there were no guarantees.
Her shoulders drooped as she turned her attention to her window where tiny vehicles streamed along Boulder's Diagonal Highway a half-mile away. A peaceful, hypnotic scene she'd contemplated from her second-story bedroom much of her life.
Just not from a wheelchair.
Nor filtered through the recently acquired blur, as if viewing the world through a dirty window.
Was she losing her sight, too?
Panic flashed, forcing her to dismiss the terrifying thought and refocus on the steady flow of anonymous traffic. Each driver pursuing their own destination amid troubles, triumphs, and tragedies. Yet, from this perspective, just another car.
With her no more than just another house.
The doctor's words as she left the hospital that she was lucky to be alive didn't help. Four months ago she was happily married to the love of her life. Now she was a paraplegic widow.
What was lucky about that?
Movement on the sidewalk snagged her attention. A brightly attired female jogger pranced past the front of the house. Ear-buds in place, her blissful expression radiated the euphoric blast of a runner's high.
Her heart sank. Another feeling once familiar that would forever be archived as distant memory. Now her body knew nothing but pain. Except her legs which, for all intents and purposes, no longer existed.
How much of life had evaporated? Deprived of those little things that made it worth living:
Carefree hikes.
Skiing with Bryan.
De-stressing with a quick run.
Shopping with Connie.
Enjoying a tasty meal without funky overtones.
How many more simple pleasures once taken for granted, gone forever?
Without them, what was left to live for?
When her mother lost her ability to walk, crippled by Lou Gehrig’s disease, the thought of ever being in a similar situation never crossed her mind.
An ironic, but oddly enough, positive result of her mother's disabilities was that they'd necessitated upgrading the house years before. Her father designed and fabricated a lift mechanism from the master bedroom's walk-in closet to the laundry room below, so her mother wouldn’t be trapped upstairs.
After over a decade, her wheelchair was retrieved from the attic.
Did sitting in the same wheeled prison every waking moment make it easier?
Or worse?
Her mom lived an active life, her favorite horseback riding. She played tennis and golf. Taught Sara to ski when she was a mere toddler. She learned to walk at ten months, mobility ever since never questioned.
She smiled, remembering. That purple snowsuit with the embroidered bunny on back. Was it memory? Or was she too young to remember? More likely it was home videos featuring her fearless escapades skimming down Vail's beginner slope.
Even when she broke her ankle hiking, she had a walking cast. Never before was the simple task impossible.
Why did Mom tell me I had to come back? Why? Some masochistic directive to understand what she went through?
She cringed at the undeserved accusation.
Ellen Montgomery didn’t have a mean bone in her body. Like everything else she did, it was with love.
Even though as a child or teen it wasn’t apparent at the time.
Things she didn't understand at ten she did at sixteen. Thirty-three certainly qualified as an adult. No doubt there were still things she wouldn’t understand until she got even older.
Years of living couldn’t be taught in a classroom.
Why Charlie’s culture wisely respected their elders.
She straightened her back, hopeful he and White Wolf would arrive soon. Her last chance, one her sanity clung to. Medicine men were no strangers to miracles.
Would she be one of them?
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