Catharsis

This story contains attitudes towards women and disabilities that some may find upsetting.

If people's lives are marked by anniversaries then today, for Samantha Brown, was an especially poignant one. Today was the anniversary of her accident. Today would be the day when she would reflect on what might have been had she not agreed to go with Steve to the beach. Today, like all other anniversaries since that day, she would try to find some measure of closure. She had tried every year and every year she had failed.

It had all begun so well. The sun was shining, the forecast was for warm weather and no rain. Perfect, so Steve said, for a ride to the beach, a swim and whatever would follow. Samantha agreed, she would agree to anything Steve suggested so much in love was she.

They had met at a mutual friend’s birthday party and Steve had not taken his eyes off her all evening. He later told her he was bewitched by her long blond hair, her beautiful blue eyes and her trim figure. He further told her he wanted nothing more than a life with such beauty on his arm. She, for her part, was overwhelmed by such attention, nothing like that ever having happened to her before. She was always such a timid girl and this was her first experience of intense flattery. For her it was too much and she fell in love. This day was the day she expected him to propose and she was already planning her wedding. But it was not to be.

They rode along the country lanes, she riding pillion, dressed in a yellow summer dress, her feet tight to the foot rests, he in stylish leathers; ‘all good for the image’ he had said. Steve wasn’t a very careful rider. He would ride tight to the corners and lean the bike over as far as he could to experience the adrenaline rush he believed Grand Prix motorcycle riders felt. He imagined himself to be as good as them, something he was keen to prove on every occasion. This time however, he proved himself wrong.

As he went around the fateful corner he failed to notice a patch of oil just at the turn. The tyres couldn’t grip and the bike went into a slide. He had been going into the corner fast, too fast as the police told him afterwards, and the bike pitched over trapping Samantha under the machine, dragging her along the road surface. She came to rest at the side of the road and before she lost consciousness, she saw Steve getting to his feet seemingly unhurt.

She woke up in the hospital and the next few months were spent in a haze of drug induced stupors and operating theatres. Eventually it dawned on her that she had been badly injured, quite how badly they wouldn’t tell her. Her thoughts during this time were centred on just how badly was she hurt and where was Steve? Why hadn’t he come to see her? She was to receive answers to both on one fearful morning.

Steve arrived first and brusquely told her he wasn’t staying and that he wasn’t going to be seen around town with damaged goods, ‘bad for the image’ he said before leaving. Then the doctors came and told her just how badly she had been hurt.

Today, on the anniversary, she sat at her dressing table and looked at herself in the mirror. All those attributes that Steve had so admired, the long blond hair, the blue eyes, the attractive figure were all there but the legs were missing. The doctors had taken both legs below the knee; Steve had called her ‘half a woman’ and ‘cripple’ when he left her. She spent months confined to a wheelchair, hatred for Steve building each day, before being fitted for prosthetic legs. Now she could walk unaided, but preferred to wear trousers or long flowing dresses to cover them from view. She wanted people to see her for what she was rather than for what she was not. She got herself a good job, one that let her keep her disability from everyone. She had considered dancing, hiking, sports of all kinds to be out of her reach but then her physiotherapist had suggested and, after a lot of procrastination, come through with the number of a paraplegic activity club. 

It had taken her a lot to contact them but when she did, they had responded almost instantly. She was picked up and taken to meet the group who from the very first had told her that her life need not be spent staring at the four walls of an office or the four walls of her flat.  

The people she met encouraged her to think positively about her abilities rather than dwell on her disabilities. They encouraged her to start walking and the walking had led to running. Running took her faster and faster and, as her stamina built, further and further. They encouraged her to swim.The initial widths turned to lengths and the speed from slow to very fast. Then someone introduced her to a bicycle, the first one she had been on since the accident, and that opened up a whole new series of possibilities.

From then it was but a small step to combine the three into one activity. Thus, began her involvement with the triathlon and it was here she found her niche. She progressed through the stages from beginner to intermediate and expert. Now she had reached ‘elite’. She obtained the funding that enabled her to give up her job, concentrate on her event and become an Olympian. All the time she was driven by thoughts of Steve, Steve who had hurt her in so many ways. Steve who had taken her legs and called her ‘half a woman’. Steve whom she bitterly hated. Well, she had shown him, and the world, what she, Samantha Brown, was capable of. She was not a cripple, she was an Olympic athlete.  

