Shark Girl (4 page)

glove squashing tight

over tender bones

that are no longer there.

Ache —

as though my arm is still here,

and bent backward,

twisted, taut, spiraling down deep

ache.

Always.

I walk along,

sidewalk hot;

a thick-necked dog passes by.

He leaps up,

a scramble of fat paws,

snaps his jaws onto my right hand.

I hear the bones snap.

I float in a yellow raft,

trail my right hand in water;

clumps of green moss

darkly drift on glass.

An alligator

shatters the surface.

Massive head,

grinning smile,

pointed teeth.

My arm travels down its white throat.

Dr. Kim nods when I tell him.

“Such dreams are common for amputees.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I guess the brain is working overtime.

Trying to come up with an explanation for

why your arm hurts so much.”

Really, brain, you get a zero for creativity.

Why invent a dog

or an alligator

when you’ve been with a shark?

Doctor

Occupational therapist

Rehab coordinator

Psychologist

Physical therapist

Amputee

We are all one big team,

they tell me. Sport shirts with collars,

big silver wristwatches.

Clipboards in hand.

One big team working

to put Jane together again.

But I’m the dead weight,

fumbling the sheets on the bed I’m supposed to make,

as across the room, someone missing

both
his forearms

makes his bed with only a small wrinkle.

I am embarrassed to try the mixing bowl,

pretend to wash dishes,

practice writing, or

go through my range-of-motion moves.

Everyone is patient,

too patient,

nodding while I wait for them

to scream, “Try again, you big baby.”

Instead they say,

“The goal

is not to work hard.

The goal

is to work every day.”

They should dump me.

Alone, the team’s energy

would send them sailing into rays of sunshine,

a scene of happy green,

a yellow finish line

and picnics where somebody’s mom

passes out blue ribbons.

They give their best.

They should give it to someone better.

If only this had not happened.

Why did I go swimming right then?

If only the beach had been closed.

Why don’t they have better ways of tracking sharks? They should protect people.

If only the amputation had been below the elbow
.

Things would be easier.

Mom has her laptop today.

“I bought some software I thought you’d like.

You paint with it.

The computer can do all different textures.

There’s even one that looks like oil paint.”

I let her talk until she sighs.

“Jane, you are so stubborn.”

A mouse and a monitor are not art.

We’ve been over this before.

Art is meant to travel from your heart

to your head

and out through your fingers

onto
paper,
or clay, or a chapel ceiling.

Not into a mouse

into wires

into a box.

“Just
look
at it,”

she says, and

because she is Mom

and has spent the last four weeks

living in that blue chair,

I let her set it up.

When she opens the case,

I get a whiff of air freshener,

lemon oil,

the smell of home.

My heart aches.

“Okay, here it is. This over here is your brush size —

no, wait. That’s your texture.

I’m not sure what this is —”

“Mom, just let me do it.”

I clasp the mouse.

Mom’s eyes are like stiff fingers

pressing down on my shoulders.

“Mom —”

She reaches for her purse.

“Want anything from the cafeteria?

I’ll be back soon.”

In the silence, I sit there,

clicking, clicking.

Someone pages Dr. Chambers.

A telephone jingles across the hall.

My lines are jerky.

I keep clicking before I mean to.

Ten minutes pass before

there emerges

a lifeless giraffe,

pasted onto a blotchy background

that looks like real oil paint.

The pen

is lying on top of my lunch menu.

It’s Mom’s expensive pen, the pen

with black ink

that flows like silk.

No paper.

Just a gum wrapper at the bottom of my bedside table

    trash bag.

So small —

my left hand so clumsy.

One stroke almost eats up the whole wrapper,

but I try again

and make a circle —

shaky,

feathery,

crooked —

but it is a circle.

Two eyes,

they don’t land where I want them,

but they are looking back at me.

Two ears,

much rounder than planned;

a neck

that becomes skinnier and skinnier

until it meets in a point;

some spots

that are ragged;

a muzzle

that is a watermelon,

but it is a muzzle

and those are spots

and it
is
a giraffe.

It is not the giraffe

I pictured,

But it has eyes

that wait

in its lopsided head.

I hear Mom chatting with a nurse.

The wrapper, crumpled,

tucked under my pillow,

Mom exclaiming over the

sickly spotted creature on the screen.

“I TOLD you it was worth a try.”

She sips her coffee.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that.

Give this a chance, okay?

Jane, you are so stubborn.”

I want her to leave again.

I want to be alone with Raffie,

my gum wrapper pal.

I want that pen

back in my hand.

I’ll try a horse this time,

but I never could draw

with anyone watching me.

Mom is so disappointed,

I’m tempted to show her my drawing.

But I can’t stomach

any phone calls to relatives,

whispers,

“Jane drew a picture today with her left hand.

Yes, I think she may try to get back into it.

Isn’t it great?

So
therapeutic.

But of course, her plans to become

a
professional
artist

are over.”

I won’t say a word.

But before Mom leaves,

I’ll ask

for another piece of gum.

I remember

the sand burned my feet as I walked

toward the gray water.

I passed a lady;

a heavy lady,

carrying a thin tray

piled with three hot dogs

and three drinks.

Two little kids

pulled at her shorts.

One was crying.

A cup toppled from the tray,

splattered into the sand at my feet.

I paused, then I kept going

without looking at her face,

even as I heard her sigh,

even as the one kid

cried louder.

I felt embarrassed for her,

I’m not sure why.

I stepped into the icy water

and spread my arms wide.

Finally, Angie, Trina, and Elizabeth

visit. Elizabeth gives me a big hug.

She cries a little. “God, I was so scared.

I thought you might die.”

“We all thought that,” Trina says,

hugging me too, smelling of roses

from the bouquet by her side. She adds,

“I think you’re amazing.