Shark Girl (7 page)

What?

So many cards.

Uncle Ben?

Hey there, how was that shower?

Where’s Mom?

She had to go to work, hun. I’m going to sit with you this morning, then Karen will be over this afternoon. Okay?

Sure.

Uh, do you need help with that gown, that, uh . . .

If you could just call the nurse, she’ll tie it for me.

Right.

(Later)

You know, Jane, I have a friend who was struck by lightning. Burned all the skin on the left side of his body. He lost his hearing and was disfigured for life.

Really.

Yep. But you know, he never lost his faith in God? Never questioned why that happened to him and not someone else. Can you imagine?

No.

(Long pause.)

I’ve been asking God about this, Jane. And I think as bad as it is, we have to remember how close you came to death. I don’t know why this happened, but I believe in my heart that God saved your life that day.

(Pause.)

You think I’m full of baloney, don’t you?

No! I just . . . I don’t know. It’s hard to feel grateful.

I understand.

(Pause.)

Oh, Lord, I didn’t mean to make you cry, Janie.

I’m sorry. It’s just that my arm hurts today. It hurts so much.

Should I get the nurse? Will they give you something?

They already did. I have to wait now until my next shot.

Come here. Oh, honey, come here and let me hold you. It’s okay. You cry on me as much as you want, all right? Just cry on your uncle Ben.

I feel so stupid.

Why? Jane, don’t even say that. If I were in your shoes, I’d be crying, too. Don’t you know how brave you’ve been? You have a lot to cry about, and don’t ever apologize for it. It’s part of healing. The tears wash away the pain.

I remember you telling me that when I was little. That time I fell down off my bike and broke my finger.

Oh, yes, I remember that. Such a tough little thing you were. Just like your mother.

Really?

Oh, yes. She was so stubborn when she was your age. Like you are now. But you know something? Her stubbornness has done her good. I thought she’d die of grief when your father passed away, but she just dug in her heels and refused to give up. Went back to school, finished her degree, got a good paying job to support you and your brother.

Yeah . . .

And your stubbornness is going to pay off for you, too. Something like this, losing your arm, honey, that’s enough to make some people lie down and die. But not you. That’s not going to happen to you.

I’m never going to draw again, Uncle Ben. Not well, anyway.

(Pause.) You will, too. When you’re ready, you will. You have a gift too special to give up on.

It won’t be the same.

I know.

Nothing is ever going to be the same.

It’s all right. (Pause.) Is there a tissue box around here somewhere?

Here, you can have mine.

You’ve got me going, too.

One day Mel hands me a book.

“A journal,” he says. “It’ll help.”

I thank him,

wondering how long it would take me

to scratch out one page.

What would I write about, anyway?

“I won’t read it,” Mel adds.

“But bring it next time.

Just so I can make sure

you’ve written something.

Anything
.

This is not a suggestion, Jane.

It’s a prescription.”

“Oh.”

So that’s the way it is.

In that case, I don’t want this book.

I don’t need this. Besides —

this book is too snooty.

It has a spiral spine,

to lay open without help,

but still,

that richly textured leather cover,

the highbrow papers that shriek expensive,

daring you to misspell or cross out.

Heaven forbid — an inkblot.

“Thanks, Mel, but I don’t want to waste this nice — ”

Mel reaches deep into a desk drawer,

whips out a cheap purple notebook.

“There you are, Miss Artistic Temperament.

Whichever suits your mood.

See you Tuesday.”

I walk out,

both books in the crook of my arm.

I feel like I have been handed the keys

to a cage of lions.

I don’t want the night nurse

to rewrap my “residual limb,”

because she’s not gentle and doesn’t care,

and once she asked me if I remembered seeing a fin.

I don’t want this burning in my arm

to wake me from a dream of gliding through water

without fear.

I want to clap my hands.

I want to tie my shoes.

Today Justin asked me if I hated everybody.

“You look like you do,” he said.

“You would, too, if your story was all over the news,” I told him.

“Those people who write to me. They tell me they love me.

They don’t even know me.”

Justin thought for a moment.

His eyes are so blue.

He said, “You don’t have to love everybody.

But you have to love your family. We’re nice people.”

Justin includes himself in my family,

not even thinking about it.

I think

I love Justin.

I used to whine, I remember with shame.

My world is too small, this town is too boring,

California is disgusting.
I wanted to expand,

probe my world,

backpack through Europe.

Now,

I deal cards to Justin and me,

while his mom steps out for lunch.

“Do you have any kings?” Justin asks,

and it’s “Go fish” for him.

The simple pleasure he gets from this silly game,

it keeps his mind off the pain, I can see it,

and when he asks if I want to play again,

I say yes, of course.

“Shuffle,” he commands.

I sigh. “Can’t. Remember?

You need two hands to shuffle.”

Justin laughs. “Oops. Sorry.”

I watch him shuffle, furrowing his brows in concentration,

and I could sit in cramped hospital room #323,

never leaving Justin’s side.

I let him win, I see him smile,

and my world

is big

enough.

The night nurse, Carole, doesn’t smile, rarely speaks.

Her hands are warm, but

she pushes that thermometer into my ear too hard,

never checks my water pitcher.

She watches, impassively, while I shuffle to the bathroom.

My day nurse, Lindsey,

shows me pictures of her son,

brings me a share of his homemade cookies.

Her hands are cold, but steady.

We loop these halls like a geriatric hamster

on a wheel.

She knows when to talk

or when to get silent,

as I ride a tide of pain until it passes.

Palm to cheek.

My hand

is cold.

I could do it,

I could help like Lindsey,

knowing what I know now.

The difference between two warm hands

and someone who cares

is all the difference

in the world.

He helps me feel better.

He helps me make sense

of the days to come.

I could do that.

For someone else.

I know what it means

to know someone

listens.

Sketching

weak-kneed horses,

I think about

nursing. Therapy. Rehab.

Careers I

never thought of before.

Now, returning the pen

beside the phone,

I think about it

some more.