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about the people we saw down in the parking lot.

Sometimes
I can still feel my right hand,
like a best friend;
weighted,
warm.

Sometimes
Mom looks for a tissue
or the book
lying among my covers
and I reach for it,
then I remember
I cannot reach with that hand
ever again.

Sometimes
a prickle crawls across my cheek,
and that right hand tries to
rise from the grave,
moved to scratch.
The fingers, palm,
wrist, and arm
that I remember
don’t know enough
to know
peace.

I remember

the first time,

and the last time,

I wore my

pink bikini.

Michael teased me.

He said,

“Why don’t you give that thing to someone who can fill it out?”

A driver’s license in his wallet,

so high on freedom,

he was more obnoxious than usual.

I threw the towels at him.

Mom hefted him the cooler.

We filled up the trunk,

Michael slid behind the wheel,

Mom pasted sunscreen around her ears.

The sun was so bright that day.

As we pulled out of the driveway,

I reached for the beach bag

and slipped my sketchbook inside.

Los Angeles Times, June 22

A fifteen-year-old girl was attacked by a shark at Point Dume State Beach yesterday afternoon. The girl was swimming approximately four yards from shore in waters four to five feet deep when the shark attacked.

“I was just down the shore from her,” one witness said. “Everything was fine, then all of a sudden I heard people screaming. Everyone started running out of the water. It was crazy. I looked, and saw people pointing. I saw the girl trying to swim.”

Another witness described the scene: “I saw her out there, kind of going under, then back up again. There was all this blood. They got her out of there and laid her on the sand, and I thought she was dead, there was just so much blood coming out of her. Her arm was barely attached to her body. It was terrifying.”

The girl’s brother is credited with saving her life. After pulling her from the water, he used a string to tie off the injured limb and slow blood loss.

Frightened beachgoers watched as paramedics arrived. The girl was transported to UCLA hospital, where she is listed in critical condition. Doctors had to amputate her right arm due to injuries inflicted by the shark.

“She is lucky to be alive,” Dr. Andrew Kim, head of orthopedic surgery, reports. “She is in a coma due to blood loss. The next forty-eight hours are critical. We have no way of knowing yet if she sustained brain damage from the massive blood loss.”

Authorities closed down the beach and it remains closed today, but a spokesman said it will probably open again tomorrow. The Coast Guard has found no evidence of the shark in patrolling the area since yesterday.

I didn’t think

things could get much worse

when the doctors told me,

their voices penetrating

some faraway cloud

I’d been inhaling,

“Jane, we’ve had to amputate.

Your right arm, Jane.

Above the elbow.”

I didn’t think things could get worse.

But then I was in a coma for

the first ten days.

“There’s video.”

Michael gives it to me straight.

“Some person on the beach.

He was taping his kids and then . . .”

He stares at his palms.

“The guy is a bastard.”

Details come

from everyone else.

“They blurred out the really bad parts,”

Mom says, her eyes wet.

“I haven’t seen it. I hope I never do.

The news finally stopped playing it

about a week after you —

after it happened.”

The nurse says,

“Don’t watch it, if it comes up again.

Just try and put that day behind you.”

Hot tears

slide down into my ears.

Rage boils

in me so wild,

it almost

swallows my fear.

I hold on to Mom’s hand with my left one now.

Her hand is warm and soft.

I feel so hot, so thirsty, all the time.

She pours me water.

I think, constantly, about my art — my life.

Why did this happen? Why me?

I was supposed to be an artist.

Has there been a mistake? Can it be fixed?

How can I live without drawing?

What am I supposed to do now?

These are my questions,

running like hamsters on wheels,

but I ask,

“Who’s covering for you at school?”

Mom teaches English at USC.

“They found a substitute,” she says,

and squeezes my fingers. “Don’t worry about it.

Your grandparents are coming Friday;

they can help out when I go back.”

Our hands separate when the

phone rings. Rachel, my best friend,

checking in. All my other friends,

calling to see if they can come visit.

I can’t even talk to them.

I feel like words

might force my stomach to come up.

Mom takes over.

“If you could wait a few more days,

that would be best,” she tells

everyone who calls.

Mom goes for coffee

while my blood pressure is taken,

my temperature charted,

my bandages rewrapped.

Though I’m dozing off when she returns,

I’m aware of her hand

slipping back over mine.

Warm, and soft.

Jane? How are you?

Hi, Aunt Karen. I’m fine.

No you’re not. You’re not fine at all. I’m sorry — that was a dumb question.

It’s okay.

Lord, it’s good to hear your voice. We haven’t slept a minute, waiting for you to come out of that coma. We’re coming out next week to see you. You know we could hardly stand waiting, but your uncle just had his knee surgery.

I know.

You sound strong. Are they taking care of you in that hospital?

Yes.

Are you in pain? Your mother said you were having some pain.

It’s not too bad today. It comes and goes.

Oh, Jane. I’m just . . . I . . .

It’s okay.

Will you listen to her? (Voice grows distant.) She’s telling me it’s okay, Ben. Jane, you don’t have to be brave for me.

Okay.

Hold on, your uncle Ben wants to talk to you. He’s about to rip the phone out of my hand.

Janie?

Hi, Uncle Ben. How’s your knee?

Forget the damned knee. I love you, honey, and you’re going to be okay. Whatever happens, at least you’re alive. We thought we were going to lose you, you know. We just thank God you’re going to recover.

Yeah.

I mean it. It will be okay. I know it looks rough now, but you are . . .

Strong?

Hell, yes. Strong. All right, here’s Karen. Love you. Take care, now, all right? Listen to the doctors. We’ll be out next week.

Okay.

I’m here, Jane.

I have to go. It’s time for my physical therapy.

Eat right, Jane. And take your time with everything. Listen to the doctors.

All right.

And don’t watch too much . . . uh, don’t watch TV.

Have you seen the video?

I have, and we don’t even need to discuss it.

Is it . . .

I love you, and I’ll call you tomorrow.

I remember

spreading out the towels.

Michael wanted the yellow one.

It was biggest.

“Yeah, you need it for your fat head,”

I told him.

Michael dug into the cooler,

tossed a river of ice at me.

“Have a shower, Jane the pain.”

There were four girls,

all from Michael’s class,

stretched out on their bellies.

Michael sat on the yellow towel,

pretending to read a magazine.

He watched the girl in the green suit.

I laughed at him

as I stood to go.

Mom said,

“Michael, why don’t you go in with Jane?

It looks a little choppy today.”

“I don’t need him to come with me,”

I said.

But I was kind of hoping he would come.

It was always more fun

with Michael along.

But

he was too busy

not watching

the girl.

“When will that pain stop?”

Mom asks the doctor

as he squeezes my flesh,

making sure circulation is healthy.

“She keeps saying she feels pain,

in the end there,

and sometimes cold. Right, Jane?”

“Yes.” I want to tell her to let me talk,

but the doctor is giving her a look,

and turning away from us both.

“This is not an exact science,” he says,

stabbing his pen into his shirt pocket.

“Phantom pain is part of the fallout

of amputation. It may last a few weeks.

It may last a person’s lifetime.”

Why does he say “a person’s”?

Me. We’re talking about me.

Mom makes annoyed sounds when he leaves,

more when the nurse brings breakfast

twenty minutes late,

more when the second-shift nurse

delivers medication and doesn’t know

what the blue pill is for.

“Nobody tells us anything,” Mom says.

Michael, who has dropped in for dinner,

stretches lazily. “What do you expect?

It’s a hospital.

Everyone’s too busy to take care of people.”

“It’s not a joke!” Mom snaps.

“Damn it, why can’t you be more help?”

The shock on Michael’s face

is a mirror of her own

and probably mine, too.

The words hang in the air,

long after Michael has left.

Why didn’t that man

put down his camera

and help me?

And why, why, why

did he give that video

to the news?

Santa Clarita Press, July 7

Jane Arrowood, the teenage girl attacked by a shark last month, is reported to be in stable condition. The fifteen-year-old is a resident of Santa Clarita and attends Mountain Ridge High School, where she will be a junior this fall.

“She is doing well, has suffered no brain damage, and will be going home soon,” her surgeon, Dr. Andrew Kim, reports. “She is very, very lucky.”

The young beachgoer lost her right arm in the attack, which happened mid-morning at a crowded beach. The attack was caught on tape and has gained widespread attention.

Ms. Arrowood was a well-known artist at Mountain Ridge, having won state art competitions the last two years in a row, and last year claiming top prize in the West Coast Wings Competition, a contest held annually that selects the best work of art from state champions of California, Oregon, Washington, and Nevada.

There is no word yet on her exact date of release.

“Mail call!”

Lindsey, my nurse,

carries in the day’s stack of white envelopes,

with one red one, like a spot of blood,

peeking out of the pale pile.

“No,” I groan.

“Wow, the stack is smaller today,”

Michael observes. “Maybe

your fifteen minutes is up.”

I laugh a little, though it’s not funny.

Mom frowns at our bad manners.

“And one more thing,” Lindsey adds.

From her pocket, she whips out a tiny white bear

with a pink heart in its stuffed paws.

“This one arrived today.”

Tubes spiral around my bed,

some of them enter my body.

The pain medication leaves me floating,

but not high enough to shut out the Pity Bears.

That’s what I call them,

all the teddy bears strangers send me.

And the flowers.

The smell was suffocating. I had to

beg Michael to deliver them to the other rooms.

I give the bears to the younger kids on the hall.

“Like it or not, you’re a celebrity,”

Lindsey says.

She puts her cool hand on my cheek,

then my forehead.

“People care. They want you to know that.”

I say, “But I don’t want this, any of it.”

Mom gets a flash in her eye

and snaps,

“Jane, for God’s sake, just appreciate it.

People are trying to help,

not embarrass you.”

So I shut up,

because who wants to fight

while lying in a hospital bed?

Besides,

mail call is the highlight of Mom’s day.

Each day, she and Lindsey rip open the cards,

turn to me with eager smiles,

read to me like I’m a baby.

“Doesn’t that make you feel better?” Mom asks,

holding up a rainbow drawing some child made.

Michael is the only one who understands,

pretending to gag when Mom isn’t looking.

This is pity,

pure and simple.

People have watched that damned video

and been shocked into wanting to do something —

something for That Poor Girl.

Shark Girl.

Me.

Dear Jane,

I saw the pictures on TV. Mom says you lost your arm. Your right one. The doctors cut my arm off, too. I had cancer. After they cut it off, I got all better. Are you all better now? I have a new arm. I named her Patty. I can play at the park with all my friends like I used to. I am on the soccer team. Patty helps me do a lot of things.

After I was all better, my mom and dad and I had a funeral for my arm. We played music and made a grave and I put flowers from our garden on the grave. It was nice. My real arm was not in the grave. The doctors threw it away already. But we pretended. Maybe you should have a pretend funeral, too. So you can say good-bye.

My mom wrote this letter for me. But I can write by myself.

Love,

Mary

It sounds clichéd.

But at times like this,

I miss my dad.

I mean,

I don’t remember him —

he died of cancer when I was three.

Pictures

are all that’s left.

My favorite one is us

sitting on a bench, eating ice cream.

Our knees are knobby the same way,

we’re both grinning like hyenas,

he’s pointing at the camera.