Her phone rang; it was Andy, her coach.

‘Hi,’ he said, ‘fancy a weekend in Devon a month from now?’

‘What's the catch?’ She knew any phone call from him had to have an ulterior motive.

‘No catch, just taking in the sun and sea air and perhaps the Lapthorne Half.’

Ahh, she knew it. The Lapthorne Half; a half marathon around the town of Lapthorne and environs. He had it in mind to put her in for the event as a training exercise. Still, a weekend by the sea would be nice.

But then she hesitated. The road above Lapthorne was where it happened. How would she cope with going back? Was she ready? Yes, she was, knew she was. It would be the final act of healing and would, she knew, bring much needed closure.

‘All right,’ she replied, I'll do it.’

‘Knew you would. Numbers and details are on their way. See you later.’

They arrived in Lapthorne in the afternoon prior to the event. Andy immediately took her for a drive around the course. It was then that the memories came back. She thought she had buried them but they came bubbling unbidden to the surface. Coming to the bend she suddenly said, ‘Stop the car.’  She got out and stood, taking in the scenery.

The sea was aquamarine blue, the cliffs a Devon red colour and the road where she had lain was just the same as she remembered. Andy came up.

‘This is where it happened,’ she said. She did not need to say more. Andy understood.

Back in Lapthorne they went into the pub that was to be the meeting place for the following day’s athletes. She went in while Andy prepared her bike for a training ride round the course. She sat at the bar and ordered an orange juice, her standard drink when in training. It was then she heard the voice.

It cut through her like a knife, shaking her to the core, she knew it could only belong to one person. Steve was here and airing his opinions just as he always had done.

‘The thing that gets me,’ he was saying to a very appreciative group, ‘is that they’re letting the cripples in. All these para-bloody-plegics or whatever the hell they’re called shouldn’t be allowed. Bad for the image, lowers the tone.’ he paused to take a pull at his pint, not the first, she noted; he hadn't changed. ‘I'll tell you this though,’ he went on, ‘I will never get beaten by any one of them cripples, it ain't possible. None of them are as fit as me.’

Still the same arrogant Steve, she thought, how could she ever think he was the one? Should she introduce herself? No, she had a better way of doing it. She ordered a pint from the bartender and asked for it to be sent over to him. Steve received the pint and looked around for who his benefactor was. He saw her, she smiled and nodded and he nodded back, blowing her a kiss, but there was no recognition there. Well, she thought, that would change tomorrow. As she left, she heard him say, ‘Stone me lads, some bint just bought me a pint, how odd is that. No idea who she is, face is familiar though, someone off the telly? Could be. Reckon I fancy my chances there.’ She left the pub smiling.

 She started at the rear of the race, winning wasn’t important to her today, and moved steadily through the field. The pace was slower than she liked for a training run and she soon found herself alongside the club athletes. It was then that she saw him. He had the laboured style of the untrained club runner, body hunched, shoulders swinging. She kept him in sight, not moving up on him until they came to the bend. Then she moved. She came alongside and held her position for a minute or two. He was labouring and gasping, obviously finding the race hard, well so was she but she was talented, fit and trained. As they approached the bend she spoke.

‘Hello Steve, remember me, from the pub last night? Now think further back. This is the corner where you lost the bike and I lost my legs. You said I was half a woman, a cripple, and yet here I am, alongside you, better than you.  See you later.’ She increased her speed and moved quickly away.

She put in her usual sprint finish and waited for him. Some five minutes later Steve crossed the line, clearly in some distress. He came staggering up to her. He took in her smiling face, her blond hair and her good figure. Then he looked down at her prosthetic ‘racing blades’ and he remembered.

‘Why?’ was all he could gasp.

‘After the crash you called me ‘half a woman’. Today I am the cripple who has beaten you. That makes us even. ’ She walked away.

Andy came up to her.

‘Who was that?’ he asked.

‘He was riding the bike,’ she said.