wouldn't bunch up and look like loose, flabby skin. I grabbed a long cotton dress from the closet and pulled it over my head. I put my sandals back on. Fully reassembled, I left the room and joined the others who were headed down the stairs to dinner. I strolled away into the world of my evening, laughing.
Chapter One
MISS AMERICA
Everyone has predictions about her future when a baby girl is born, and my parents were no different.
A few hours after my birth on July 12, 1974, after I had been cleaned of blood and swaddled in a pink blanket, two nurses brought me in to see Mom and Dad. My mother, a nurse herself, found it odd that two nurses accompanied me instead of one, which was the standard arrangement, but she was preoccupied with my red hair, my hands, my small ears.
"Look at her long fingers," she said. Throughout the arduous seventeen-hour labor and delivery, my father had been present as Mom's Lamaze breathing coach; he was the first to tell her that I had her dad's red hair, a feature she'd hoped I would inherit.
"A pianist," Dad said, lifting my new hand with his own. "An orchestra conductor." As with most newborns, my legs were still tucked up into my chest, having not yet broken entirely free of the fetal position.
On this midsummer morning, warm light spilled into the room of the maternity ward at St. Francis Hospital in Grand Island, Nebraska. I was healthy, and everything looked fine. Before Dad left to pick up my grandmother at the airport and bring her to the hospital to meet me, he called the leader of his congregation's prayer chain to update the parishioners, who had been praying since Mom's water broke: "It's a girl with dainty hands; she has red hair just like Mary wanted. Weighed in at seven pounds even. Her name is Emily."
Later that afternoon while Dad was gone, the doctor returned to Mom's room, carrying me in his arms. The room was hot now; the air conditioner struggled to counteract the humidity and bright sunshine that pressed against the hospital walls.
Dr. Baxter set me on the bed and opened up my blanket. "We have a problem here," he said. He stretched my legs out and away from my chest. I wailed. One leg was visibly shorter than the other.
"What is it?" Mom asked, taking hold of my legs. "One leg is shorter? What does it mean?"
"It's a birth defect," Dr. Baxter said. "I don't know much about it, but I'm doing research." The defect remained unnamed, unnamable.
"But you said she was fine."
"We just noticed it," he said.
"Will she walk?"
"I don't know."
"What does it mean?" Mom asked.
She had been healthy and fit throughout her pregnancy: She gained weight, ate well, and had very little morning sickness; at thirty, she was a normal childbearing age. There had been no warning signs that there might be trouble. Mom and Dad had assumed that I was in the clear. Now, it appeared, I was not. Mom touched my legs and looked at the doctor.
"We'll just have to wait and see," he said.
Mom realized why two nurses had brought me in that first time: They had already known about this mysterious problem. Apparently, it was a situation that required backup. She felt strangely light, released of the heaviness of my body inside her, freed from the burden of physical pain. But now she was filled with the panic of fear, a different lightness.
When Dad returned from his airport run, he had no idea what awaited him. My grandmother had traveled from Illinois to Nebraska assuming that I was normal, healthy, and beautiful. This last bit, especially, was crucial and especially important for a girl. Girls were born to be pretty and desired. She had told everyone about me: "Gorgeous baby girl, the prettiest anyone has ever seen."
When Mom finally told Dad and Grandma the truth about me, that they were still trying to determine what the next few days would bring, not to mention the future, Grandma burst into tears. "It's my fault," she said. Everyone in the small farming community of
Chapter One
MISS AMERICA
Everyone has predictions about her future when a baby girl is born, and my parents were no different.
A few hours after my birth on July 12, 1974, after I had been cleaned of blood and swaddled in a pink blanket, two nurses brought me in to see Mom and Dad. My mother, a nurse herself, found it odd that two nurses accompanied me instead of one, which was the standard arrangement, but she was preoccupied with my red hair, my hands, my small ears.
"Look at her long fingers," she said. Throughout the arduous seventeen-hour labor and delivery, my father had been present as Mom's Lamaze breathing coach; he was the first to tell her that I had her dad's red hair, a feature she'd hoped I would inherit.
"A pianist," Dad said, lifting my new hand with his own. "An orchestra conductor." As with most newborns, my legs were still tucked up into my chest, having not yet broken entirely free of the fetal position.
On this midsummer morning, warm light spilled into the room of the maternity ward at St. Francis Hospital in Grand Island, Nebraska. I was healthy, and everything looked fine. Before Dad left to pick up my grandmother at the airport and bring her to the hospital to meet me, he called the leader of his congregation's prayer chain to update the parishioners, who had been praying since Mom's water broke: "It's a girl with dainty hands; she has red hair just like Mary wanted. Weighed in at seven pounds even. Her name is Emily."
Later that afternoon while Dad was gone, the doctor returned to Mom's room, carrying me in his arms. The room was hot now; the air conditioner struggled to counteract the humidity and bright sunshine that pressed against the hospital walls.
Dr. Baxter set me on the bed and opened up my blanket. "We have a problem here," he said. He stretched my legs out and away from my chest. I wailed. One leg was visibly shorter than the other.
"What is it?" Mom asked, taking hold of my legs. "One leg is shorter? What does it mean?"
"It's a birth defect," Dr. Baxter said. "I don't know much about it, but I'm doing research." The defect remained unnamed, unnamable.
"But you said she was fine."
"We just noticed it," he said.
"Will she walk?"
"I don't know."
"What does it mean?" Mom asked.
She had been healthy and fit throughout her pregnancy: She gained weight, ate well, and had very little morning sickness; at thirty, she was a normal childbearing age. There had been no warning signs that there might be trouble. Mom and Dad had assumed that I was in the clear. Now, it appeared, I was not. Mom touched my legs and looked at the doctor.
"We'll just have to wait and see," he said.
Mom realized why two nurses had brought me in that first time: They had already known about this mysterious problem. Apparently, it was a situation that required backup. She felt strangely light, released of the heaviness of my body inside her, freed from the burden of physical pain. But now she was filled with the panic of fear, a different lightness.
When Dad returned from his airport run, he had no idea what awaited him. My grandmother had traveled from Illinois to Nebraska assuming that I was normal, healthy, and beautiful. This last bit, especially, was crucial and especially important for a girl. Girls were born to be pretty and desired. She had told everyone about me: "Gorgeous baby girl, the prettiest anyone has ever seen."
When Mom finally told Dad and Grandma the truth about me, that they were still trying to determine what the next few days would bring, not to mention the future, Grandma burst into tears. "It's my fault," she said. Everyone in the small farming community of
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