I haven’t had a dad in twelve years.

Most of the time,

that’s okay.

But today,

right now,

I’d like a hug.

From him.

I wasn’t sure about having a man

be my therapist.

Or shrink, as Rachel calls him.

But he was assigned by the hospital.

That first day

when Mel walked into my room,

with his gray mustache,

and his loud tie,

my body tightened.

That whole long hour,

more silence than words.

Now our sessions fly by.

“Big picture,” Mel tells me.

He says this when I’m telling him

how many things I have to relearn

or how fear keeps me from breathing right.

“Big picture, Jane,” he says.

“You could have died.

Instead, you are here. You have time to find out why.

You have your whole life to discover

and rebuild.”

I know what he’s thinking.

He’s thinking about the terminally ill kids

upstairs. Bald heads and sad eyes

and weeping parents —

that’s real tragedy.

My problem

must not seem like much of a problem

to them.

The really sick kids should get the balloons,

cards, and letters from all over.

Not me.

“It’s in our nature . . . our culture, really,”

Mel says, “to think that when we are depressed,

we need to cheer ourselves up right away.

That’s not always healthy.”

He faces me with gray eyes and a shiny spot

on his balding head.

It’s like he knows my thoughts and doesn’t judge.

“You have lost your right arm.

That is a tremendous, heartbreaking loss.

You have every right to be depressed.

Don’t fight it. Allow yourself to feel as bad as you want.

The sooner you do this,

the sooner you will be able to move on.”

My tears are

loud

and ugly

and awful.

They keep tumbling and tearing,

from deep inside somewhere,

somewhere

down

dark

and black.

When will they stop?

Grandma and Grandpa arrived today.

Michael picked them up at the airport.

They stepped into my tiny white room,

Grandpa looking terrified,

Grandma simmering with tears.

“Jane!” they blurted, and “Katherine!” to Mom,

and there were exclamations all around,

the smell of Grandpa’s cinnamon gum,

and Grandma sweeping my hair behind my ears.

“You look beautiful,” she said.

“She’s getting fitted for her prosthesis next month,”

Mom said. They all stood around the foot of my bed,

breathing in the monitors and bandages,

the smell of antiseptic.

Grandma dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“Well, they better treat her right. Sometimes

hospital staff can be rather callous.”

She used to be an ER nurse, so she knows.

“The nurses here are nice,” I say. “Mostly.”

Grandma nods triumphantly. “Uh-huh. Mostly.

If anyone gives you trouble, you tell them —”

“Mom, they’re fine. They’re all fine,” Mom says.

Grandpa pats my leg. “It sure is good to see you, Janie.”

He jingles coins in his pockets;

Gram clutches her purse straps;

they stare unseeingly at the cards lined up

on the windowsill

as Mom fills them in on my progress.

“Doesn’t she look good? She’s doing great —

she’s eating, getting her physical therapy,

improving each day,

and she’s handling all this so well.”

Grandma and Grandpa finally swallow

and unstick themselves, finding two chairs,

relaxing into them, and sighing.

“She’ll be going home in no time,”

Mom adds. “And then things

will be a lot better.”

She has convinced herself.

So I keep quiet. But really.

Better?

Six days after waking from my coma,

I am allowed to have my best friend, Rachel, visit.

I put on a clean gown and brush my hair —

nervous. Ready to get that first look over with.

“Hi,” she says, stepping into the room,

clutching a red rose. “I brought you a —”

she stares at the day’s delivery of flowers.

“Whoa.”

Michael and I laugh;

even Mom smiles.

The ice is broken, and Rachel sits on my bed,

filling me in on what’s been going on in the world

since June 21.

“Come on, Mike, let’s get some lunch,” Mom says,

and Michael pinches my foot as he passes the bed.

There’s a long pause while Rachel just sits

and stares at my short arm in its hard, rounded cast.

“I can’t believe it, Jane.”

“Me either.” We both contemplate the thing.

“You’re going to draw again,” Rachel says suddenly.

“People have stuff happen and they learn to get along

with their other hand just as well.”

“Rachel . . .”

“I mean it. I mean . . .

I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her,

my throat suddenly closing and tears rising

to the surface. “I wish everyone would

either say what they think

or say nothing.

Everybody that comes by, everyone who calls . . .

I end up having to tell them it’s okay.

I’m tired of saying it’s okay.”

Rachel is quiet for a moment. “It’s not okay.

I think, if it were me, I’d go crazy.”

Simple words that hurt

because they are the words I would say

if she were lying in this bed.

Why me? Why?

Michael?

Hmm?

Have you seen the . . . the video of . . .

No.

Michael.

What? You want some more water? Do you need to sit up?

Where did you get the belt?

What belt?

The thing you used to tie off my arm. To stop the bleeding.

I used the cord from my swimsuit.

That was fast thinking.

Somebody had to do something.

Did you see the shark, Michael? I mean, what did you see?

I saw you floundering around, and I saw a thing, a shape.

Then there was just a lot of . . .

Blood.

Well. Yeah.

Weren’t you afraid?

Of course I was. I thought you were dead.

No, I mean, weren’t you afraid that the shark would get you, too? When you swam out to get me?

No. I just knew I had to get you fast.

The person who videotaped . . .

I’m sure it was a coincidence that they had the thing on. But they could have helped, huh?

Yeah.

Hope they’re proud of themselves.

Michael.

What?

Thanks. For saving my life.

Sawing

with a rusty,

wobbly saw.

Tingling —

a wet finger

in an electric socket,

permanently.

Throbbing.

The skin that is gone

stretched tight,

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.

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

come out.

Mom sinks into the blue

vinyl chair by the bed.

“I’m going to have a few sessions

with Mel.”

I stare at her

over my pudding cup.

“Why?”

She smooths the knees

of her pants,

smoothing and smoothing

with slow, firm movements.

“Well. He thinks, as family,

Michael and I should

talk about what happened.

Talk about how we’re feeling.

But Michael won’t go.

So it will be just me.”

“Oh.”

I put the cup aside.

Outside the window,

the sun shines brightly,

the sky is clean. Tops

of palm trees sway slightly

in a breeze.

“It will probably only be

a couple of times,” Mom adds.

We don’t look at each other.

What is this? She’s not stealing

a guy I like, a best friend, or anything like that.

But I’m upset.

Maybe because my mother

needs therapy

to deal with this thing,

this thing that is me

that has disrupted

not just my life

but hers, too.

That’s what hurts.

That I’ve caused her this.

And that she and Mel will

discuss

behind that closed door

what Mom is feeling.

What is she feeling?

I wish

I could be a fly on the wall

when she begins.

Justin drew me a picture.

Blobby men with stick legs

and a sausage roll with long ears.

“That’s my parents and my dog, Spot.”

“You have a dog named Spot?” I ask.

He nods. “I miss her.”

I ask Michael to tape the drawing to the wall.

“You’re a good artist, Justin,” he says.

“Jane’s an artist, too.”

Justin turns those blue eyes on me.

“Will you draw me a —”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I lost my hand, Justin. I can’t draw anymore.”

He points to my left hand.

“But you could use that one.”

“I can’t, okay, Justin? It’s not my good hand.”

Justin looks down. “Both my legs were good.

But now I only have one, so it’s the good one.

Isn’t it that way with your arm?”

He doesn’t get it. No one gets it.

I wish they would all leave me

alone.

Mom always waits for me

outside of Mel’s office.

She walks me back up

to my room.

Always smiles at Mel,

says, “Thank you.”

She waits until we’re in the elevator

to look at my face,

searching for red eyes.

Her hand warms my shoulder,

hugging with her fingers.

One day, after Mom meets me,

starts to turn us away,

I catch Mel’s look.

In that instant

he sends me a silent message.

“You need each other.”

We step into the elevator. The flickering light

makes our skin appear blue.

I feel Mom’s fingers on my shoulder,

soft, steady.

I reach up and touch her hand.

Both of us are surprised.

In the gym today

Justin fell down.

His new leg shifted sideways

when he got out of a chair.

He fell down

and he cried.

Justin has never cried in therapy before.

I hate life.

Don’t even tell me

God has a reason

for making Justin suffer.

Or me, either. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

I wish I could fix things for him,

for me. For everyone.

I wish I knew

why some people live

and some people die

and some people

get stuck

in the middle.

Grandma and Grandpa are leaving today.

Aunt Karen and Uncle Ben arrive in time to say hello,

trade hugs and thumps on the back,

high voices, the smell of hairspray from Gram,

pillowy cheeks and lined faces

touched to mine; careful kisses.

As Mom prepares to go home,

everyone shuffles out into the hall together.

Whispering ensues —

I know they’re talking about me.

That’s what they’re here for, I guess.

To assure themselves I’m still here.

I want them to sit by my bed

and tell me the news from Kansas,

but I want them to leave, too.

I want

to experience stillness.

Dear Jane,

I read about your story in the newspaper. My heart goes out to you. You are so young, and, judging by the picture in the paper, so beautiful. I have been in your place, Jane, and I am writing because if you’re anything like me you could use an encouraging word right now.

My left leg was amputated above the knee ten years ago, after an accident at work in which I nearly died. At first I shut myself off from the rest of the world, even the people I loved. But then I joined a support group for amputees and let me tell you, it was the best thing in the world for me. It helps to see you’re not the only one going through all the adjustments that come with amputation.

I went back to work eighteen months after the accident. Not long afterward, I got engaged to my boyfriend, William, who I met through the support group. He lost both legs in a car crash. William and I married seven years ago and I’ve never been happier. Both of us love to be outdoors and do all kinds of sports. We swim, sail, kayak, and ski. I also take yoga and find it highly relaxing.

I’m enclosing a picture of us — I hope you don’t mind. Please feel free to write or call when you are well enough, if you ever want advice or just to talk. I’d love to be friends.

Best wishes,

Kristen Miller-Capshaw

Jane, I’m going to go home for a while. Aunt Karen is going to stay with you.

Okay, Mom.

Hi, honey. Do you need anything? Some more water?

No, thanks, Aunt Karen. I’m fine.

Ben and I are staying in your room back home. I hope you don’t mind, but I was looking through your bookshelves last night.

I don’t mind.

I didn’t know you had so many cookbooks. I didn’t know vegetarians had so many great recipes. Your mom said you like to cook. That you do most of the cooking during the week.

Yeah, well, I guess I won’t be doing that anymore.

You’ll learn how. You don’t need two hands to cook.

Mmm.

You sure have some nice art books, too. Would you like me to bring some in for you to read?

Uh, no. That’s okay.

I don’t mind.

I don’t want to read art books right now.

Well, I brought all your Harry Potter books. See? I’ll put them over here. Your mom says you always read these when you’re down.

How would she . . .

What, honey?

Nothing. Thanks, but I don’t feel like reading.

Oh. Well, I’ll just put them over here. By the roses, see? On top of these cards. Goodness.

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.

Today he wheels himself to my room

to say

good-bye.

“I’ll call you,” he says.

His skinny arms quick around my neck.

How can I stay in this place without Justin?

“Will you draw me a picture?” I ask.

“I will, if you’ll draw one for me,” he says.

“Mmm. You say hi to Spot for me, okay?”

Justin slips something into my hand.

“You keep these.”

It is the deck of cards

we’ve nearly worn out together.

