Jan Dreams of Feet JENNIFER FERGESEN The feet were in her bed again. One stuck out the bottom edge of the blanket and stood silhouetted, long and bony, against the stripes of light between the blinds. She tore back the covers and flipped on the switch so forcefully her hand smarted; a black bruise would spread by morning. The feet remained for half a blink and then she was alone. Before she could sort out the dark, cotton-muffled images of her dream, a bolt of pain shot through her left ankle. She clawed for the orange bottle on the night table and poured out her two allowed pills. She had taken to crushing them in her teeth to hasten the effect. The bitterness was paralyzing, but relief followed. Jan shook the bottle. The rattle was disconcertingly hollow; just two doses left. She would have to get a refill tomorrow. Today, she thought, as the blue dawn light slipped through the blinds. The drugstore, five miles from her apartment, was the furthest she had ventured in two weeks. She 54
thanked the fates for taking only her left ankle as she maneuvered her right foot from gas to brake. Her right foot had hung suspended in the air, leg bent like a majorette midmarch, while her left skidded down the smooth granite somewhere in the Smokies. She hadn’t even made it out of the Carolinas. So much for taking the Appalachian Trail all the way to Maine. So much for the sabbatical the university had so reluctantly allowed her. There was nothing left to do but sit still and wait. She was tired of travel. Ben never tired of talking about it, from their first date four years ago until the day he left. Jan had written herself into his daydreams, seen them sharing strips of jamon in Barcelona, racing each other up Alpine trails lined with edelweiss. In their last year, she added a detail: a dark-haired child, running full speed ahead of them on chubby legs. In the drugstore, she allowed herself to be comforted by the quiet aisles. She liked how easy it was to