The War that Saved My Life by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley

Susan took us back to see Dr. Graham. “I can’t believe it’s the same children,”
he said. Jamie was two inches taller, and I was three. We were heavier too,
and I’d grown strong from riding and helping Fred. With my crutches I could
walk for ages without getting tired. We didn’t have impetigo, or lice, or scabs
on our legs, or anything. We were the picture of health, he said. Then he took
my bad foot and wriggled it. “Still nothing?” he asked Susan.
She shook her head. “I’ve invited her to visit for Christmas,” she said. “If
she comes, I hope to convince her.”
“Who?” asked Jamie.
“Never you mind,” Susan replied.
I was hardly paying attention. My mind always wandered into its own
corner when strangers touched me. Susan tapped my shoulder. “Does this
hurt?” she asked.
I shook my head. My foot hurt, it always did, but Dr. Graham wiggling it
didn’t make it hurt worse. I just didn’t like it.
“If perhaps you could do this, every day,” he said, twisting my foot as
though unwringing a cloth, as though he could make it look more normal, “if
she could gain some flexibility, that would only be a help for later on.”
“Special shoes,” I said, my mind coming back to me. “Fred said clubfoot
horses had special shoes.”
Dr. Graham let go of my foot. “That won’t be enough at this stage,” he
said. “I’m convinced you’ll require surgical intervention.”
“Oh,” I said, not having any idea what he meant.
“Still,” he said, “massage might help, and certainly can do no harm.”
It turned out he meant Miss Smith was going to rub and tug at my foot every
night. We’d already switched to reading Swiss Family Robinson in the
blacked-out living room after dinner, snug by the coal fire that didn’t quite
heat our bedrooms upstairs. Now Susan sat on one edge of the sofa, nearest
the lamp, while I sat on the other and stretched my feet onto her lap. Jamie
and his cat lay by the fire on the rug.
“Your foot is so cold,” Susan said, the first evening. “Doesn’t it feel cold?”