Paati nods. Her nod says, "You can do it."

I plant my crutches on the ground, propel my body upward.

My leg reaches the first step.

Then, my crutches join me.

Pa says, "Don't worry. I'm behind you."

"How is Veda?" Mrs. Subramaniam shouts.

I want to yell, Ask me. The accident didn't damage my ears.

Her shout brings other neighbors out.

They crowd on the landings or lean out their doorways, watching me labor up the steps of our shared staircase.

They make me feel as if I'm the star attraction at a freak show.

GECKOS,.

GHOST CRABS,.

and REGENERATION

Lumbering at last into the bedroom I share with Paati, I collapse on my bed.

A gecko stares at me, its large eyes almost popping out of its sockets.

Waving its yellow-brown tail from side to side like an admonishing finger, it chirps, "Th-th-th."

I shake a crutch at the gecko. "Shut up!

I'm going to dance again!"

Clucking with fear, it turns tail and scurries toward the open window.

Before racing onto the branch of the pipul tree that brushes against the windowpane, the gecko drops its tail on the sill.

Feeling slightly sick, I watch the dismembered part seesawing up and down-as if alive- while the tailless gecko disappears up the tree.

Once, at the beach, when I was a child, Ma pointed at tiny ghost crabs scuttling along the seash.o.r.e and said, "If one leg is bitten off by a predator, crabs can regenerate that lost leg."

Pa added, "Geckos can regrow their tails."

I thought-how magical, how wonderful.

Paati comes in and places my Shiva statue on the table between our two beds.

I want to throw it out of the window at the gecko that's chirping loudly as if to brag about powers it has and I lack.

SOUNDS.

of

LAUGHTER.

Chandra drops in, apologizing for having been away so long. "I was busy."

"Busy doing what?" I demand.

She sighs. "Okay. I wasn't busy. It's just I don't know if it helps when I visit."

"I don't know either."

"I feel I should come."

"Coming to see me on my sick bed is your duty?"

"So what if it's a duty?" Chandra shakes her head. "Don't friends have a duty to each other? Don't you see I want to help?"

"I hate seeing you walk," I say.

It's a relief to finally confess that.

And relief to hear Chandra snap, "Fine. Sit and stew in your self-pity."

But then, softening her tone, she goes on, "Sorry. I understand how you feel."

"You can't understand, Chandra."

"True. I guess I can't imagine being in your shoes."

I snort with laughter. "You mean my one shoe?"

Chandra looks frightened.

I giggle and tell her, "You look as scared as that night Paati told us a ghost story and you had to run to the bathroom three times."

"Five times," Chandra corrects.

A mist-thin giggle escapes her.

My ribs must be healing.

Laughing doesn't hurt.

That realization sends me into another peal of laughter.

Our laughter thickens into a fog filling the room.

It's a little forced, a little hysterical, but it's good to feel connected.

DRESSING.

I lock the door to my room.

Balancing on my crutches, I open my dresser.

Inside, neatly folded, sit my school uniforms: Western-style blue collared shirts to go with gray skirts or embroidered cotton kurti tops with loose salwar trousers.

Can't dress or undress standing, so I sit on the bed, wriggle into salwar trousers, hop on my crutches and force myself to look at something I've avoided so far: my full-length reflection in the long mirror on our wall.

A one-legged girl stares back.

She isn't me! a voice screams in my head.

She isn't me!

Letting my crutches clatter to the floor, I fall back onto my bed.

Not me!

I punch my pillow.

Not me!

Punch. Punch. Punch.

Not me!

A new voice whispers, Be grateful you can still stand.

On crutches I face my mirror-self.

Dare to stare lower down.

One trouser leg flaps emptily below my bandaged limb.

I try on my long school skirt and my bandaged limb juts out below the hem.

I whip my skirt off. Crush it. Fling it on the floor.

Toss all my school uniforms on the ground.

In an open drawer, I see the blue batik skirt Chandra and I bought before my accident.

I brush my cheek against it. The skirt still smells new.

Haven't worn it once.

My tears soak into the silky fabric.

Paati knocks.

Trying not to think how good the skirt would have looked on me, I shove it in the bottom drawer.

Pile my other suddenly too-short skirts and dresses on top.