“You can shuffle them by laying them on the bed

and mixing them around,” he says.

There is an emptiness

filling my throat, and I can

hardly speak.

“Thanks.”

Justin’s mother places a slim hand

on my shoulder. Her gold wedding band

glints under the fluorescent light.

“Thank you, Jane.

You’ve been such a friend to him.

I can’t imagine what we’d have done without you.”

I watch from the window

as far below, Justin and his mom wait as

Justin’s dad rolls up in their new van.

Small Justin rising from his big wheelchair,

leans on his mother’s arm,

turns, looks up at my window, squinting,

and waves.

I wave back, and I watch that van

take Justin away,

the deck of cards, warm,

still stacked

in my palm.

Mel fidgets; I sit like a stone.

Our last session.

I have so much to say.

Why didn’t I say it?

Where did the hours go?

“Good-byes are the hardest

part of the job, Jane. How are you

feeling about going home?”

A shrug. I try not to cry.

“Tell me, Jane. Nervous?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

That gets him to smile. Then

I can smile, too. When we hug,

I realize again that Mel is an old man.

His shoulders are as frail as Justin’s.

He has just seemed strong.

He’s probably glad to see you go.

Shut up. Mel likes me.

Come on. You’re a big whiner. He’s in there right now, saying “Thank God she’s gone.”

Stop it. Why do I do this to myself?

Probably because you’re too weak to handle this.

I am not. Stop.

You’re weak.

No.

Weak.

“Let’s hear it for Jane!”

Shrieks of joy,

a smattering of clapping,

beaming faces, shining eyes,

gathered around my bed.

The nurses’ smiles send the temperature in this room

soaring.

“We have something for you,” Lindsey says,

stepping around Dr. Kim.

She and Mel open a large white box between them,

revealing a cake.

Pink frosted roses and yellow writing:

Good-bye, Jane. We’ll miss you.

All these nurses,

and volunteers and doctors,

Mom and Michael and Rachel,

all gathered around.

Lindsey is crying,

the lady who brings my flowers blows her nose,

Michael passes out plates, intent on cake.

Everyone eats and talks quickly,

since they all have somewhere to be;

a man steps forward,

leans in to pat my shoulder.

I see by his uniform, he’s a paramedic.

“I’m one of the ones who brought you in,”

he says. His tag reads MARTY.

His crinkled face makes me guess he’s fifty or so,

the age my dad would be, maybe.

“I’ve been wanting to come visit you,” Marty says,

“but I didn’t want to bug you. I’m so glad you’re okay.

When we brought you in, I didn’t know if . . .

well. I didn’t know.

I have a girl at home your age.”

His words sort of

pour over me

and go away somewhere.

I’m not ready to think about what Marty saw

the day he lifted me off the sand.

But quick as you please,

I’ve swept up his job, too.

A paramedic? I wonder if I can do that

with one arm.

I bet I’d be good, if it is possible.

Helping. Being the first one there.

Saving a life,

talking to someone scared.

“Thank you,” I tell Marty, and he departs,

Mel pressing a plate of cake

into Marty’s large hands.

Michael grins at me,

plops a dab of pink frosting

on my nose. “Hey, cupcake,”

he says. Not funny. But

for some stupid reason,

we both burst out laughing.

It feels rusty,

but it feels great.

I’m going home.

My own bed.

My dog.

My stuff.

But I’m standing here staring at my hospital bed

as if it’s a lifeboat.

This bed

where I lay in a coma

for ten days,

where my family

ate, slept, and lived.

It’s my bed.

These halls

where I walked in my wrinkled gown,

trailing the I.V. stand,

a stiff, leaning creeper,

I know these halls.

This bedside table

where I ate a million cold turkey dinners

with congealed potatoes,

breakfasts of cold oatmeal,

warm orange juice

that burned my throat;

it wasn’t bad.

Not bad at all.

That window.

That’s the problem.

Justin and I would sit there at night

after our families had gone home.

We’d make up stories

about the people we saw down in the parking lot.

“That man with the flowers is coming to see his new baby,”

Justin would say.

My turn.

“That woman, the one crying,

she just got some bad news about her husband.”

I put a negative spin on everything.

But at Justin’s look, I tried to be more optimistic.

“That family over there, the ones getting back into their van,

they just found out their Grandma is all better

and they’re running home to bake her a cake.”

Justin sighed on that one.

Guess I overdid it.

The problem is

life outside the window

is life outside.

Not here.

People out there

are out there.

Too many.

The eyes of the doctors

are familiar.

The kind of seeing I can almost live with.

It’s their job, taking care of people like me.

I was welcome here.

I fit in.

Out there,

I won’t.

I remember the water was so cold.

Goose bumps rose up on my arms.

A wave slapped me and I tasted salt.

I stood there, up to my chest,

moving my arms like I was treading water.

I looked back.

Mom waved.

I turned away without waving back,

And moved farther from shore.

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 disABILITIES,

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 . . .

They’d say, if you had taken the time to help, it would have been enough. It would have delayed you. And it would have never happened to you.

Maybe. Maybe not. Who knows. I’ll never know.

But you’ll always wonder.

I’ll wonder a lot of things.

It would have been different.

I don’t know that.

Different.

I don’t know . . .

You do.

Hello?

Jane? It’s Angie.

Hi.

Whatcha doing?

I’m trying to eat this thing my mom made. I think it’s an omelet.

Oh.

She’s not a great cook.

Yeah, you were the cook, weren’t you? Your poor mom.

Huh?

She has to do everything now. I guess you can’t really vacuum or fold laundry or any of that stuff anymore?

Well, no.

I’m almost jealous.

Angie —

IknowIknowIknow. I’m kidding. Really. Sorry, that was a sick joke. You know I’m kidding, right?

I certainly hope so.

I was calling to see if you wanted to come with me to the mall today. Elizabeth is going and Rachel said she’d see. Trina can’t.

Why not?

Hmm? I don’t know, she’s going out with her family somewhere. Want to?

I don’t think so.

We’re supposed to meet some guys there.

Who?

Well, we don’t know for sure yet, but Alex Cussaks and Scotty Anderson are supposed to be there. I saw them last night at the movies and we talked about hooking up. They said they might come with some other guys, maybe Taylor Pocheck or Ty Zacks. So, how about it? Could be fun!

No, I don’t want to.

Are you worried about — you know. People being weird about your arm?

Well, of course.

Jane, they’re going to see you when school starts. Why not get it out of the way?

I’m not ready. And I’m kind of tired.

Come on. Please?

No, thanks. Really.

Really?

Really.

Can’t change your mind?

No.

Okay . . . well, we should get together sometime, though. Us.

Yeah, that would be great.

Mom bends down to tie my shoes.

The tag of her shirt is sticking up

out of her collar along her neck.

I tuck it back in.

“Thanks,” she says, and smiles briefly.

This catches me off guard.

She doesn’t smile much anymore.

“You’re welcome,” I say,

and I force a little smile in return.

She looks surprised.

I wonder

if she’s thinking

the same exact thing

about me.

I am on the floor,

straddled,

my portfolio spread before me.

I was pretty good.

But the subject matter . . .

Rabbit, Hopping.

Blue mountains, sagebrush,

a hawk, soaring.

Bowls of tulips,

in pastel, pencil,

crayon, and acrylic.

A house,

smoke rising from the chimney.

These pictures

are from someone else’s world,

someone else’s memories,

not mine.

What, then, is now?

If I can’t return to

Horse, Grazing,

am I doomed to be a

van Gogh imitation?

Tortured, wrecked, surviving

pain through the art of my darkest attic,

creations spun from the haunted memories

of the Shark Girl

trying to accommodate with her left hand?

Will the subject matter

be endless grays and white-capped

waves, gaunt faces, thin children,

rain?

I have no legs

to cross the bridge

toward Sunflower, Blooming,

and return home.

I try to fill Mel’s journal.

It will help, he said.

Writing a bit each day,

sparsely. The words don’t

come easily. Never have. I’m not

much of a storyteller. But . . .

I could tell my story.

The Shark Girl’s story.

And out of a shark’s bite

could arise a fresh, raw

writer, poignant, powerful,

with a story that would win a Pulitzer.

I could.

Then I remember.

I don’t like to write,

and I don’t want to learn

to like to write.

Oh,

and my life is private.

So back to my entry.

Today

I got dressed by myself.

Mom slides both hands

into her pockets.

“Ready for some lunch?

No, it’s okay, I’ll fix it for you.

Just tell me what you want.”

She takes my order

and leaves, light in step.

It used to be my job,

a job I loved —

making my own lunch,

preparing our dinners weeknights,

whipping up snacks

for our weekend munchies.

But,

come to think of it,

I haven’t fixed a single meal

since I came back home.

Mom’s done them all.

Tonight, over pizza,

Michael gives us the silent treatment.

Mom shrugs it off before taking Mabel for a walk.

I hang around the kitchen a bit, watching Michael clean up.

I say, “Want me to help with that?”

He whirls, eyebrows high.

“Really? You mean it? Gosh, I’m so honored.”

“What is your problem?” I ask.

Michael slams the pizza box shut.

“I’m tired of doing everything around here.

Just because you make Mom wait on you,

doesn’t mean I will.”

While Michael takes out the trash

and wipes off the table,

I empty the plates, load the dishwasher,

and put away the extra salad.

My throat hurts and I cannot look at my brother.

When we’re done, Michael

tosses the towel

into the sink.

Who the hell does he think he is?

What an ass. A candidate for Mr. Insensitivity.

For the first time since June,

I hate him.

The shakes,

the cold night sweats,

soaking

hot sheets

that tangle around my legs,

thinking,

the memory obliterated, but

imagining the shape

of a fish,

a fish,

sliding through the water,

a silent gray missile,

triangular teeth in gaping mouth,

clamping down —

Did it really happen?

The movie in my head

loops

while the moon

floats

from one end of the window

to the other,

then fades

away.

I lie on the couch,

watching TV.

Mom zips the vacuum around the room,

Michael starts to step outside

and gets snatched back.

“I asked you to do the dusting

and empty the dishwasher,” Mom says.

Michael slams the door,

stomps into the kitchen,

and mercilessly crashes the dishes into the cupboard.

He leaves the house

with a black cloud around his head.

“Grump,” Mom mutters,

and returns to mopping,

the squish of water

moving

farther

away.

Finally, it is quiet

enough to slide

into sleep,

safe

in the daylight.

“There’s a support group at the hospital,”

Mom says. “You could go.”

I know better than to say “No,”

outright. “Maybe. Sometime.”

Mom sighs and leaves me

crumbling toast across my plate.

“See you tonight, honey.”

Walking Mabel down the street,

wearing a bulky sweater in the broiling

heat, so as to better hide my missing limb,

I think about the Internet sites I have found.

There’s a community out there,

broken people like me, pressing on,

and maybe some of them are doing just fine;

many are now better people, according to them.

But really, aren’t most of them pretending?

Aren’t most of us pretending

all the time,

able-bodied or not?

Before,

I drifted, separate

from the flow,

watched land masses of fellow students

shift and merge, part and dissolve,

all the while

putting forth my own small beacon

of calm, confident belonging.

All false.

I’d figure it out eventually, I thought.

Where is the truth now?

