Shark Girl (9 page)

This is what I know

about shark attacks.

You are more likely

to die in a car crash

driving to the beach

than to be attacked once

you are there,

swimming.

Other facts:

84 percent, give or take,

happen in calm waters.

Shiny jewelry,

erratic movements,

having your period,

all are contributing factors.

Then again,

sometimes you’re just

in the wrong place

at the wrong time.

Here it is.

This is where the shit hits the fan.

The Sahara desert,

and me without my survival kit.

Home.

I missed it.

But nothing

is familiar.

When did everything get so bright?

So loud,

so cluttered?

Why do I have so much stuff?

The smell of baby powder deodorant

is from another lifetime.

My dog, Mabel, white and wiggly,

barking with happiness,

she’s like a clip from an old family movie.

My room, a frozen photograph —

my bed,

pillows piled high on the chair.

Robinson Crusoe
on the nightstand —

I forgot I was reading that.

Makeup on the white dresser,

books on the shelves,

a rainbow of pencils on the drafting table.

It’s all exactly as I left it,

but it’s different.

I’m
the one who’s different.

Obviously.

My stomach is so tight

at the sight

of sweaters hanging in the closet,

pairs of slim sleeves

dangling

down.

The couch

welcomes my body.

The rug,

furry on my feet.

The hallway

with my footsteps worn into it —

my bathroom!

Clean, bright,
private
.

I am as happy to see my bathroom

as I am to feel my own soft bed.

But the kitchen stops me.

I see myself in this room,

shorts over my pink bikini,

thumping cans of soda,

dumping trays of ice,

tossing bagged sandwiches

into our red cooler,

the one we took that day.

Always hurrying.

That was me.

If I’d only slowed down,

ten minutes more

might have been

enough.

By the silverware drawer,

Mom and I bump.

Forks clatter to the floor.

Stepping

into the hallway,

Michael and I crash shoulders.

In the living room,

popcorn spilled on the floor.

I bend to pick it up,

Mom reaches to help,

Mabel dives for a taste,

all three of us smack heads.

“Sorry,” and “Excuse me,”

and

“Here, let me do it,”

cover up pressed lips and

big sighs.

Funny.

I’ve come home

one arm lighter;

one arm smaller.

So why do I take up more space than before?

Methodic pecking of the keys

reminds me how they used to clatter

when I could type.

But I surf, page after page

popping up under

“amputee.”

Many sites are perky,

imparting words for thought.

People with dis
ABILITIES,

for example,

or the Feminine Amputee Site:

It takes a “special woman”

to overcome the pitfalls of amputation.

Why the quotes?

Here’s a favorite:

A rose without a petal

is still a rose.

Please.

Will I ever

feel called to respond

to post #316:

“Does anyone have any tips

for buttoning their pants?”

Okay, I read that one.

Motivational speakers.

Forums.

Chat rooms.

And overwhelmingly:

Most of the time, we become

a better person than we were.

I was
fine

with who I was.

I will never

become one of these heroic

icons, spreading hope

from the other side,

one hand waving.

“Come with me

to the grocery store,”

Mom says.

“It’s a nice day.

We can stop for ice cream

or something.

Lunch out?”

“No, thanks.”

“Please, honey?”

Over my book,

I watch Mom put on

a winning smile.

I see what she’s doing.

Trying to balance hope

with casualness,

trying not to push.

But the thought of stepping out

there like this —

I listen to her car drive away.

I return to my book.

But the words

don’t make sense.

Food was my friend
.

“You are always eating,”

Rachel would say.

Mom would tell her friends,

“It’s not Michael that eats the most around here,

it’s my dainty little daughter.”

Food is the best medicine
.

That’s Grandma’s favorite saying.

Mine, too.

Spaghetti,

the Band-Aid for scraped feelings.

Cookies,

the aspirin for all headaches.

Pizza,

a snake-oil salve for You-Name-It.

Mashed potatoes,

the antibiotics of the Food Pharmacy.

Now,

Mom places a plate before me,

a snow-white pile of mashed potatoes,

steamy hot.

“You need to get your strength back,”

she says.

“Eat.”

The food slides down warm and easy,

but leaves me gagging.

I can’t take more than three bites.

Will
anything
ever be normal again?

I can’t even eat.

Later, Michael brings me a stack

of magazines.

“These have good jokes in them.”

“You know I don’t like dirty jokes.”

“Unbutton, okay? Read one.”

“Why?”

Michael folds his arms. “Grandma is wrong.

Food isn’t the best medicine.

Laughter is.”

He walks out.

I stay up late, reading by the bedside lamp

while Mabel snores by my feet.

Three times, I chuckle.

And a warmth,

smooth and easy, like mashed potatoes,

flickers somewhere

in my heart.

If you had helped that lady. The one with the tray of hot dogs. But oh, no. You couldn’t be bothered.

I know I should have. But I was . . .

She was fat. You were embarrassed for her because she was fat.

I was not!

If she saw you today, she’d be the one embarrassed. For you. Ironic, isn’t it?

Stop this. Why am I doing this?

Because you know this whole thing is your own selfish fault, and no one else does. If they only knew, what would they say?

They would say it wasn’t my fault. They’d say . . .