Shark Girl (5 page)

I think you are, like, the strongest person I know.”

She turns to place her flowers near the others.

“Have enough flowers, Jane? Geez, who are these

    from?”

“A secret admirer?” Angie asks.

Is she serious?

“They’re from people who, you know,

saw the video and wanted to . . .”

“You are kidding,” Angie says.

“No.”

“Oh my God. That is so weird.”

“Yeah. Maybe when you guys leave,

you could take them with you.”

Trina is biting her lip.

“We wanted to come see you yesterday,

but
Angie
was busy.”

Angie blushes. “I had two soccer games yesterday.

I am the referee — what am I supposed to do?”

“Well, here we are today, anyway,” Elizabeth says.

“But Rachel couldn’t make it.”

“Yeah, she called me,” I say, and

I wonder why Elizabeth and Trina

didn’t come alone yesterday.

“We ran into Chris and Mason and all those guys

at the Plaza,” Trina says.

“They wanted to know how you are.”

“I had this great idea,” Angie says.

“I want to throw you a party when you get out.”

“Very funny.”

“What? I’m serious.”

“Angie, look at me.

Do you really think I want to have a party?”

Even I am surprised by the way

my voice just kind of

rose up and spilled out so loud. I’m not

supposed to say these things.

I’m the glue, the one that always

holds the group together, smoothing

over bumps and offenses.

“I mean, I appreciate it, but . . .”

“That’s okay, I wasn’t really thinking,”

Angie says.

“I’m sorry.”

God, can’t they see the truth?

Forget boys. Forget anything.

Dates? Kisses?

Dancing, my arm and a half around some guy?

It’s over before it’s even begun.

After an awkward pause,

Trina changes the subject to Troy, her latest crush.

We all try very hard to pretend

we are the same group as before,

and that nothing has changed.

Dear Jane,

I saw your story on the news. Honey, my heart goes out to you. It is unbelievable that something so horrible could happen to someone so young. Do you remember what happened? It must have been awful. I am amazed that they show that video on the news as often as they do. Even with the really bad parts blurred out, it sure seems like an invasion of your privacy to do so.

Well, Jane, I just want you to know that my whole church is praying for you to recover and overcome this terrible time in your life. We have you in our prayer chain and pray for you at every service, too. We love you and think of you every day. I am sure God will deliver you from this pain and He will carry you down the path of healing. Sometimes it is not easy to understand why God allows us to suffer, but always there is an answer if you just wait and listen with your heart. Pray to God, Jane, and pray to Jesus and I can promise you that they will send comfort.

God works in mysterious ways, but always He is loving to those who believe.

Love to you and your family.

Your sister in Christ,

Lynn

And then . . . some days are gray days,

vast, unbearable

canyon days, when I can’t take

the frantic buzzing in my arm anymore.

“My life is going to be one long hurt,”

I tell Mel. Sick as it is, I say it:

“Sometimes I wish I died.”

“Time to think about the
smaller
picture,”

Mel says. “Like getting through one day.

Not your whole life, not forever,

one day
.

Sometimes we can only look at one hour,

or one minute.”

Tears crawl into my eyes.

Emptiness makes my throat ache.

“On those bad days, Jane,

hold on. Get through one minute.

Then tell yourself,

I made it through that minute,

I can make it through another.”

So I do as he says,

and get through

one    more    day.

Some nights,

in between the clatter of medical carts

that rumble by,

and the endless vacuuming

outside my door,

I dream of my old self.

Two arms,

two hands,

drawing. Always drawing.

The lines thick

and black.

The animals I used to sketch,

their eyes, watching.

During the steamy noon hour

while Mom goes for lunch,

I take the pen and notepad

and scratch away.

Wobbly foxes,

trees; levitating,

one-dimensional clouds.

I trash everything

before Mom returns.

I will continue in

this vein until those trees

take root, and clouds become cotton.

I will surprise everyone,

showing my work only

when I am good again.

Good.

Again.

Nurse: “You’re so brave, Jane.”

Hospital volunteer: “You are a hero.”

Physical therapist: “You’re a real survivor, know that?”

When people talk like that,

I could get up and slip away

and they’d still stand there,

talking to the cartoon cloud

they’ve drawn over my body.

Just once,

I’d like someone to say,

“Jane, you are a mess.”

There’s a new kid in the physical therapy gym today.

His name is Justin.

Justin is around eight or nine or ten maybe.

He’s lost his leg below the knee

in some kind of car accident.

His face is all cut up, too.

Justin rolls over in his wheelchair.

“What happened to your arm?” he asks.

“A shark attacked me.”

Justin stares. “He ATE your arm?”

I feel sorry for him; so skinny and messed up.

But I don’t need some kid bugging me.

I move away but Justin follows,

silent and smooth in his wheelchair.

He asks,

“Have you seen the new Superman movie?”

I haven’t.

Justin goes into the whole long, long story,

complete with explosion sound effects.

I wait to see what this has to do with me or my arm

or the attack.

Nothing.

Justin just wants to talk about Superman.

I like Justin.

Mom watches me return

from a loop around the hall

with Lindsey.

“Moving any better today?”

she asks, all cheer.

I slide into bed

one piece at a time.

“Not really.”

Mom sighs loudly.

“It
seems
like you are moving

better. Sometimes I think

you don’t look for encouragement,

Jane. Try to acknowledge

your progress. You
are
making progress.”

Lindsey chimes in.

“You sure are, Jane.

You are doing just great.”

Then Lindsey surprises us

by putting a hand on Mom’s shoulder.

“And you are too, Katherine.

Really, really great.”

Mom blinks back tears,

but pretends not to.

Wiping her eyes, she pats Lindsey

on the back,

reaches down for her newspaper,

sits in the chair.

“We’re
all
doing great,” she says,

sniffing loudly. “Which is good.

I have to get back to work

sometime.
”

“Sorry if I’m keeping you,”

I hear myself say, harsh and ugly.

“You could go in if you want. I’ll be fine.”

Mom looks up, wipes her nose quickly.

“I didn’t mean that, of course.

I just meant . . .

well, you know.”

I don’t.

But I don’t ask her to explain.

Finally, she murmurs,

“I’m going downstairs for some coffee.”

When she’s gone,

I can finally let these stupid tears