Formerly Shark Girl (11 page)

“Another D in science,”

I tell Rachel as I slide into a seat

next to her at lunch.

“But we studied so hard together,”

Rachel says. “You
had
that one.”

“I thought so, too.”

Trina and Elizabeth and Angie join us,

their trays laden with pizza.

“What’s wrong?” Angie asks.

I sigh. “I am failing science.”

“I got a C in social studies,” Angie counters.

“You’ve
always
been bad at science,” Trina adds.

“Yes. But now my grades matter. For college.

It’s something you really need for nursing programs —

good grades in science.”

They all start eating. Not me. I’m too worried.

“You know what I need?” I say. “Osmosis.

I need to find someone smart at science

and sit next to them. Then their knowledge

will ooze into my brain by proximity.”

Rachel says, “Don’t ask me.

I am barely getting by in that class.”

Elizabeth snaps her fingers. “A tutor.

That’s what you need.

My brother is great at science.

I’ll check with him.”

Of
course.

It’s like a switch flips on in my head,

shedding God’s first light on a gaping canyon.

“That’s a great idea.

Check with him, and thanks!”

A tutor. Maybe that’s the key.

Someone to translate

all those periodic table numbers

and signs and facts

into plain English for me.

Why didn’t I think of it before now?

Beneath the lunch table,

I cross my fingers,

hoping that this is just the thing

I need.

That night, as another flare-up

of burning arm pain finally ebbs away,

Elizabeth calls.

“I asked my brother

about tutoring you. He can’t.

He got a job after school and doesn’t have time.”

I sigh as Mabel nudges me with her wet nose.

“That’s okay. Thanks for checking.”

“He said to try the community college,” Elizabeth adds.

“Go to the cafeteria or the main office.

Kids put signs up on the bulletin boards there.

There’s usually someone advertising tutoring.”

“Okay, I’ll check it out. And thanks!”

I hang up and give Mabel a kiss.

“Who was that?” Mom asks.

I tell her about Elizabeth’s idea

of a tutor.

Mom listens. She doesn’t say,

“You have always been bad in science”

or
“What matters is that you try your very best.”

She just picks up her knitting bag.

“Tutoring is a great idea. Why didn’t I think of it?

If you can’t find anyone at Sequoyah, I’ll check at my school.”

I realize I never asked if she’d mind paying

for this imaginary tutor. Now I don’t have to.

She’s already said yes.

And that’s one of the great things about Mom.

I watch her sink into the couch

and flip on the TV, pulling out a ball of yellow yarn

and heavy knitting needles.

I think of

NEED A FOOT MASSAGE?

and a wave of something —

pity . . . anger? —

passes through me.

I think about her mystery dinner date,

her supposed nights “working late,”

and I hope that the person she was with

made her laugh and treated her right.

All these years my dad has been gone.

Mom’s a good person.

She deserves someone

who’s not a creep.

She deserves to be loved.

Dear Jane,

I remember hearing about your story last year, and I’ve always wondered how you are. I was so relieved to see the follow-up article on you. Good for you for getting back to school and moving on. I have talked about you with my students, both last year and this year. I am an elementary-school teacher and often talk to my students about people with disabilities, and how we view them, and how we can so easily be insensitive to them. We talk about how we’d feel if we were in another person’s shoes — a person like you.

It is a testament to your courage that you continue to live a normal life and be a role model to everyone with your determination. I hope you continue to heal and that you have no bad memories of that day. I hope you look
forward, and not back.

If you are ever willing, it would be remarkable to have you come talk to the kids at my school. I think you’d make an incredible impression, and drive home what we talk about when we discuss people with differences, and how really, we are all just alike. I will enclose my contact information — please think about it.

Best wishes,

Paula

I’m buying a soda from the vending machine

in the hospital hallway when suddenly

sirens go off and someone on the intercom

cries, “Code blue! Third floor, code blue!”

In a flash, a barrage of people in scrubs

rush past. I don’t even know where they came from.

Someone crashes into me and sends me smack

into the vending machine. My soda can falls to the floor,

goes spinning wildly among scrambling shoes,

and my elbow throbs crazily from where it got hit.

They’re gone and I pick up the can.

Code blue is serious, in case you didn’t know.

Code blue means someone has gone into cardiac arrest.

Someone is dying right now,

and everyone is doing everything they can to prevent that.

I think I saw Lindsey in the midst of the chaos.

I picture myself as part of that group someday,

a person running to stop death from claiming another.

Once inside that hospital room, what would I see?

What would I do? Rip off someone’s hospital gown,

apply electric paddles? Stand by with shots of Adrenalin?

Would my training get through the shock

of seeing someone already blue-lipped and staring?

I shudder. I know this is part of nursing.

It’s not all hand holding and coloring books

and people getting well.

Sometimes my patients would die.

Later, Lindsey sags at her desk, draining a cup of coffee.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, even though I didn’t know the patient,

an elderly man who had only checked in last night.

She throws the cup in the trash can. “Thank you, honey.

I tell you. This is a part of the job you never get used to.”

She dabs at her eyes. “I am constantly amazed

how things can change in a second. Just one
second.
”

She sniffs and throws the tissue away.

“That man was
so
nice. He was here for minor surgery.

Then he had a heart attack. We couldn’t save him.”

You’d think a hospital would be the one place

you could survive having a heart attack.

But I guess sometimes you just can’t save a person.

Sometimes it’s too late.

The rest of the day,

I think about that poor man, his family, his life.

And I think about the words
too late.

If I became a nurse and had regrets

what would I tell myself?
“Too late, Jane. Sorry.”

If I become an artist, I will regret turning away

from my reason

for wanting to nurse in the first place:

to help other people.

If I become a nurse, I will regret closing the door

on art, a heartbeat that has been part of me

my whole life.

Either way you slice it, I sense regret waiting for me

at the end of all this. How did I end up in this position?

At one time, my life was so simple.

It was so
clear.

I’d give anything to have that clarity back,

even if it were

for just

one second.

M: Will be home late 2nite. Will you be OK?

J: Yes. Trina coming over 4 dinner & homework. What R U doing?

M: I have to work late.

J: Oh?

M: Yes. Call me if you need me. Love U. C U about 10.

J: OK.

It is our final triage class. After taking notes

and watching a grim slide show,

we are ready for practice.

“A bomb just went off,” Mr. Stork says theatrically.

“You have been asked to help with the wounded.

Form groups of four and begin.”

Silently, our group clusters together again,

me, Laughing Boy, Sweater Lady, and Gray-Haired Man,

an assortment of oddly matched people

who, apparently, have a need to know

how to deal with torn arteries,

scorched limbs, and ruptured lives.

Mr. Stork taps Gray-Haired Man.

“You’re it,” he says, handing him a note.

“Massive bleeding from the leg,”

Gray-Haired Man reads. “Burns on legs and arms.”

He sighs, lowers himself to the mat,

and removes his glasses. “Ready.”

We snatch up the survival kit.

“Massive bleeding from the leg could mean

a ruptured artery,” Sweater Lady says. “What do we do?”