Shark Girl (3 page)

After I was all better, my mom and dad and I had a funeral for my arm. We played music and made a grave and I put flowers from our garden on the grave. It was nice. My real arm was not in the grave. The doctors threw it away already. But we pretended. Maybe you should have a pretend funeral, too. So you can say good-bye.

My mom wrote this letter for me. But I can write by myself.

Love,

Mary

It sounds clichéd.

But at times like this,

I miss my dad.

I mean,

I don’t remember him —

he died of cancer when I was three.

Pictures

are all that’s left.

My favorite one is us

sitting on a bench, eating ice cream.

Our knees are knobby the same way,

we’re both grinning like hyenas,

he’s pointing at the camera.

I haven’t had a dad in twelve years.

Most of the time,

that’s okay.

But today,

right now,

I’d like a hug.

From him.

I wasn’t sure about having a man

be my therapist.

Or shrink, as Rachel calls him.

But he was assigned by the hospital.

That first day

when Mel walked into my room,

with his gray mustache,

and his loud tie,

my body tightened.

That whole long hour,

more silence than words.

Now our sessions fly by.

“Big picture,” Mel tells me.

He says this when I’m telling him

how many things I have to relearn

or how fear keeps me from breathing right.

“Big picture, Jane,” he says.

“You could have died.

Instead, you are here. You have time to find out why.

You have your whole life to discover

and rebuild.”

I know what he’s thinking.

He’s thinking about the terminally ill kids

upstairs. Bald heads and sad eyes

and weeping parents —

that’s
real
tragedy.

My problem

must not seem like much of a problem

to them.

The really sick kids should get the balloons,

cards, and letters from all over.

Not me.

“It’s in our nature . . . our culture, really,”

Mel says, “to think that when we are depressed,

we need to cheer ourselves up right away.

That’s not always healthy.”

He faces me with gray eyes and a shiny spot

on his balding head.

It’s like he knows my thoughts and doesn’t judge.

“You have lost your right arm.

That is a tremendous, heartbreaking loss.

You have every right to be depressed.

Don’t fight it. Allow yourself to feel as bad as you want.

The sooner you do this,

the sooner you will be able to move on.”

My tears are

loud

and ugly

and awful.

They keep tumbling and tearing,

from deep inside somewhere,

somewhere

down

dark

and black.

When will they stop?

Grandma and Grandpa arrived today.

Michael picked them up at the airport.

They stepped into my tiny white room,

Grandpa looking terrified,

Grandma simmering with tears.

“Jane!” they blurted, and “Katherine!” to Mom,

and there were exclamations all around,

the smell of Grandpa’s cinnamon gum,

and Grandma sweeping my hair behind my ears.

“You look beautiful,” she said.

“She’s getting fitted for her prosthesis next month,”

Mom said. They all stood around the foot of my bed,

breathing in the monitors and bandages,

the smell of antiseptic.

Grandma dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“Well, they better treat her right. Sometimes

hospital staff can be rather callous.”

She used to be an ER nurse, so she knows.

“The nurses here are nice,” I say. “Mostly.”

Grandma nods triumphantly. “Uh-huh.
Mostly
.

If anyone gives you trouble, you tell them —”

“Mom, they’re fine. They’re all fine,” Mom says.

Grandpa pats my leg. “It sure is good to see you, Janie.”

He jingles coins in his pockets;

Gram clutches her purse straps;

they stare unseeingly at the cards lined up

on the windowsill

as Mom fills them in on my progress.

“Doesn’t she look good? She’s doing great —

she’s eating, getting her physical therapy,

improving each day,

and she’s handling all this so well.”

Grandma and Grandpa finally swallow

and unstick themselves, finding two chairs,

relaxing into them, and sighing.

“She’ll be going home in no time,”

Mom adds. “And then things

will be a lot better.”

She has convinced herself.

So I keep quiet. But really.

Better?

Six days after waking from my coma,

I am allowed to have my best friend, Rachel, visit.

I put on a clean gown and brush my hair —

nervous. Ready to get that first look over with.

“Hi,” she says, stepping into the room,

clutching a red rose. “I brought you a —”

she stares at the day’s delivery of flowers.

“Whoa.”

Michael and I laugh;

even Mom smiles.

The ice is broken, and Rachel sits on my bed,

filling me in on what’s been going on in the world

since June 21.

“Come on, Mike, let’s get some lunch,” Mom says,

and Michael pinches my foot as he passes the bed.

There’s a long pause while Rachel just sits

and stares at my short arm in its hard, rounded cast.

“I can’t believe it, Jane.”

“Me either.” We both contemplate the thing.

“You’re going to draw again,” Rachel says suddenly.

“People have stuff happen and they learn to get along

with their other hand just as well.”

“Rachel . . .”

“I mean it. I mean . . .

I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her,

my throat suddenly closing and tears rising

to the surface. “I wish everyone would

either say what they think

or say nothing.

Everybody that comes by, everyone who calls . . .

I end up having to tell them it’s okay.

I’m tired of saying it’s okay.”

Rachel is quiet for a moment. “It’s not okay.

I think, if it were me, I’d go crazy.”

Simple words that hurt

because they are the words I would say

if
she
were lying in this bed.

Why me? Why?

Michael?

Hmm?

Have you seen the . . . the video of . . .

No.

Michael.

What? You want some more water? Do you need to sit up?

Where did you get the belt?

What belt?

The thing you used to tie off my arm. To stop the bleeding.

I used the cord from my swimsuit.

That was fast thinking.

Somebody had to do something.

Did you see the shark, Michael? I mean, what did you see?

I saw you floundering around, and I saw a thing, a shape.

Then there was just a lot of . . .

Blood.

Well. Yeah.

Weren’t you afraid?

Of course I was. I thought you were dead.

No, I mean, weren’t you afraid that the shark would get you, too? When you swam out to get me?

No. I just knew I had to get you fast.

The person who videotaped . . .

I’m sure it was a coincidence that they had the thing on. But they could have helped, huh?

Yeah.

Hope they’re proud of themselves.

Michael.

What?

Thanks. For saving my life.

Sawing

with a rusty,

wobbly saw.

Tingling —

a wet finger

in an electric socket,

permanently.

Throbbing.

The skin that is gone

stretched tight,