Formerly Shark Girl (2 page)

if I ever will be.

Mom says this is part of being a teen.

She says this is all natural.

She says I’ll get there.

Mom’s usually right about a lot of things.

But what if this time

she’s not?

Push with two fingers.

Not ten. Not even five.

When you perform CPR on an infant,

two fingers are all you need.

“Excellent,” the instructor tells me.

She watches me press, count,

then gently puff into the tiny plastic mouth

of the CPR dummy —

the one resembling a baby,

its plastic arms stiff,

its mouth reeking of antiseptic.

“Very good,” she tells me,

and I glow inside.

This
is something I can do,

and do well, and it
matters.

I’m here on a Saturday because

when I was recovering in the hospital,

I found out what it’s like to suffer

and what it’s like to have people

ease that suffering. I wondered

if I could do it, if
I
could make a difference.

I even began to wonder

if I could become a nurse.

Now I volunteer at the hospital

and am taking all the first-aid training I can.

I hope it will help me figure out

if medicine is right for me.

The instructor helps the girl next to me,

who tries to puff air into the dummy

while holding her hair out of the way.

“You need to put your hand here,”

the instructor tells her.

She demonstrates the proper hold.

Chest compressions, puffs of air,

watch the chest rise and fall,

because if it doesn’t,

you are dealing with a blocked airway.

Check for a pulse.

The girl, still holding her hair, is confused.

I think how I don’t have two hands

yet I’m doing a better job than she is.

I shove that thought from my head

because it’s dangerous.

“Never have a chip on your shoulder,”

Lindsey, my former nurse,

has told me many times.

Besides, when we practice the Heimlich maneuver,

Ms. Hair becomes my partner.

After a startled glance at my prosthetic arm,

she consents to being the choking victim.

Then we switch.

She does the Heimlich better than me.

But still. I can
do
it.

I may not be able to dissect frogs

or nail a canvas,

but I can save a life.

You hear that?

I can save a life.

“Good job,” the girl says, coughing.

At home I tape the small certificate

over my desk,

next to the latest pencil sketch of Mabel, my dog,

and a painting of Michael’s truck,

which I run my five fingers over.

I hope I never have to perform CPR

or the Heimlich on anyone.
Ever.

But if I do, I’m ready.

I’m ready.

“Ready?” Rachel asks,

walking into my room.

I hear her pause. “What are you doing?”

I straighten. “Nothing.”

Her eyes meet mine.

“You’re using tweezers

to pick up earrings,” she says.

“You call that nothing?”

I stretch my neck a little.

“Just an experiment.”

“To see if you can pick up your jewelry

with tweezers?”

I rise and gather my things.

Rachel and I are headed out for iced coffee.

“Well, I had some trouble the other day

in science, with the tweezers

and dissecting the frog. So I thought . . .”

Rachel shakes her head.

“You thought you’d teach yourself

how to use those tweezers with your left hand,

so that the next time you are called upon

to dissect a frog, you’ll be ready?”

“Something like that.”

“Well, Jane. One thing about you:

you’re not a quitter.

And you
hate
not being able to do something.

Anything.
”

We grin at each other

as we walk out of my room.

“True. I do hate defeat.”

We head out into the bright sunshine,

our purses swinging from our shoulders.

“By the way,” Rachel says,

“I brought some brochures from San Diego.

It looks fantastic.

It would be awesome to go to college there.”

Hearing Rachel say
go to college

is like a sharp nudge in the ribs.

Maybe once we’re separated,

things won’t ever again

be this easy between us,

me and my best friend.

The thought makes the sunshine slip,

for just a moment,

behind a smothering cloud

of gray.

Dear Ms. Arrowood,

My name is Wendy Stewart, and I am the editor of
Valley Magazine,
which is devoted to stories of life in southern California. You may recall we ran a piece about you soon after your horrible shark attack. Though you were not available for comment then, we have our fingers crossed that you will grant us an interview now. We plan to write a follow-up segment to your extraordinary story for our next issue and would love to be able to quote you directly. Would you grant us a small amount of your time?

If you agree to the interview, we’
ll send our photographer to Santa Clarita to take photos of you at home and at school. We would also like to take pictures of you at Point Dume State Beach, as close as we can estimate to the spot where the attack happened. Out of curiosity, have you been back to the ocean since this happened?

The reason we want to write this follow-up story is because many readers have written to us and asked us for one, Ms. Arrowood. People remember you and want to know how you are now, how you have fared since the loss of your arm and nearly the loss of your life. People remember that striking video and your story. Won’
t you please grant us an interview? I have enclosed our contact information and hope to hear from you soon.

Also, one of our staff was at Santa Clarita Hospital for a minor injury last month. She spotted you working there as a volunteer. You came to her room and took her tray, and she said you were very kind! She said when she engaged you in conversation, you mentioned you were thinking of becoming a nurse. Would you please confirm this?

Best wishes,

Wendy Stewart

Dear Ms. Stewart,

Thank you for contacting me. I am very appreciative of the interest of your readers. However, I do not wish to do an interview. Thank you just the same. As for confirming that I work at the hospital, yes, I do. And yes, I am considering nursing for my future, as well as many other possibilities. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Jane Arrowood

Late-afternoon sunlight illuminates

squares of windowpanes in the art classroom.

Mr. Musker and I pore over a book about Rembrandt,

one of the world’s greatest painters.

“Study his use of darkness and light,” Mr. Musker says.

I linger over
The Blinding of Samson
and
Danäe.

Shafts of light, cloaks of darkness,

compositions of color and structure

that funnel your eye exactly where he wanted.

“Wow” is all I can say,

and it’s not enough. Through the ages,

how many people have said “Wow”

about Rembrandt? How many people

stood before
The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp

and said too little

because there were no words

big enough?

“Rembrandt’s personal life was a story in its own right,”

Mr. Musker says, adjusting his glasses and turning a page.

“He lost all his children except for one.

They each died at very young ages.

Then his wife died.

He took up with the nurse hired to care for his son.

They had a child together,

and the poor woman was banned from the church.

Later she passed away and he took up with his maid.

I’d say Rembrandt wasn’t big on being lonely.”

“Oh.” I take that in.

Mr. Musker continues.

“He also spent too much. On weird, wild things.

Art collections, mostly. Suits of armor.

He died a poor man and was buried in an unmarked grave.”

I stare once more at a self-portrait,

Rembrandt with a Broad Nose,

imagine the hand behind the brush,

the dark, narrowed eyes.

What did he think about at night, lying awake?

Was he unhappy? Did he dwell on his lost children?

Did he see the goodness in his work?

“He was also an art teacher,” Mr. Musker says.

“A teacher? Just like you.”

Mr. Musker laughs. The sunlight through the window

glints on his thin gray hair.

He has a nice smile, crinkly and catching.

It makes our after-school sessions on Mondays

all the more fun.

“I’m not sure I’d compare myself to Rembrandt,”