Shark Girl (17 page)

Janie?

Hi, Uncle Ben.

How are you?

I’m fine.

How’s school? You never answered my e-mail about that.

It’s fine.

We sure can’t wait to have you out here at Christmas. You —

Janie?

Grandma?

Janie, I’m going to get off the phone and let you and your grandma talk, okay? We love you.

Bye. Hi, Grandma.

Hi, sweetheart, how are you?

I’m fine.

Did you help your mom put dinner together?

Um, not really.

Jane, why not?

Well, it’s just us and two of her friends from school. She could handle it.

That’s not the point, honey. You love to cook. You should be in there making your chocolate pie. Everyone would have loved it.

Well.

Besides, even if it’s a small group, your mom shouldn’t have to do it alone.

Would you like to talk to Michael? He’s home for the weekend.

In a minute. Now listen, honey, I’m not trying to nag, but you need to get back into your routine. Your mom said you’re not drawing, you’re not cooking, you’re not going out with your friends. She’s making excuses for you, but I think you’re not pushing yourself enough. What do you do when you come home from school?

I have homework.

You used to do homework
and
lots of other stuff.

Okay, okay, I don’t want the silent treatment, you stubborn thing. You know I love you, Jane, right?

Mmm-hmm.

I’m just trying to help. You can’t sit around forever.

I’m not sitting around! How can you say that?

I just meant I’m worried about you being in a depression.

Well, I do have a lot to be depressed about, you know.

I didn’t mean you didn’t. I just —

Janie?

Uncle Ben?

What in the world is going on here? Your grandma is all red in the face. Are you two fighting? On Thanksgiving?

No. She was just giving me some advice.

Do you need advice?

NO.

Are you sure? You want me to come out there and set you straight? I better not hear any bad things about my favorite niece.

I’m your
only
niece.

Your grandma is worried about you. Your mom is worried about you. We all just want you to be happy, okay?

No one needs to worry about me. I’m
fine.

All right. Listen honey, put your mom on, okay? I want to say hello before we sit down to eat.

Okay.

Love you, Janie.

Bye.

“See you later, alligator.”

Mom heads out for shopping.

Michael sleeps the day away

while I

lift every clock, photo, and scrap of paper

from every table, dresser, and shelf.

Lemon-scented polish,

the damp rag makes a dark slash through the dust.

Every item returned to its shiny home,

and then it’s the heavy vacuum,

maddening in its complacent

refusal to cooperate. I wonder if it’s friends

with the lawn mower. Soon, I am exhausted,

but the floor is done.

Folding laundry is a joke. But I can

peel sheets from the bed,

traveling from one side to the other,

then stuff them into the wash, one-handed,

unscrew cap, pour in suds of neon blue,

listen to the gurgle of a machine well fed.

Mom comes home,

crushes me in a hug.

“Thank you, honey. This is a nice surprise.”

I sit in the chemical cleanness,

breathing the works of my labor,

feeling tired in a good way,

knowing this nice surprise

needs to become, once again,

my weekly obligation.

Not just for Mom,

but for both of us.

Because saying “I can’t”

isn’t going to cut it

when I’m living alone.

I think about calling Grandma to gloat.

But I hold off,

savoring instead

the quiet hum of the dryer,

clothes spinning inside.

Use of a hip

to pin one strap down,

plus some creative wiggling

makes putting on a bra

possible.

I can now deal with maxi pads

and their “wings”

fairly well.

Tying shoes?

Still a problem.

But,

I can button and zip

all by myself.

I’ve even made my own

bowl of cereal

twenty-two mornings in a row now.

Inch by inch,

centimeter by centimeter,

I gain back pieces

of lost ground.

After art, I swing by Mrs. Guiano’s desk.

She’s our guidance counselor extraordinaire.

“Jane.” She hugs me long, smelling of vanilla,

her glasses on a chain, crushed between us.

“I want to talk about nursing,” I hear myself say.

I sit and listen to myself, tentatively, edge of my seat,

watching how myself will unfold this event.

“I want to know what classes I could take now

that will help me if I go into nursing school later.

Or physical therapy. Art therapy. Something like that.”

Mrs. Guiano sits back as though I’ve just announced

I have a cure for cancer.

Stunned melts into thrilled.

“You come back,”

she says, flipping open her calendar and scribbling in it.

“I will have a stack of information waiting for you

after the holiday break. Classes, schools, careers,

you name it.”

I hurry off, still smelling of vanilla from our hug.

I must not be so empty, after all.

A presence has dripped into my being —

something

that might be

excitement.

Spies me hurrying along,

says:

“Can I help you with your books?”

I

say:

“Uh.”

He takes the books to my locker,

hands them over with a smile.

Heads swivel our way.

The rest of my day is spent

conjugating numerous other,

better

replies

than

“Uh.”

Wrapping presents is,

as my book on being handicapped urges me to say,

a
challenge.

Not

a @#%&! pain in the ass.

NOT

a cause for smashing this room to pieces.

I’ll ask Rachel to help me.

Then I’ll ask Mom to help me with Rachel’s.

But I won’t cry in frustration,

no way.

It’s Christmas.

Mom likes the robe I got her,

holds the pink softness to her face,

smiles at me,

holds that smile.

I see a shine of tears

when she bends to

fold it back up.

Grandma serving up cinnamon rolls,

urging us to eat just one more;

Grandpa yawning, scratching his head,

an unopened gift in his lap,

slippers half off,

reaches out, squeezes my hand.

Michael in his gray wrinkled

sweatpants, gathering

balled-up wrapping paper,

flipping it into the fireplace,

asking “When is dinner?”

Already, even though it’s early.

“I like a boy with an appetite,”

Grandma says, and hands him

another roll.

“Mother, you’ll make us all fat,”

Mom groans, but she reaches

for the corner of the last roll

at the same time I do.

She catches my eye,

and we smile again.

Among the candles,

the Christmas tree lights,

and the sight of Mom

picking her way over

boxes of opened gifts,

a sudden rush fills me.

I’m here.

I’m alive, and I’m here.

Seems like tears of joy

should flow right about now.

Instead, I just smile,

lean back into the couch,

and enjoy the happiness,

deep and warm.