Leggy Blonde: A Memoir Read Online Free PDF

father was constantly cursing, and wore flashy Charvet shirts from Paris and a gold chain with three heads, our names engraved on the back. (You can take the guy out of Brooklyn, but . . . well, you know.) We had a Spanish nanny, a French piano teacher, and German relatives visiting constantly. You’d hear three languages in our kitchen any day of the week.
    Joanna’s mom, on the other hand, lived in L.L.Bean turtlenecks, jeans, and sneakers, and wore not a drop of makeup. Her hair was short and natural gray. Joanna’s dad was a maritime lawyer. He had a mustache and wore khaki pants and navy blazers. My family was ostentatious; Joanna’s was understated. I really appreciated the calm at her place, and hung out there a lot.
    One afternoon right after the start of school, Joanna and I were playing catch with Slime when some of it got stuck in my hair. As Joanna’smom washed it out, I stood at the sink on my one leg, hopping around and acting goofy. Joanna and her mom cracked up. It was the first time I’d used my leg to make people laugh. Our friendship was sealed. Joanna and I stayed close throughout high school. I have always felt so grateful to her and her mom for making me feel not just normal, but like myself.
    “It’s here,” said Mom when I got home from school one day in November. The prosthesis had finally arrived. I’d gone back and forth to Long Island for fittings several times, but each time, minor adjustments had to be made before I could take it home.
    I opened the shipping package, peeled back the wrapping, and there it was. A leg in a box. Well, half a leg. It was a glorious sight, much more exciting than getting a new toy at Christmas. The prosthesis itself wasn’t so pretty to look at and certainly didn’t resemble an actual human leg. It was a hard, shiny plastic shell in two pieces in an industrial shade of pink. The two pieces opened and closed and fastened with two Velcro straps, one at the top by the knee and one at the bottom by the ankle. The ankle part was as big as an elephant’s, as it had to fit over my own bulbous ankle/stump. The “foot” attached at the bottom was a pink Styrofoam oval that looked like an enlarged platypus snout. No toes, no foot shape. Just a rubbery chunk that fit into a shoe. Even in a sock, the foot was weird looking.
    The prosthesis wouldn’t fool anyone. Even under long pants, the ankle was noticeably large. But it was better than crutches.
    I sat right down on the floor and took it out of the box to try it on. With a thick wool sock on my stump, I opened up the two pieces and stuck my leg in. The weight-bearing screws were at the knee, so it was tight there. It was pretty tight all over, actually. I closed the straps and pulled my jeans down over it. I stood up. My balance was off. I favored my good leg, and almost stumbled when I put weighton the fake one. With practice, I’d get used to it. I’d pass for normal.
    “You still have to use the crutches with the leg, darling,” said Mom, bursting my bubble.
    “No, I don’t need them.”
    “Oh, yes you do! If you don’t use the crutches, you’ll fall down and hurt yourself!”
    That was her position. I took the opposing view. I begged and battled with my parents about those hateful crutches. Mom and I had never fought before—feeling angry with her was disturbing enough. Fighting was not our family’s style. This was Dad’s second marriage. He’d done enough yelling and screaming the first time around. Dad might’ve been attracted to Mom for her gentle ways and soft voice. They hardly ever disagreed, even during that awful period of our lives.
    A lot of people have asked me over the years how the accident affected my parents’ relationship. That kind of stress could, and often did, destroy marriages. And they certainly faced down powerful emotions.
    Instead of directing their anger at each other, they blamed the Morgans, and sued. I was aware of the lawsuit, but it wasn’t openly discussed