Where can I find that line to stand upon,

step into the stream of humanity,

the place that is mine?

I am reflecting on this

while Mabel investigates a bush.

When someone passes,

murmuring, “Good morning,”

and brushes their sleeve against mine,

the touch is like a magnet,

so powerful

my whole body turns

toward them,

wanting to stick.

If only I could grab hold of something,

and hold tight.

Driving home from physical therapy,

Mom announces, “I have to stop

at the store for a few things.”

Great.

I know Mom.

A “few things”

means she’ll be half an hour.

“I’ll wait in the car.”

Mom protests.

“It’s too hot. You’ll roast.

I’d rather not leave the AC

on, honey. You know how the car is.

It will over —”

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her.

I won’t let her win this one.

She will not make me go inside.

But of course,

ten minutes later,

the parking lot

is swimming in shimmers,

sweat crawls down my neck,

I am growing dizzy,

and I have to step out

and find Mom.

The guy at the sandwich counter

studies me like I’m an animal in the zoo.

A woman in the fruit section

stands with a cantaloupe in her hand,

the empty scale dangling beside her,

staring. At me.

Walking too quickly, I bump into a girl

rounding the corner. She drops

a bag of pretzels.

When I try to help her

she exclaims,

“It’s okay, really!”

God. Get me out of here.

Finally Mom is snared by

the frozen peaches.

“What is taking you so long?”

I say.

“Sorry,” Mom says. “I’m almost done.”

Then,

I feel the tears welling up,

and I smash them down.

Two boys, passing, look,

and look again.

I want to shout to everyone

that my new arm will be ready soon,

that I will wear it every minute

when I get it

so no one

will have an excuse to do a double take.

But all I do, of course,

is cling to the cart like I’m five years old,

and follow Mom

as she guides us both

to the checkout.

Missing an arm is like wearing a coat,

a really big, hot, ugly coat

that I can’t take off.

Ever.

It’s all that people see.

Before this happened,

once in a while I would see someone.

Someone without a leg or an arm.

My stomach would flip,

I’d look away fast,

then look back,

a crawling sensation behind my belly button.

I’d wonder about them.

Now I’m one of those people

and people wonder about me.

I get that crawling sensation

just thinking about it.

Angie and Trina

come to visit. They look so pretty.

Skinny Angie’s makeup is perfect,

Trina wears new black sandals.

She scoops up wiggly Mabel,

kissing Mabel’s curly white-haired head.

“I missed this dog.”

Mom offers us brownies

she has made,

but they are so dry

we smile and disappear upstairs to my room.

“You guys, I am so fat,”

Angie moans,

sprawling across my bed.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I’ve been eating like a pig.”

She pulls at the waistband

of her jeans.

“See? I can barely zip.”

“Yeah, you’re taking up the whole room,

you must be a size two by now,”

Trina says, rolling her eyes.

She catches sight of my drawing table.

She fingers the pens.

“Jane, have you tried drawing again yet?”

I hear myself lie.

“No.”

Angie and Trina exchange looks.

“You will, though, right?”

Trina asks.

Angie sits up. “You should.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I will.

Sometime.”

For a moment,

we all listen to a crow,

cawing outside.

Then we resume talking

about Angie’s fat.

“You have to make me

watch what I eat!” she says.

And this talk is fine.

It’s better

than the

bare-boned

truth.

Uncooked

red beans, black beans, white rice,

filling up a wide glass jar.

Pretty enough

to sit on a shelf just for looking.

Instead,

I stick my stump

inside the jar,

and roll it around,

feeling.

Rough and smooth.

Grainy on my flesh.

Doctor’s orders.

Desensitization, in preparation for my prosthesis.

Does it get any weirder than this?

To Jane Arrowood,

My name is Paul Shaylor. I am writing because my English teacher, Miss Felix, is making us do a nonfiction report. We have to interview somebody about something and write a report about it like it’s a newspaper column. I saw the video on TV. The newspeople said you’re home now. Will you interview with me?

You could e-mail me or call me, or maybe just fill out these questions on a separate sheet of paper.

1. What happened when the shark attacked you?

2. When did you find out you had to have your arm amputated? What did the doctors say?

3. Are you going to get a fake arm? If so, what is that like? How much does one cost? How long will it take to learn to use it?

4. Do you hate sharks now? Do you think you’ll ever go swimming again?

5. What kind of things did you like to do before you lost your arm?

6. Do you think you’ll do most of those things again, or not?

7. Do you have any advice for anyone going swimming? On how to protect themselves from sharks?

Thanks for helping me.

Sincerely,

Paul

I’m not thankful for much these days.

But I thank heaven and lucky stars

that Dr. Kim was straight with me

about my prosthesis.

“It’s not going to do the things your hand

could do.

Give it six months, then decide.”

Open, close. Click,

click.

Sam, the prosthesis maker,

demonstrates the metal hook attachment.

“It’s not the most attractive thing in the world,”

he says. “But it is functional. There are other options,

    too.”

Mom is silent.

There’s a cosmetic arm,

with “skin” that looks soft and smooth.

“Doesn’t do anything,

but gives some people confidence,” Sam says.

“Some patients wear it

when they’re on a date,

or a job interview, or just walking around.

It depends on how you feel.”

I could tell him how I feel.

This place feels like mannequin purgatory.

It’s unbelievable

that I belong here. Need to be here.

I wonder what makes a person

want to make artificial limbs for a living.

“I love it,” Sam replies.

“I get to meet some pretty fascinating people.

Like you. Your mom said on the phone

that you are an artist?”

Mom has the decency to blush.

“I was,” I tell Sam.

“You still can be, you know,” Sam says. “I had a —”

I shut him up quick. I don’t want to hear any more

inspirational stories. I’m sick of them.

“Do people ever have more than one prosthesis?” I ask.

Sam nods. “Yes, most have one functional

and one cosmetic.”

After a discussion over insurance,

we order both.

But I’m thinking:

I can’t wear that thing.

I won’t.

It’s an insult.

“It’s not bad enough people lose arms,”

I say to Sam and Mom.

“But on top of it,

we’re supposed to look like Captain Hook?”

Sam regards me seriously.

“You are a very attractive girl, Jane.

Inside and out. I can tell.

I think you’ll find

the more comfortable you are with yourself,

the more people won’t notice your prosthesis.

Or absence of one,

if that’s how you eventually choose to go.

I think that you’ll find . . .”

I let him prattle on.

He’s trying to help.

But obviously, he’s never been

in my shoes.

So aside from the medical part,

what

does he know?

Fixing me lunch. Fixing me snacks.

Hanging around while I talk on the phone.

Mom hovers like a fly, buzzing.

“Don’t forget to —”

“Be sure and —”

“No. Not that way.”

Reminding me

about everything I already know.

“Buckle that strap; no, that one . . .”

two seconds before I plan on doing it.

“Now clean that socket before you put on your prosthesis,

and after you take it off.

You don’t want it to get an odor.”

“I know!” escapes my lips.

Then

hurt eyes,

pouting,

silence.

“I’m just trying to help” hangs heavy in the air.

Sometimes her “help”

is more exhausting than doing it myself.

Seems easier to just shut up and let her talk,

then let her do it all for me, anyway.

I wonder sometimes

if she knows that.

When I was nine, I took horseback riding lessons.

My instructor, Debbie, imparted advice around a cigarette.

“Throw your heart over the fence,” Debbie said.

“The horse will follow. Confidence.

Your horse responds to your body language.”

Maybe this fake arm,

whom I have named Chuck,

is like a horse.

Practicing reaching for a book,

I visualize, stand tall,

then throw my heart over to the object,

hoping Chuck will follow.

Tilt forward at the waist,

shrug, open hand, pull back to shut.

As in riding,

the ideal doesn’t always happen.

Sometimes the book slithers to the floor.

I want to whip something. Someone.

I have to walk around and breathe deep.

Chuck and I cool down, apart.

But as in riding,

sooner or later,

we saddle up

and try again.

Here’s a question.

If we —

and by “we” I mean an amputee —

are supposed to be accepting,

unashamed of our new body,

unconcerned by gawks and furtive glances,

unfazed about blending,

then why are artificial hands crafted

to look so real?

There’s “hair” on the “skin,”

half-mooned fingernails,

and wrinkles around the knuckles.

The labor involved

in painting a freckle,

an age spot on a silicone glove,

the money spent

on such artists to do such things

speaks to a desire

to melt

back into the blur.

Why don’t they just come clean

instead of giving us

pamphlets about

self-image?

If only Michael hadn’t been so busy flirting his butt off with those stupid girls. He would have come in with you.

So?

Then it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe the two of you together would have looked like too large a mass to be a seal or a fish or whatever, and the shark would have passed you by.

Or it might have been Michael.

Better him than you.

Oh, God, how can I even think such a thing? Stop it!

Your life would be so different right now.

He didn’t come in. And it wasn’t him. It was me. That’s the way it is.

It could have been different.

I know.

It should have been different.

I run my hand

along the spines of the albums

lined across the shelves.

My finger rests on the plaid one.

Dad’s last year.

I know all the pictures by heart,

and today, I’m in the mood to see his face.

But not

all those pictures

of the two-armed me.

Justin called me today. “I miss you,” he said.

Before I could tell him that I missed him more,

he was running like a faucet,

gushing about his friend Sam

and the LEGO set his grandparents sent him.

Something to do with Superman.

He didn’t mention his leg at all.

Justin has other things on his mind.

Like life

and living it.

I miss his little face

and his skinny arms, too.

“Can I come over sometime?” he asks.

“I think I should come to your house,”

I say, trying to steady my voice.

“I need to meet this dog of yours.

Spot.”

Justin laughs. “She’s kissing me right now.”

Justin laughing.

What a beautiful sound.

I see Mom cleaning,

cleaning,

washing and folding,

dusting. Shopping.

Guilt.

One afternoon,

while she is at work,

I try folding the laundry.

What a joke.

Wrinkled heaps, sleeves

poking sideways,

but at least Chuck is good for something —

he helps me get the shirts

on their hangers.

Taking out the trash,

I hold the bag at the top,

center,

but everything bulges out

and before I can reach the garage,

trash spills

to the ground.

Coffee grounds,

tin foil bits,

last night’s spaghetti,

bread crusts — all

lie before me

like a dare.

Michael finds me

crying in the garage,

surrounded by mess.

“It’s okay,” he says

gently, and steers me inside.

“I’ll take care of it.”

I don’t know what’s worse.

Knowing I can’t do something as simple

as take out the trash

or seeing my brother

feel sorry for me.

Rachel and I prep

for the expedition.

I try not to think

about how I felt

at the grocery store.

I try to be

a clean slate.

In my room,

I set my purse on the bed,

unzip it, fish out the wallet,

fumble around for money;

dollars wrinkle up in a wad,

coins tinkle to the floor.

“Try again,” Rachel says.

And I do.

I use Chuck to help,

but frankly, Chuck

is a pain in the ass.

He clunks, bumps, and blocks

my view.

Chuck is removed from the scene.

Rachel raises an eyebrow.

“You’re going without it?”

“No. Of course not.

But it’s in the way,” I say.

This time, I get the wad of money out,

lay it down,

extract three dollars,

set them aside.

I return the remaining bills,

somewhat crinkled,

to the pocket of the wallet.

