Formerly Shark Girl (29 page)

“The alternative therapies

are not working,”

Dr. Kim says, reviewing my file.

As though I don’t know this.

As though right now, I am not sitting

in a pool of discomfort, my arm buzzing again.

“We could try something new.

Medication, perhaps.”

“I want the surgery,” I tell him.

Dr. Kim blinks. “You do? I thought you were — er,

hesitant to go that route.”

“I was. Not anymore.

What I want is the quickest,

most effective way

to get rid of this pain.”

As I say it, I know it’s true.

Truer than anything I’ve said for a long time.

Enough games. This pain is done

nagging at me, burdening me.

If I can cut it from my life,

why wouldn’t I?

Mom speaks up. “We’ve talked this over,

Doctor. Jane is prepared to have the surgery.

Before she begins school in the fall, if possible.”

Dr. Kim stuffs his pen into his shirt pocket.

“Good for you, Jane.

Let me get some information,

and we’ll go over the specifics.

Then I’ll set you up with scheduling.”

He pauses by the door. “There are no promises,

of course. But I do think those flare-ups

will be greatly reduced.”

No promises.

Do all doctors have to say that?

I guess they do.

And really?

Life should come with such a statement.

No promises.

Just lots of hope.

“I know,” I tell him.

“I’m ready.”

Rachel and I sit out on the back steps,

iced teas and cupcakes nearby.

“School is almost over,” Rachel says.

“You ended up with great grades.

Complete with a B in science.

Hmm . . . who can we thank for
that
?”

I grin. “That was the best B I ever earned.”

She picks up a cupcake. “Now you have good grades

to show to any of those four schools you end up in.”

My smile fades. Since my talk with Max,

about wanting to be an artist,

I’ve sat with those thoughts

a good long while. They haven’t tiptoed away.

In fact, they are stronger than ever.

An artist. That’s what I want.

But I haven’t had the guts to tell anyone yet.

Not even my best friend.

Instead, I float a question to her, hoping it sounds casual.

“Let’s say I choose art school.

I’m a little worried about something.”

She sighs. “You worry too much, Jane. What is it?”

“My artwork. It’s not where I want it to be yet.

What are the chances I’ll do well in art school?

With my work being . . .”

Rachel pushes a strand of hair out of my eyes.

“Fantastic? Jane, remember something.

Your artwork is almost
never
good enough to satisfy you.

You’ve always felt that way, even
before
the accident.

That’s why you’re such a good artist. You always

push to do to better. And besides,

isn’t that the whole point of art school?

To learn? And get better? You don’t go into

something like that
perfect,
right?

As for your chances? I say

you have just as good a chance as anyone.”

Not so long ago, I would have laughed bitterly

at such a statement. But now?

She’s right.
One-handed, that’s me.

But I’m surely not the only one-handed person

to ever apply to college, or pick up a pencil,

or help out at a hospital.

I’m surely not the only one-handed person

to ever wander in confusion,

to hope. To dream.

“I’m so happy for you,” I tell Rachel.

“Getting into the school you wanted.

San Diego is such a great place.

I’m going to come visit you sometimes.”

“You better,” Rachel says with a grin.

Her phone beeps and she picks it up

and reads a text.

“Mom’s on her way over,” she says.

Rachel’s mom is taking us

to pick up our caps and gowns.

Graduation is three days away.

“Are you ready?” she asks.

We look at each other.

Am
I ready? Is she? Are
we
?

Either way, it’s happening.

I reach out to my best friend

and give her a one-armed hug.

She wraps both arms around me

in return. One of us is sniffling.

“Yes,” I tell her.

“I’m ready.”

“I can’t believe tomorrow is our last day

of school,” Elizabeth says.

“Do you think Max will come to graduation?”

She sounds hopeful.

“No . . . he has to take his dad somewhere.”

Max is making some changes.

He’s doing what he has to

to make sure his dad

is cared for. Properly.

