Formerly Shark Girl (14 page)

wincing as he probes a tender spot.

Dr. Kim lets go of my arm and returns to the folder

of papers on the table.

It’s very thick.

He begins writing on the top sheet of paper.

“First thing we’ll do is have you stop

wearing your prosthesis. I want you to go

two weeks without it.

Then we’ll send you in for a fitting adjustment.

Sometimes that’s enough to avoid further flare-ups.

Also, we’ll try some non-invasive treatments.

Sometimes those help.”

I don’t like this —

that’s two
sometimes
es

and no
definites
.

“And if those
don’t
work?” I ask.

Then we’ll do a neurectomy,” he says.

“A what?” I ask.

Dr. Kim adjusts his glasses.

“A surgical procedure

where we sever the snarled nerve endings,

then fold and tuck the ends

into a better location,

under fat or muscle tissue.

We move them away from the end of your arm

the best we can.”

Mom asks him something else,

but all I can hear is the roar in my ears.

Surgery.

Again.

Here. In this hospital.

Again.

In a stiff bed, with arm pain,

ugly black stitches,

pain pills and bleary head

and dry mouth

and recovery struggles

and misery.

Again.

“Jane?” Dr. Kim bends slightly toward me.

“Are you all right?”

I nod. Then I start to cry.

What the heck?

I thought I was a pillar of strength by now.

Mom puts her arm around me.

“Honey, don’t worry.”

“It wouldn’t be like last time,”

Dr. Kim says. He holds out a tissue,

and I take it. “A neurectomy

is not major surgery.

One or two nights in the hospital.

You’d be back in business in a week or two.

And you’ll feel better once we take care of this.”

He returns to his notes.

“I’m scheduling the ultrasound therapy,

and I’m going to give you several treatments

you can do at home when the pain flares up.

If by some chance these methods

are enough to ease the situation, then surgery

won’t be necessary.

You never know.”

He gives me a forced smile.

Looking at his hands, I can already see

the knife in them.

“It’s going to be all right,” he says.

Easy for him to say.

Why do people
say
things like that?

Because it’s true, or they
want
it to be true?

The reality of this moment?

Nobody knows
anything

for sure.

Mom says, “Have faith, honey.”

I try to have faith.

But riding home,

the pain flares up again,

wickedly,

and it’s all I can do

to just

breathe.

How dumb was I to think that my journey would end

at a defined time, anyway? Everyone
told
me

this was a situation I’d be dealing with for
life.

What if

Dr. Kim slips while doing the surgery,

severing something critical, and makes things worse?

What if

I turn out to be one of the rare people

who die from non-major surgery

or end up worse than before?

What if

they cut this lump out and another one grows in its

place?

What if

I have to have surgeries my whole life?

What if

by the time they get done,

there’s nothing left of me?

What if?

Our skies have been formed.

Our clouds have been dotted

and feathered into convincing

shapes, drifting in the blue.

Our fields and flowers are through,

and now comes the hard part.

People.

Why are people so hard?

I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere,

but today, I am not in the mood for deep thoughts.

Today I’m a downright grouch.

“Is something wrong with your arm?”

Justin asks, swishing his brush around

in a glass of water, then wiping it on a rag.

I let go of my stump, which I have been clenching.

“No. I’m fine,” I say.

Justin gives me a look.

Justin and I, during our long stays at the hospital,

we developed a pretty fine-tuned fluff-meter.

Right now I’m feeding Justin fluff, and he knows it.

Justin and I, we prefer the truth.

“My arm is killing me,” I admit,

walking in circles and resisting the urge

to kick a paint can clear across the room.

Justin accepts this with quiet empathy.

We both know all too well the agony

of a throbbing stump. I explain to him

about the neuroma, about trying to avoid

surgery by trying natural cures.

“Like what?” he asks. I bite my lip as more spasms

take over. “Heat,” I tell him. “Ice. Ultrasound.

Stuff like that.”

He leaves the room and returns

with an ice pack and his mother.

She’s worried. “Jane? Do you want to lie down?

Do you need me to take you home?”

Now I’m sorry I said anything.

“No, thank you. We want to finish up this part

of the mural today. If I rest a minute,

I should be fine.”

She hovers a while, mothering.

Justin fetches us cookies.

When his mom leaves, Justin and I

lean back against his dresser, the plate of cookies

on the floor between us, the ice pack

pressed to my stump. The pain begins to fade.

Justin selects a cookie. He says,

“Maybe you should let the doctor fix your arm.

Even though you’re afraid.”

I grimace at a fresh stab of pain. “Maybe.

But I’d rather not have an operation, Justin.

I’d rather fix it some other way.”

He pats my shoulder. “Okay.”

He sounds like he’d like to say more

but is being kind.

“Let’s change the subject,” I say.

He eats his cookie and thinks. Then he asks,

“Why do you like drawing so much?”

I mull this over. “I’m not sure.

Maybe . . . creating something from nothing?

Learning something new each time I do?

Watching my sketches take on life?

I don’t think I could pick one reason.

Everything
about drawing is pretty wonderful.”

Justin tosses Spot the last of his cookie.

Spot snaps it up and licks the floor intently.

“I’ve been drawing a lot since our last time together,”

he tells me. I turn to look at him, surprised.

“Yeah? Let me see!”

He pulls a tablet of paper from under his bed.

Soon we are leafing through the pages,

and wonder grows inside of me with each turn.

“Justin, these are great. You are improving with every

drawing! Do you see it?”

He laughs. “Not really. But it’s fun.

That vanishing point thing you taught me really helped.”

I look them over a bit longer, chuckling to myself.

“Not really?”
Isn’t that what I said to Mr. Musker,

when he asked if I saw improvement in my own work?

It just goes to show.

We’re never as objective as we think we are.

Justin is getting a lot better, and that’s all there is to it.

Does that mean that I am, too,

and just don’t see it?

“Practice makes perfect,” I tell him, closing the pad.

“Keep at it. You’re doing
great.
”

He grins with pride. “Ready to get back to the mural?”

I stand up and set the ice pack on the dresser. “Yes, I am.”

He picks up a brush and I do the same.

Hard or not, the people have to be dealt with

if we want to finish this masterpiece.

And we do.

That’s another thing we have in common.

Justin and I, we don’t

quit.

“You are
kidding.

Max
Shannon
?

He’s going to be your
tutor
?”

Angie’s black-lined eyes are huge.

“I thought he was going to school

in New York or something,”

Trina adds.

“You said you didn’t go out there yet,”

Rachel says, confused.

She gives me a quick, searching look.

I dig into my ravioli.

Rachel.
Why did I —?

See, this is the problem with lies.

Once you tell a single

crumb of untruth,

you start paying the price.

You have to look people in the eye.

You have to make up
more
lies.

Things unravel.

Quickly.

“I went there after you and I talked,”

I tell her, rearranging my plate.

“I ran into him in the cafeteria.”

Rachel accepts this explanation cheerfully.

“Wow. That is so
great,
” she says.

“Jane and Max. Hitting the books!”

Elizabeth makes a loud whistling noise

while Trina says, “Oooooh!”

Angie bats her eyes dramatically,

and Rachel makes a kissy sound.

I glance around at the other tables,

feeling my cheeks burn.

Normally

I would be joking

right along with them.

Today I have zero sense of humor.

In fact, I am dangerously close

to a foul mood.

I’m pretty sure

this is another price

of telling lies.