Coins next,

raining, bouncing, thumping

off our freshly painted toenails.

Rachel draws her feet up to the bed,

fluffs up her bangs, and sighs.

“Maybe skip the change?”

“Right.” I remove one more dollar.

I hand over the money. Rachel

scoops up some littered dimes and dumps them

into my palm.

I stare at the tiny coin pocket on my wallet.

Can’t slide them in this way,

they’ll fall to the sides.

To hell with it. I slide the coins into my pocket.

“Good enough,” Rachel says.

I stand straight,

zip the purse shut.

“Order?” Rachel asks.

“Tall mocha latte, please,” I reply.

Rachel pretends to hand me a cup,

then goes into her standard

Idiot Person

imitation, hunching apelike.

“Say, what happened to your arm there?”

I almost laugh, but this is a dry run.

“I had an accident,” I say,

and practice becoming a distant

stone wall.

“Oooh, good look,” Rachel says.

“That would shut me down.

But you may run into a real boob

out there. What if he or she does this?

‘Hey, wait a sec, I know you.

You’re that girl that —’”

“Okay, I want to stop now,”

I say quickly.

“‘The shark girl!’”

Rachel crows, still in ape mode.

“‘Hey, I saw that video on —’”

“Stop it, Rachel.”

“‘Wow, that must have been weird.

Do you remember anything that —’”

“Knock it off. No one will say that.”

“‘Did you see the shark?’”

“It’s none of your damn business

and I would prefer you don’t ask me

such personal questions!”

We stare at each other,

shocked.

Then Rachel smiles,

and she is herself again.

“Good. I think you’re ready.”

Chuck is strapped on.

The three of us set out

for the perfect cup of java.

My knees shake,

my armpits grow wet

when we enter the coffee shop,

teeming with bodies and voices,

the clatter of humanity over

the smell of espresso and shortbread,

we’re onstage,

all the world is watching.

I’ve forgotten the script.

I grab Rachel’s elbow.

“I can’t do this. Let’s go.”

She shakes me off.

“Ten minutes,” she whispers.

“We can last ten minutes.

That’s all I ask.”

For a second, I hate her.

With alarming passion.

Deep breaths, I think. She’s right.

Ten minutes.

We can do it.

Waiting our turn,

I whisper my line once more,

for practice.

“Tall mocha latte, please.”

My throat is so dry,

so tight,

I know one sip

will choke me.

At a table barely big enough

for two cups and a scone,

Rachel and I sit.

We don’t really talk.

I am watching the clock.

Feeling the pressure of

so many bodies, so much noise,

crushing.

Rachel seems nervous, too.

We smile thinly at each other,

and absorb.

Those girls over there,

tossing their heads

and jabbering away,

those two guys

sitting facing straight out

instead of toward each other,

talking,

laughing,

that woman reading a magazine,

sipping a chocolate drink

with cream on top

who looks at me briefly,

takes in the fake hand

and doesn’t look again,

all of them

have no idea

how whole they are,

how beautiful

and dangerous

and fragile

they are,

and that

for this moment,

they are all

safe,

on dry land.

This very thing happened to someone else.

A girl, in Hawaii.

Her arm was taken completely off.

She was back surfing a month later.

Why can’t I be like that?

I want to be like that. . . .

And I don’t.

I suck.

Everyone wants me to be brave,

to impress them with dazzling fortitude,

to give them inspiration

and smiles and a feeling of,

If she can do it, I can, too.

Maybe the old

If she’s not complaining about life,

then I won’t, either.

Because then,

everyone else gets to say,

Looking at the Shark Girl, I realize —

I’m lucky.

Well, screw that.

Complain? Yeah. The pain,

for one thing. The tingling,

the numbness, the stupid chafing.

The hot prosthesis,

the stares, the inability to do

ANYTHING normally.

Some days, I hate everyone I see.

Even babies.

How’s that for inspirational?

I must love to punish myself.

I can’t leave that

pad of paper alone.

The point of the pen

won’t travel the path

I have planned.

It oozes out of a circle,

wobbles to the left,

wanders off

in midline.

I draw shaky ovals,

crooked squares,

while the lamp on my bedside table

patiently dries out my scalp.

Maybe I’ll never get the shapes

precisely

the way I want.

Maybe

it’s all just a big,

fat joke.

But I continue,

just in case.

Dear Jane:

My Uncle/Aunt/Brother-in-Law’s Friend Had Their Leg/Foot/Toe/Finger or Hand Amputated Because of Diabetes/Frostbite/Circulation Problems/War/Job Injury, But You’d Never Know It, Because They Are So Funny/Athletic/Good-Natured/Spiritual/Successful/At Ease with Themselves/Happy.

If I have to listen to one more story,
I will scream.

“Get out here, we’ve got lots to do.”

Michael has the lawn mower

and clippers.

“Bring the trash can,” he tells me.

I roll it over to the edge of the lawn.

Awkwardly, as with anything else.

I am not wearing Chuck for this;

Chuck is driving me insane with his clumsiness,

and besides, it is too damn hot to wear that thing.

“It’s too damn hot,” I say, trying Michael.

Maybe he’ll be nice again.

Mr. Martinez is in his driveway,

washing his car. He waves. He watches.

But Michael is not nice; he is Michael.

“Stop whining,” he says. “Now.

Welcome to the Arrowood school of gardening.

Today, we are going to learn how to

Mow the Lawn.”

He spreads the words out like a proclamation:

Mow    the    Lawn.

“Michael, I don’t want —”

“You don’t have to thank me. First step,

start the mower.”

He makes me turn the key and pump the red button,

press the black knob. The mower roars to life.

Mr. Martinez still watches.

Michael spreads his hands. “Begin.”

I hate him. I hate Mr. Martinez for being in his driveway,

I hate the grass for growing, and the sun for being so hot.

I hate the mower, straining to the right like a live animal.

“Put your weight to the right,” Michael calls.

My hand is cramped,

my legs rubberizing,

grass bits spatter my shorts,

sweat pours down into my underwear.

“I can’t do this,” I yell above the mower.

But Michael isn’t even watching,

he’s too busy clipping the edges,

calm as a fat cat.

I push the stupid mower around,

pretending the grass is Michael’s face,

his smirk being chewed off bit by bit.

Mr. Martinez goes back to his car washing,

smiling with white teeth.

Later,

Michael says, “See? You can do this.

Next week, I’m off to college.

Time for you to make this your job.”

Aching legs, aching back,

I shower the sweat away,

thinking he’s right.

It sucked to mow the lawn.

But it would have sucked more

to see Mom pushing that mower each week.

And maybe,

it’s kind of nice

for Michael to treat me

like old plain Jane.

Days skirting the issue.

The tangles in the comb,

that heavy dryer,

Mom’s pinchy fingers trying to help.

Shouts of impatience,

bitten back. Walking around

looking like I just rolled out of bed.

Enough.

Rachel and I slip into the bookstore,

snatch up every hair magazine made,

which is about three too many.

We see Angie with her dad

in the checkout line.

“Jane? Rache? What are you guys doing?”

Great. It all comes out.

“You’re not cutting off your hair,”

Angie states flatly.

She touches my ponytail.

“You’ve got the prettiest hair out of all of us;

you CAN’T cut it off. I forbid it.”

She’s joking, but not so much.

“Call me when you get home — we’ll discuss this!”

She’s off.

Rachel looks guilty.

Later,

I shake off the store clerk’s stare,

pore over the magazine.

Lana, the hairdresser I get at the salon,

approves the torn-out picture I’ve brought.

“That’ll bring out your eyes,” she says,

“and it’s easy to take care of.”

I am grateful when she drops

the giant smock around me, hiding everything.

She starts cutting away as she talks.

“A dab of gel, run your fingers through each side,

bam, you’re out the door. Love it.”

Locks fall to the linoleum floor,

a litter of feathered casualties.

Emerging from beneath Lana’s scissors

is a face. My face?

Too pale. Too serious. But there I am,

and I can’t help but wonder

what Angie will say at school,

what her face will look like

when she sees

I defied her orders.

“Be good,” my brother says. His voice

rumbles in my ear as he hugs me.

“When you go back to school,

you’ll be fine. Really.”

His chin scratches across my cheek.

“Okay,” I say, meaning to speak

loudly, but whispering instead.

I’m losing something.

Something more than Michael.

“Please call me when you get there,”

Mom says. Her knuckles are white

when she grips Michael’s shirt.

“It’s only UCLA, Mom,” he says,

but Michael doesn’t break the hug.

“I’ll be coming home a lot.”

Mom stands next to me, sniffling,

watching Michael climb into his truck.

I want to hug her,

but her shoulders say “stay away.”

As Michael drives off, we both wave,

and though we’re standing side by side,

we might as well be

on opposite sides of the world.

Found a jar of buttons

in Mom’s craft cabinet today.

I ask if I can have them.

Tiptoe into Michael’s room,

breathe in the scent;

dirty sneakers,

cologne, and empty closet.

Underneath the “fast cars” calendar,

I sit, the buttons spread out on the dark carpet.

They clatter in miniature

when my hand stirs the plastic pile.

It grows dark while I

arrange and rearrange.

Funny how you can make a picture

without really thinking about it.

Everything shifts

with the removal of just one black button

or the two blues,

or the square white one

with the small red rose.

It’s almost like sketching.

Hey, Rache.

Hi. Hang on, let me put the phone by the bed. Okay. How are you?

Oh, you know.

Nervous?

Uh, yeah. Just a little.

(Nervous laughter from both.) That was a dumb question.

Why don’t you ride in with me tomorrow? Mom’s driving me.

I can’t; I have a dentist appointment at seven. Dad’s driving me straight to school after.

Oh.

But I can meet you. By your locker. Or . . .

Yeah, okay.

Want to meet outside? By the bike rack?

Well . . . whatever.

Jane, I’m sorry. I can’t get out of the appointment, though; my dad would kill me.

I know. (Long pause.)

Too bad Michael isn’t there.

My brother Michael? What could he do?

I don’t know. Beat up anybody who says anything. (More nervous laughter from both.)

Rachel, what are you going to wear?

My red top with the stripe. And my black pants. You?

I don’t know. I was thinking about the top with . . . oh, who cares? Does it matter?

Of course it does. We might run into someone gorgeous. Like Max Shannon!

Yeah, well, no one is going to even see what I’m wearing. They’ll be too busy checking out my nice fake arm. I could wear a bag over my head and no one would notice.

Oh, Jane! I feel so bad. I wish you wouldn’t say that.

But it’s true — you know it is. I’m going to wear my cosmetic arm all week. I can’t wear the hook. Not right away. It’s too . . .

Tomorrow will be the hardest. It’ll be all downhill after that.

Maybe.

You should call Angie or Trina. They’d ride over with you.

Yeah, maybe I will.

Do it. Promise?

No.

(Loud sigh.) Come on, you don’t have to do this alone.

I know. I have to go. Mom needs the phone.

Oh. Okay. Well . . . call Angie, all right?

Okay.

Jane?

What?

You can do this.

The clock reads

midnight,

then one,

two,

three

a.m.

I’d rather go back

to that beach

and dip my toes

in the cold gray water,

than step into school

in just a few hours.

I skip breakfast,

but throw up anyway.