Today he finalized paperwork.

This weekend, his dad will move into

assisted living.

I don’t mention that although Max will not be here

this weekend, he
is
coming here today.

All day my nerves are high,

due to our private agenda for this afternoon.

When he picks me up at school,

I ask him, “How did it go?”

“Good,” he says, though he sounds worn out.

“It’s all taken care of, and we’re on track

for moving him this weekend.

It’s hard. Still. I can’t count on Brittany forever.

And I can’t be there all day.

It’s time to get Dad into a better situation.

Meanwhile, still want to do this?”

I buckle up. “Yes.”

The word is tight, clipped.

“You look sick,” he says.

“I know this was your idea, but . . .”

“Max.” I roll my head sideways toward him.

“You’re a psychology major, right?

This is it. This is about closure.

Before I start college.

Before I take one more step

doing
anything.
I need to see if . . .

well. You know.”

He starts the car. “Yes,” he says. “I know.”

“I’m sorry about your dad,” I tell him.

He touches the steering wheel.

“Thanks. But . . . it’s going to be okay.

If my mom were still here,

I think she’d agree. It’s what’s best.”

After that, there’s not much to say.

We drive in silence for an hour

to the small road with the sign that says

BEACH ACCESS
.

I catch a glimpse of sand and a strip

of glittering blue, stretching all along the horizon.

My shoulders go numb, and my breath runs dry.

Max parks in a sandy lot. Overhead,

gulls spin in the sky,

wheeling on a breeze, and I smell the ocean.

Has the sea always smelled that way?

So heavy, so alive? So . . . dangerous?

I should cancel this whole crazy thing.

Then I look at Max.

I remember the pool.

I think about fear

ruling parts of my life

and how I don’t want that

anymore. “Ready?” I ask.

“Yes,” Max replies.

Together, we step out of the car.

Together, we walk toward the beach.

The same beach

where I lost my arm

to a shark.

So hot, this sand beneath my feet.

So smooth, the sound of air and water,

the way they meet just above the chop,

in that soft, rushing
swish
—

the surf does not “roar,” as some say it does.

The ocean whispers in many voices.

So alive, these people, dotted all along the shore.

Children dash to the edge of the lapping, foamy surf,

then race away, shrieking, legs grazed by curls of water.

A dog gallops past, carrying a heavy stick.

Far out in the gray water,

sleek surfers bob on the surface,

corks in a bathtub, straddling their boards.

One pushes his arms into the water.

They do not see how small they are

against an immense horizon.

Heavy on the air is the scent of suntan lotion,

and seagulls cry overhead, floating, always floating,

clouds of white kites, seeking popcorn and crumbs.

All of this, I have seen scores of times.

I have been to this beach

countless afternoons;

even my father brought me here,

when he was alive.

Today

it’s a barely remembered dream;

it’s a foreign world,

a homeland I have forgotten,

a place where I once lived and breathed and swam

but now find incomprehensible.

I don’t know what I expected to feel,

but it’s not this.

My stomach lies deathly still.

My body takes in

the warmth of the sun,

the grit of sand.

My mind does not go

to that scary place

it went before.

It does not imagine awful things.

Instead, my mind whispers:

We don’t belong here anymore.

I don’t. I am a fish out of water here,

and this sinks in, more and more plainly,

as a long, long time passes

with Max and I walking slowly along the shore.

I try to pinpoint the feeling I have right now.

Not relief, and not sadness, either.

Just a quiet acceptance.

Finally, miles from where we started,

I stop and stand. I look out at the horizon.

Lightness steals across my body,

as though a heavy iron chain

curled around my neck has broken

and fallen to the ground.

A chain

I didn’t even know I carried

until now.

What did I expect by coming here?

I wasn’t sure. But now?

The question has been answered.

Can I face the beach?
Yes.

Can I stand here and be calm?
Yes.

Do I
want
to be here?

Do I want to come back, over and over,

like I used to?

Do I want to swim,