Shark Girl (10 page)

They’d say, if you had taken the time to help, it would have been enough. It would have delayed you. And it would have never happened to you.

Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows. I’ll never know.

But you’ll always wonder.

I’ll wonder a lot of things.

It would have been different.

I don’t know that.

Different.

I don’t know . . .

You do.

Hello?

Jane? It’s Angie.

Hi.

Whatcha doing?

I’m trying to eat this thing my mom made. I think it’s an omelet.

Oh.

She’s not a great cook.

Yeah, you were the cook, weren’t you? Your poor mom.

Huh?

She has to do everything now. I guess you can’t really vacuum or fold laundry or any of that stuff anymore?

Well, no.

I’m almost jealous.

Angie —

IknowIknowIknow. I’m kidding. Really. Sorry, that was a sick joke. You know I’m kidding, right?

I certainly
hope
so.

I was calling to see if you wanted to come with me to the mall today. Elizabeth is going and Rachel said she’d see. Trina can’t.

Why not?

Hmm? I don’t know, she’s going out with her family somewhere. Want to?

I don’t think so.

We’re supposed to meet some guys there.

Who?

Well, we don’t know for sure yet, but Alex Cussaks and Scotty Anderson are supposed to be there. I saw them last night at the movies and we talked about hooking up. They said they might come with some other guys, maybe Taylor Pocheck or Ty Zacks. So, how about it? Could be fun!

No, I don’t want to.

Are you worried about — you know. People being weird about your arm?

Well, of course.

Jane, they’re going to see you when school starts. Why not get it out of the way?

I’m not ready. And I’m kind of tired.

Come on. Please?

No, thanks. Really.

Really?

Really.

Can’t change your mind?

No.

Okay . . . well, we should get together sometime, though. Us.

Yeah, that would be great.

Mom bends down to tie my shoes.

The tag of her shirt is sticking up

out of her collar along her neck.

I tuck it back in.

“Thanks,” she says, and smiles briefly.

This catches me off guard.

She doesn’t smile much anymore.

“You’re welcome,” I say,

and I force a little smile in return.

She looks surprised.

I wonder

if she’s thinking

the same exact thing

about me.

I am on the floor,

straddled,

my portfolio spread before me.

I was pretty good.

But the subject matter . . .

Rabbit, Hopping.

Blue mountains, sagebrush,

a hawk, soaring.

Bowls of tulips,

in pastel, pencil,

crayon, and acrylic.

A house,

smoke rising from the chimney.

These pictures

are from someone else’s world,

someone else’s memories,

not mine.

What, then, is now?

If I can’t return to

Horse, Grazing,

am I doomed to be a

van Gogh imitation?

Tortured, wrecked, surviving

pain through the art of my darkest attic,

creations spun from the haunted memories

of the Shark Girl

trying to accommodate with her left hand?

Will the subject matter

be endless grays and white-capped

waves, gaunt faces, thin children,

rain?

I have no legs

to cross the bridge

toward Sunflower, Blooming,

and return home.

I try to fill Mel’s journal.

It will help,
he said.

Writing a bit each day,

sparsely. The words don’t

come easily. Never have. I’m not

much of a storyteller. But . . .

I could tell my story.

The Shark Girl’s story.

And out of a shark’s bite

could arise a fresh, raw

writer, poignant, powerful,

with a story that would win a Pulitzer.

I could.

Then I remember.

I don’t like to write,

and I don’t want to
learn

to like to write.

Oh,

and my life is private.

So back to my entry.

Today

I got dressed by myself.

Mom slides both hands

into her pockets.

“Ready for some lunch?

No, it’s okay, I’ll fix it for you.

Just tell me what you want.”

She takes my order

and leaves, light in step.

It used to be my job,

a job I loved —

making my own lunch,

preparing our dinners weeknights,

whipping up snacks

for our weekend munchies.

But,

come to think of it,

I haven’t fixed a single meal

since I came back home.

Mom’s done them all.

Tonight, over pizza,

Michael gives us the silent treatment.

Mom shrugs it off before taking Mabel for a walk.

I hang around the kitchen a bit, watching Michael clean up.

I say, “Want me to help with that?”

He whirls, eyebrows high.

“Really? You mean it? Gosh, I’m so
honored
.”

“What is your problem?” I ask.

Michael slams the pizza box shut.

“I’m tired of doing everything around here.

Just because you make Mom wait on you,

doesn’t mean
I
will.”

While Michael takes out the trash

and wipes off the table,

I empty the plates, load the dishwasher,

and put away the extra salad.

My throat hurts and I cannot look at my brother.

When we’re done, Michael

tosses the towel

into the sink.

Who the hell does he think he is?

What an ass. A candidate for Mr. Insensitivity.

For the first time since June,

I hate him.

The shakes,

the cold night sweats,

soaking

hot sheets

that tangle around my legs,

thinking,

the memory obliterated, but

imagining the shape

of a fish,

a
fish,

sliding through the water,

a silent gray missile,

triangular teeth in gaping mouth,

clamping down —

Did it really happen?

The movie in my head

loops

while the moon

floats

from one end of the window

to the other,

then fades

away.