On the ride over,

I have to pee so bad.

Oh, God, I can’t do this.

What if I fall down?

Will I make people sick?

I don’t think I can stand up.

My legs have turned to Jell-O.

But —

Here we are, pulling up,

Mom is waving good-bye,

and here I go, stepping out

into the current of beautiful,

two-armed classmates,

streaming into the building.

And now they are noticing me,

and now they are looking,

and now

the day begins.

Eyes stare,

dart away,

flit back again.

Rigid backs from those pretending

not to see.

Walking through the halls,

I am Moses,

parting the Red Sea.

I am a leper,

come to town.

I have the plague.

That girl that got bitten by a . . .

Jane Arrowood. That girl who . . .

The one that . . .

. . . her arm off?

Partly off.

They had to amputate it, though.

My mother cried when she heard.

We barely know Jane.

We sent a card.

We sent flowers.

. . . and then the shark just . . . ?

Yeah.

I wanted to call her or visit or something.

But I never did.

I don’t know what to say.

I’m never going to the beach again.

Angie and Trina find me at my locker.

“Oh, my God. You cut your hair?”

Angie asks.

Trina hugs me. “You look nice.”

No one comments on my long sleeves

among their short ones.

“This cut — it’s so different.”

Angie is still on about my hair.

“I wish you’d taken me with you.

I could have given you a couple of tips.”

My classmates pass, staring. Not

at my hair.

Or my sweater.

It’s time for homeroom.

Their heads lean toward each other.

Their whispers reach my ears.

The two girls over there

fingering their notebooks,

staring.

If they would lift their tinted eyelashes

they would notice I’m staring back.

But they don’t.

So I turn in my chair,

placing my shoulder out of their sight.

Students stream in,

pull iron stools up to the tall tables.

Mr. Musker puts a hand

on my shoulder. “I’m glad to see you, Jane.

How are you feeling?”

His tired face,

his hound dog eyes,

so familiar.

This room, too,

with its blend of odors: turpentine,

fixative, clay, and dust.

I shouldn’t be here. It’s like showing

a dead person her lost life,

and all

she missed.

It’s cruel.

Pounding, thumping, rolling.

Everyone’s hands pull,

like the surf.

Pottery wheels spin.

Clay becomes form.

I crumble pastels across

black paper,

listening to the slap slap of hands.

“Does this count a lot toward our final grade?”

Michele Lomer asks,

lobbing a wad of gum

inside her lower jaw

as she surveys her crooked urn.

Mr. Musker hurries over,

works with Michele’s limp hands

upon the dusty clay,

but it’s like trying to revive a corpse.

When the class ends, Mr. Musker beckons.

“Jane, how are you really doing?”

I want to tell him,

but it’s too melodramatic.

Can’t he see?

I’m like the pots

lined up by the kiln.

Half-finished.

Max Shannon rolls through the halls,

his hair still wet from senior swim team practice.

Frankenstein

slips from my hand.

Max Shannon stops,

rescues the book with slender fingers.

“You’re that . . . uh, you’re Jane, right?”

His tan cheeks turn pink.

“How’s it going?”

His lips are perfect.

My face gets hot.

“You need help with that?”

He jerks his chin toward my backpack.

“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”

His eyes seem magnetic.

“It’s great you’re okay.

My cousin lost her leg.

She switched to home school.

She was too embarrassed to leave the house.”

“Oh.”

Max’s chin has a dimple.

“You’re probably sick of questions.

Does anybody ask you about anything else?”

Angie and Rachel appear. They stare.

“What a stupid question!” Max smacks his forehead.

“Sorry, I’m an idiot.

Forget I bothered you.”

He folds himself into the passing crowds.

Rachel raises her eyebrows. “Well!”

I laugh, but

Max wouldn’t talk to me

if I was just me.

I shouldn’t feel flattered, then.

Or happy.

Definitely not jelly-legged.

Angie doesn’t smile like Rachel.

She just says, “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

“I heard she got tons of mail while she was in the hospital.”

“I heard the president wrote to her.”

“I heard they wanted to make a movie for television out of it, and her mom asked for too much money, so they didn’t do it.”

“I feel sorry for her.”

“She was such a good artist.”

“Really good.”

“What do you think she’ll do now? What would you do?”

“Probably kill myself.”

“Shut up. You would not.”

“Well, no. But God. What a nightmare. I would, like, have nightmares every night for the rest of my life.”

“Did you see the video?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty sick.”

“I want to talk to her, you know? Say something. But I don’t know what.”

“She would probably rather be left alone, anyway.”

“Yeah. Probably.”

When I come home,

I can’t wait to get Chuck

off of me, toss him onto the couch.

The whole day

is hot and heavy in my ears,

and I keep seeing faces in the hallways.

Walking to the kitchen,

I notice

flowers on the table. Sunflowers.

My favorite. A small square note

against the rippled glass vase:

I’m proud of you, Jane.

Love, Mom.

An e-mail from Michael:

UCLA has an awesome football team,

but even the fullbacks

aren’t as tough as you are.

Hang in there. You can do it.

Exhaling, I realize

I can

    breathe

        again.

Dear Jane,

I am thirteen years old. I am a paraplegic. I had a skiing accident two years ago and now I have to be in a wheelchair. I intend to walk again someday, even though my doctors tell me I won’t.

I know how it is to feel different. I just wanted to tell you that it does get easier, and if your friends are good friends, they’ll stick by you and not make a big deal out of the way you look or whatever. I hope you have good friends. I hope things are going okay for you. It helped me to talk about it to my friends, but after a while, I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I just wanted to get back to doing normal things, which isn’t always easy, but I think if you are willing to work hard, you can find a way to do anything.

Good luck with everything,

Riley

I wake up, crying.

Again.

The smell of the sea,

the roar of water in my ears,

screaming. Cold, black rush,

a gray blur of flesh,

a single black eye.

My legs barely carry me

to the bathroom,

where I vomit.

Back in bed,

I wait,

watching for pink sky.

Angie spies me standing,

backpack skewed,

staring at the bulletin board.

First prize, one hundred dollars,

blue ribbon, and modest fame.

Angie walks up.

Alongside me,

she reads the notice.

“Oh, yeah, the art contest

is coming up.” She pauses.

“You’ve won three years

in a row, right?”

“Yes.”

She sighs. “Well. I wonder

who will win this year?”

The simple question

holds me at knifepoint,

breathless.

Angie puts an arm around me.

“Don’t feel bad, Jane.

Besides, if you work hard,

I’m sure you will get it all back.

Right? You can enter next year,

as a senior.”

No.

It’s my contest.

It’s my win.

Art is my thing. Now,

someone new

will climb the peak,

cast their shadow on

That Girl Who Got Bit by a Shark,

lying like so much flab; useless,

foolish.

Whoever she is,

she will be surrounded,

she will be in light,

she will be carried on a wave

of love and goodwill.

She will not know what it’s like

to take up

unjustified space

in the universe.

Justin and I

have hooked up for a playdate.

At his house, his parents

give me hugs, the dog

Spot licks my face,

my hand, my knee;

Spot is eager to be friends.

She presses close, tail thumping

when we sit at the table

and Justin shows me his LEGOs.

“I built this castle once.”

He shows me the picture

in the “ideas” booklet.

“And this tower thing?

My dad and I made that last week.”

He slides the booklet aside.

“We can’t keep them, though;

otherwise we don’t have enough LEGOs

to build anything else.

We always take them apart.”

He states this firmly as

he digs out red rectangles,

black squares, and offers them

to me. “Let’s build something.”

If Justin were my brother,

I would buy him all the LEGOs

in the world, so he would never,

ever

have to destroy his creations.

I want to tell him this.

Instead I say,

“I’m not good at LEGOs.”

Justin replies, “Sure you are.”

We click and snap the pieces together,

discovering as we go

what it is we are making.

“How is school?” I ask.

“Fine.”

“Do the kids . . . you know.

Do the kids . . .”

He looks up at me. “Make fun of me?”

“Yes.” I study his face

while Spot sniffs my shoe.

“No. Well, one did.

But I don’t care. Everyone else

treats me the same as usual.”

“Good.”

He hands me a blue LEGO.

“Do the kids make fun of you?”

I shake my head.

“Not really,” I say, wanting to add

but of course, they stare.

Justin would understand staring.

He understands a lot of things my friends

don’t, can’t, never will.

“Do you like your new leg?” I ask.

He is not wearing it today.

“Yeah, it lets me do stuff.

Sometimes it kind of hurts, though.”

He examines the LEGO creature

we hold between us. “Needs more black.”

I blurt,

“I don’t like my new arm.”

“Is that why you’re not wearing it?”

he asks.

I nod, and finger my pinned-up sleeve.

I can be armless with him,

natural and comfortable.

Justin scrabbles in the LEGO bucket.

He says,

“Have you drawn me a picture yet?”

“Um, no.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s just not going well.”

He looks into my eyes, kindly.

“It’s okay. Keep trying.”

Then he grabs the LEGO monster,

which is multicolored, tall and jutting,

and he makes a growling sound.

“ROAAARRRR.”

We laugh.

“Let’s play some computer games,”

Justin says.

Grabbing his crutches, he leads the way.

I follow,

wondering why

he seems like the big kid

and I

the small one.

In biology, Mr. DeLandro says,

“Next week we will be dissecting —

or in the case of some of you guys — hacking up — goldfish.”

He winks at me. “Sorry, Jane, I couldn’t get hold of a shark.”

I could kick him. But I wait until after class,

swallow my thumping heart,

and step up to his desk.

“That remark you made —”

“Oh, I was just kidding around, you know that, right?”

“It wasn’t funny.”

“I apologize, Jane.

I was trying not to pussyfoot around your condition.

I thought it would make things easier on you.”

“It didn’t. I don’t need help

and I don’t need to be laughed at.”

The price of confrontation? All day,

all that hot, restless night,

I try to forget the coldness in Mr. DeLandro’s eyes,

the anger, white,

around his lips.

Happy Thanksgiving, sweetheart!

Hi, Aunt Karen! Happy Thanksgiving to you.

I sure wish we were together.

Me, too.

We have a houseful, though. Your grandparents are here and Margie and her husband and my cousin’s family. There’s seventeen of us! We sure have a lot to be thankful for this year.

We do?

Well, yes, honey, we’re all going to say a special prayer of thanks that you are with us today, alive and well!

Oh.

Do you know I made a vegetarian stuffing in your honor? I found the recipe when I was out there, in one of your cookbooks!

That’s great.

Hold on, your uncle Ben wants to get on the phone.

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.

Hello, is this Jane Arrowood?

Yes.

This is Missy Howard. I am the vice president of programming for ABC. I wanted to talk to you about appearing on Good Morning America.

What?

Jane, we are so in admiration of you here. We know what you have been going through must be rough.

And you admire that?

Sorry?

I don’t want to be on your show.

Now, Jane, hear me out. If you would be willing to come to New York, we would be glad to pay your way, and you and your family could make a vacation out of it. We could talk about —

No, thank you.

Jane, the whole nation saw your story on the news. People were shocked by what they saw. We know for a fact there are many, many people in our country who would love an update on you. How you’re doing, how you are adjusting, what life is like now. People really do care, and I’m sure they would like to see you on television.

No, I —

I mean, this is your chance to leave an impression on everyone, isn’t it? You don’t want to be remembered as how you were seen in that video, do you? You want a chance to show everyone the human side of yourself, not just the story side, right?

I —

How does next Friday sound? We’d fly you and your parents out, of course, and —

No. I said no. I don’t want to be on your show and that is final.

But —

Don’t call here ever again.

Jane? Honey, what was that all about?

That was some stupid TV show. They wanted me to come on there and talk about myself.

What show?

Good Morning America.

Really? Well, honey, that’s not some show. That’s big.

Mom! Are you going to start, too? Do you want me to be on it?

Of course not. Why are you so upset? Jane, you’re crying. Come here, honey.

She was so rude. She made it sound like I owed it to everyone to say I’m okay. Like people care? Everyone has forgotten about it.

The media doesn’t fool around with forgotten people, dear. I’m sure there’s a grain of truth in what she said. Don’t look at me like that — I’m not saying she’s right. I’m not saying you should be on the show. I’m just saying, you did get all those cards and letters. I mean, some of them are still coming.

I don’t want them. I never asked for any of this. I don’t owe anyone anything.

I know.

I hate this. I just want to be left alone.

Hm.

What. What are you thinking about?

Nothing.

What? Tell me.

Well. I don’t know why, but I was just thinking about you and your art. About all those contests you’re always winning. Do you remember in fourth grade when you won the blue ribbon for best artist of the year, and had to stand in front of an assembly and have your picture taken?

Yeah.

You loved that. You took a little bow and everything. They had to push you off the stage when you were done.

So?

You’ve always loved winning those things. You’ve always been the best artist in school, and you’ve been so proud of yourself in that department.

So?

It’s just funny how we can crave attention in some areas of our life, but hate it in others.

I don’t crave attention.

Not over this, of course not.

I don’t crave any attention, ever.

Honey, we all do. Especially when we’re young.

Mom! You make me sound so egotistical.

You’re not. I’m not saying that. But if I were, it would be a very shared human trait. We all have egos, dear.

Have you been seeing Mel again?

No. But Jane, when are you going to draw again?

I don’t know.

I think you are neglecting an important part of yourself.

You have been seeing Mel.

I don’t need to see Mel to know how important your art is to you. I am your mother.

What’s the point? I will never be able to make a living at it.

I don’t agree. And besides, is that what it comes down to? You only want to create things to get paid?

Mom . . . I don’t want to talk about this.

Of course not. You don’t talk to me about anything anymore.

Mom . . .

I know, I know. You’re a teenager. Everyone said to expect this. But I’m here, okay? If you need me?

I don’t want to be on that show.

I understand.

If anyone else calls here, or they call back, tell them NO. Okay?

Okay.

Forget the competitions.

I won’t be able to even enter

this year, or maybe ever again.

A professional? Doubtful.

My days of “look at me”

are over.

As to why I didn’t tell Mom

Yes, I’ve been working at it,

I don’t know.

This thing is private,

very private,

and no one needs to stand witness

with a stopwatch or progress chart.

No one needs to say the wrong thing.

Door closed, I work at the drafting table.

Pen in hand,

pawing.

Something is not right in me

and won’t be

until I can do this.

Tuesday it storms. A real

spring storm, common in March.

By the evening,

the freeways are flooded.

With fevered excitement,

the newscasters discuss the flooding,

the mud slides, the road closures.

As it grows dark,

Mom calls on her cell phone.

“I’m stuck on the 405.

It’ll be another hour,

at least.”

“Be careful,” I tell her.

In the kitchen, I listen to the rain pounding the roof

and my stomach growling

as I poke through the cupboards.

I reach for the mini-wheats, then stop.

A plate of steaming scrambled eggs,

fluffy,

and buttered toast.

My favorite meal. I used to fix it all the time.

That’s what I want.

Getting out the pan is no trouble.

But cracking the eggs is a problem.

The first one shatters on the edge of the bowl,

slops everywhere,

while the bowl scoots away from the impact.

It takes a long time to wipe the glop up.

I think about quitting.

The second egg splits open and falls into the bowl,

along with several shards of shell.

I pick them out, one by one, then rinse my fingers.

Egg number three goes in better —

there’s only two fragments of shell to remove.

I add milk, which dribbles onto the counter,

then put the bowl against my stomach,

pin it against the wall with my weight,

and beat the eggs with a whisk.

Into the pan, the eggs crackle in hot butter.

I put two fat slices of cranberry bread

in the toaster. Get out a plate and a cup.

Spill the orange juice and swear.

Why is pouring stuff so weird?

I wipe it up,

hurry to stir the smoking eggs, check the toast,

stir the eggs again.

Tipping them onto a plate, half the eggs tumble

onto the counter.

A small portion falls on the floor.

Mabel snatches a piece, burns her mouth.

I try not to scream.

Buttering the toast is tricky.

I can’t get the knife to spread the way I want,

just stab holes in the bread as it cools.

Mabel sits under my chair,

watching for falling crumbs.

The eggs are overcooked.

The toast is a buttered murder victim.

But I’m proud, really proud,

like I just had a baby or something.

I turn on the radio

and light the flowered candle on the table.

A victory dinner, as rain pours down outside.

“I did it,” I tell Mabel,

who wags, ears pricked.

“I cooked dinner. Can you believe it?”

And next time will be easier, I think.

And the next time, and the next time.

I give Mabel a chunk of toast

and eat,

humming with the radio.

Mom gets home late.

She’s carrying a bag from McDonald’s. “For us!”

“I already made myself some eggs,” I tell her.

I can see she’s thrilled,

but trying not to gush.

“That’s wonderful, honey.”

Then I remember.

I forgot to wash the dishes.

Shit.

How am I going to scrub encrusted

dried egg

off a pan

with one hand?

“I’ll wash up,” Mom calls from the kitchen.

“You sure you don’t want some fries?”

Will Mom go to college with me?

Live in my apartment,

wash the dishes for me?

I walk into the kitchen

and start the hot water.

“I said I’d get those,” Mom says.

I pick up the messy egg pan,

plunk it into the sink.

“No, I got it.” I look at her for a minute.

Mom hesitates, then takes her food

out to the living room.

I pick up the scrub brush,

and begin.

Progress? Yes. I think.

I mean, that thing

there definitely resembles a paw.

That, a fish.

And the horse,

well, at least its legs are connected

with the ground line.

But the faces? Skewed, shifty;

lifeless eyes.

When I sketch

the lumpy, bumpy things that are animals,

I can feel love —

joy,

hovering, dangling,

over my cup.

If only I could create a pair of eyes

to look back into mine.

Then maybe,

the cup

would fill up.

This is how it could go.

Max will ask me out.

Somewhere quaint,

like the aquarium perhaps.

We’ll eat vanilla ice cream

while watching squid probe.

At the shark tank

he will suddenly realize

we shouldn’t be anywhere

near a shark tank.

By the flounder, our hands touch.

In the jellyfish room,

our shoulders brush,

a manta ray drifts past

and we turn to each other —

he’ll kiss me

while giant red crabs

scale pink coral behind thick glass,

and crowds of people shuffle by,

consulting guidebooks.

Maybe I’ll cry.

“I’m so different, Max.

Can this work?”

He’ll take my face in his hands,

his skin blue from the fish lights,

and say,

“Don’t you get it? I love you

because of who you are inside.”

Tears.

Embrace.

I discover I always wanted

to be a ballerina;

Max wins a swim scholarship

to Harvard.

“We’ll always have the kelp forest, Max.”

Happy ending, roll credits,

pick our way out, over

crushed pieces of popcorn,

to emerge

into the glaring light of day.

At lunch one day,

I tell them about the phone call

a few weeks ago, the one

from the TV station.

Rachel is horrified.

Trina repulsed.

Elizabeth stares.

Angie speaks up.

“Why did you say no?”

She waves her sandwich

around as she talks.

“You could have had a free trip

to New York.

They would have given you

a makeover, maybe.

New clothes or something.

You could have seen a play.

You could have had a lot of fun!”

“By being on display?”

Rachel demands.

Angie rolls her eyes.

“Jane. Did you ever think

that maybe you would do someone

some good

by talking about your story?”

Elizabeth jumps in.

“I was thinking the same thing.”

She shrugs apologetically.

“There may be a lot of other kids out there

like you. Or that boy

you talk about, Justin.

Maybe if they could see you,

they’d feel better.”

“Why? Because I’m doing so great?”

I ask, sounding totally old and sour.

I try again.

“I mean, what can I say

that is so inspirational? It’s because

of doctors I survived. Now I just . . .

I don’t know. I just go on.”

“Yeah, but you’re high profile,”

Trina adds. She shrugs, too.

“Not that I’m saying you should do it.

I’m just saying.”

We wait.

“Saying what?” I ask.

Trina digs into a bag of chips.

“I don’t know. Nothing.”

Rachel gives me a look,

a Don’t listen to them,

you did the right thing

look.

That is why Rachel

is my best friend.

Angie: “Jane, you might want to try mascara.

Why don’t you wear mascara?

Mascara would help your eyes stand out.

You should wear your makeup . . .”

Different.

Angie: “You need something with a V-neck.

Turtlenecks make your chin look big.”

Different.

Angie: “You could use a shoe with a heel, too.

And have you thought about wearing more silver?

It might make you look less pale. You’d look . . .”

Different.

In her eyes,

everything about me that has always been me

isn’t good enough —

anymore.

Justin and I hook up again,

which is not easy,

because every time I call

he’s going over to a friend’s house.

But today, we’re here.

Side by side,

we walk two blocks from his house

to a playground. It reminds me

of walking the hospital halls with

Justin in his wheelchair, beside me.

He’s come a long way.

Justin steps along steadily

on his leg,

only swaying slightly,

but he is careful

when we pass over uneven

breaks in the sidewalk.

“Sometimes I still fall down,”

he explains. “But not much.”

At the park, rocking on swings,

a spring breeze whispering,

Justin tells me that he is

playing softball with his friends,

in a league, even.

“They give me extra time to run the bases,”

he says. He sighs. “But I still

get out sometimes.” He leans back,

pulling his weight against the chains

of the swing. “But that’s okay.

I’m getting really good at hitting.”

I can’t bear the image.

What kind of idiot kid

tags out someone who

can barely run? Don’t they care?

Justin breezes on. “I want to play

soccer again. With my friends.

My dad and I

are working on it.

He may take me to the World Cup

for my birthday.”

Good job, Justin’s dad. Way to go.

I drag my toes through the wood chips

beneath us. Spot, tethered to a tree,

rolls on her back.

“By the way. When is that?” I ask.

“The cup?”

“No, your birthday.”

“May 28. Are you

going to buy me a present?”

“Of course. What would you like?

More LEGOs?”

“No. I have lots of those.

Let me think. Hmm.”

I wait. Then I wait some more.

Justin, swinging, with half his

leg gone forever,

a prosthesis that still causes him to trip,

and soccer just out of reach,

can’t think of one thing

he wants for his birthday.

Which is why I love you, Justin.

So much.

Physical therapy followed by

icy cold lattes at Starbucks,

a hot cinnamon scone to share,

Mom’s lipstick left on the rim of her cup.

Her wrist flicks

as she checks the time.

“Got a date?” I joke,

but she just shakes her head at me,

with a wistful smile. “Seems only yesterday

I walked you to kindergarten.”

We come home,

Mabel barking in the dark,

and there

in the corner, a massive lump,

impossibly shaped.

“Surprise!”

Rachel, Angie, Trina, Elizabeth

explode from behind the sofa,

leap from the kitchen doorway;

my knees buckle,

a flash goes off.

“You should have seen your face!”

“Were you surprised?”

“Happy Birthday!”

The surprise party launches

full swing into gossip

and Cheetos.

Mom has her camera out;

I corner her quick.

“No pictures, Mom.”

“But this birthday is special.”

She lifts the camera again. “Please?”

“No, really.”

Her lip trembles. “Jane. Back

in the hospital,

I thought —”

Mom’s face wrenches suddenly

and she whispers,

“I thought you wouldn’t live

to see this day.

I thought I’d be visiting

your grave . . .”

Cheetos poised,

everyone stares

as I put my arm

around my sniffling mom.

I get everyone together for a photo,

but I stand

in the back.

Angie gives me a makeup kit.

All purples, all not my colors.

She wants so much for me to transform

to someone new, someone more like her.

Can’t she see I’ll never be like her,

whole and pretty and normal?

Can’t she see?

If only this had never happened. You would be doing so much more right now.

I’d be drawing normally.

Yes!

I’d be driving. Dating. Maybe working at a paid job.

Your whole life would be normal. THIS is not normal.

Stop.

Your life is so different now.

It is what it is.

It’s not fair, and it won’t ever be the same.

I know.

It should have been different.

I know.

Different.

Lindsey is thrilled at my request.

“We would love to have you

as a volunteer.”

I fill out papers,

attend training.

Then I’m ready to go.

Saturdays, nine to twelve.

“You really want to do this, Jane?

These are your Saturdays

we’re talking about.”

“It’s not like I have a lot going on,

Mom. And yes, I really

want to do this.”

“Your little outfit is cute.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll pick you up at twelve.”

“If we start my driving lessons soon,

I can drive myself eventually.”

“Um. Yes.”

“Wouldn’t that be good?”

“Yep. All right, see you later.”

“Bye.”

Inside the hospital walls

everything comes back;

suddenly,

I think

I’ve made a terrible mistake.

I can’t breathe here.

The hallways, the food trays,

the noises of phones and medical

blips and beeps. . . .

When I see the door to the room

that was mine,

a wave of ice washes over me.

Lightheaded, I take refuge

in the restroom

before I’m ready to try again.

But seeing the faces

when I deliver flowers

helps.

Lindsey’s thumbs-up as she flashes past

does, too.

Mel drops by, for a hug,

with a shining smile.

“Good for you, Jane.

Good for you.”

The thing that helps

most of all

is remembering how it felt

to be here

and how much the people

around me

made a difference.

Isn’t that what I wanted, after all?

To make a difference?

I check my palm,

pressing it against my cheek.

Cold.

But useful in delivering get well cards,

filling water pitchers.

So, I get on with it,

trying to make a difference.

Dear Jane,

I am writing to tell you that I hope you get well soon. It must be difficult to recover from such a loss, but I am told it is possible. I myself have lost the use of my left arm due to a recent stroke, and I can sympathize with what you must be going through. Many things I loved to do I can no longer do, or at least, not as easily. Life is funny, and sometimes it’s easy to question why terrible things happen to good people, especially young folks like yourself. I believe there is a reason, though we may not see it for a long time. My hope for you is that someday, you feel that this accident has not ruined your life; only changed it from the original plan.

As I work through my physical rehabilitation, I will think of you, going through the same. I wish you the best.

Courage,

Andy

A big cardboard box arrives

Saturday afternoon.

Stuff I ordered off the Internet,

from a specialty site.

Michael, home for the weekend,

carries the box inside,

cuts it open with a knife.

Together,

we dig through the contents.

“The Unskru jar opener,”

he says, holding the object aloft.

We stare at the spelling a moment.

“Bolt it underneath the cabinet,”

I explain, fishing another object

from the box.

“Then I can slide the jar into the slot

and twist it open.”

“For all your mayonnaise needs,”

Michael says.

“Oh, shut up.” I pull out the special knife,

resembling an arc,

the blade curved and shining,

the handle round, straight, and fat.

At last. I can chop, or slice a sandwich,

without making such a mess.

“Hey, that’s pretty cool,”

Michael says, reaching for the knife.

“I want one of these.”

At the bottom, among Styrofoam peanuts,

lies a cutting board.

Michael holds it up,

turning it over in his hands.

“There’s a lip,” I point out,

touching it with my little finger.

“You can hook it

to the edge of the counter.”

Two “feet” at the edge

keep the cheese

or the whatever

from sliding off the board.

There’s also a white mixing bowl

that will not slip.

“Well, aren’t you all set,”

Michael says. He gathers up

the scattered packing bits.

“You can go back to cooking for us.

Please.

Before Mom kills us all.”

Fingering my new tools,

I think about the people

who devote their lives

to inventing stuff like this.

Things that make life

a bit easier.

I wonder who they are

and why they invent things like this

and if they ever hear the words

“thank you.”

“I still need to learn to drive.”

“I know, honey.”

“I’m going to start saving for a car soon.

A used one. You know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

Neither of us mentions

we can’t imagine what I’ll do for employment

to save for this imaginary car.

The issue is independence.

“Michael bought a car.”

“Yes, he did.”

“If you’re not going to teach me, can I ask him to do it?”

“Jane. Do we have to rush it?

You’re still getting used to your new hand . . .”

“An electric hand has nothing to do

with me learning to drive.

I might as well learn to drive without it,

don’t you think?”

Mom nods, but remains sitting,

plucking at a hole in the couch.

“I guess we could go out this weekend.”

“Why not now?”

“Because it’s dark.”

“So?”

Sigh. “Jane, I don’t want to.”

In my room, I hear her call,

“You don’t need to slam your door,

you know. I said we’d go

this weekend.”

I need to know how to do this

now.

My friends

are practicing parallel parking already.

They know

they are days from freedom.

I need to know that, too.

Tonight,

the face of a fox

emerges beneath my hand.

Without warning

his slanted eyes

lock onto mine.

A face, there all along,

coming sharply into focus.

Real eyes.

Eyes!

Alive.

My heart beats faster.

I want to shout,

wake up the entire house,

the neighborhood, everyone.

Instead, I only wake up Mabel,

who blinks sleepily from the bed

as I dance around the room.

I missed the bus,

because I was talking to Mrs. Guiano

about nursing school

and didn’t want the conversation to end.

I start walking home

with all my books

in the crook of my arm.

Halfway down Raymond Avenue, the wind picks up.

Bits of dead leaves skip around my ankles;

this reminds me of children dancing,

and I wonder

if I could plan some kind of party

for the kids at the hospital.

I don’t know what kind,

but those kids could use some fun.

A red car passes, slows down,

then reverses.

I put my head down and walk fast,

grateful that there’s a woman across the street,

sweeping out her garage.

She’ll be the witness in case I am assaulted.

The guy in the car sticks his head out.

“Jane? Can I give you a ride?”

Max Shannon himself.

“You thought I might assault you?”

Max throws back his head and laughs.

“Not really,” I say, and I’m laughing, too.

“I mean, I’m alone, this car stops and backs up . . .”

“Right. What else could it possibly mean

but that I’m a psychotic animal?”

There’s a tiny nick under his jaw,

maybe from shaving.

Max stops at a red light,

reaches over and plucks a book from the stack in my lap.

“The Call of the Wild?” he says.

“I liked White Fang better.”

He places the book back on the stack

with care. “I can bring it in for you, if you want.”

Though I’ve read it, I say, “That would be great.”

Max drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“I just realized.

This would go a lot better if you tell me where you live.”

I give him directions,

wishing I could send him on some long, winding route

that would take a couple of days to complete.

But we’re almost home.

“Are you ever going to come to a swim meet?” he asks.

“We don’t get a lot of fans. The team could really use the

    cheering.”

“I’ll come to the next one,” I blurt.

Could I sound any more eager?

“Great.” He smiles. “Hey, how come you’re not on the bus?”

He listens as I tell him about Mrs. Guiano and

medical school.

“That is totally cool,” he says. “You’d make a great nurse.

Or a doctor.”

“I’ve also been looking at occupational therapy,” I tell him.

“There’s so much that’s looks interesting.”

As he smiles and nods, I realize what I just said.

So much that looks interesting?

Wow.

Just a few months ago,

my radar was EMPTY.

So it’s true, then?

Time makes a difference?

Who knows.

Time is still passing.

“Mom was driving me and Angie to the mall

and we passed you in Max’s car!”

Rachel sounds gleeful.

“Gimme the scoop.”

I tell her about the nick under Max’s jaw,

about White Fang,

the way his car smelled like oranges,

everything.

Angie calls.

She gushes, she fusses,

she says:

“But,

I heard

he’s with Megan Dalloway now.”

Soaking in the bathtub later that night,

I wonder how Angie can call to tell me that,

and still call

herself

a friend.

Emily Morrison says:

“He only talks to her because he feels sorry for her.

It’s not like she’s pretty or anything.”

Behind my locker, I watch

Emily’s enormous feet pass, and

the girl she’s with, someone new,

says,

“Can you imagine getting your arm bitten off

by a shark?”

As though getting your arm bitten off by a lion

would be easier to live with.

They’re both idiots.

So why am I the one

feeling stupid?

I got it.

I know just what to get

Justin for his birthday.

I think,

I hope,

he’ll love it.

Max. I want his arms, around me.

That smile, that shine in his eyes,

when he looks at Megan,

I want that for me. Us. Together.

Rachel states:

“You don’t even know him. You’re creating fantasy.”

Trina adds:

“He is probably an excessive nose picker,

or kicks his dog around when he goes home.”

But Elizabeth says:

“Maybe not. Maybe he’s every bit

as wonderful as he seems.

Sexy, cute, smart, athletic . . .

maybe I’m in love with him, too, Jane.

Can we share him?”

We laugh, and bump shoulders.

But I wish there was a grain

of hope, a toehold somewhere with Max.

When I think of his hands

and I think of his eyes,

it’s like watching a boat sail away,

white sails growing ever smaller,

leaving me

on an empty shore.

Maybe if you were normal-looking, Max would actually like you, instead of feel sorry for you.

He doesn’t feel sorry for me.

Everyone feels sorry for you.

They do not.

If only this hadn’t happened. None of this crap would be going on. You’d feel normal. Remember normal?

I think so.

Maybe you’ll never feel that way again.

Stop.

If only that shark had been swimming anywhere else that day. Anywhere.

Anywhere else.

Anywhere.

Angie and I walk through the halls;

I’m going to art,

she’s going to English.

“Anyway,” she is saying, “I have

to tell you. I think Matthew

has a crush on you.”

“Matthew from science class?”

Angie nods, glowing.

“Uh-huh. Have you noticed the way

he finds reasons to talk to you lately?

About homework and stuff?”

“Yeah, but that’s about homework.”

“I don’t think so. I saw him looking at you

a couple of times this week. I think

he may ask you out.”

We reach art class and pause

at the doorway.

“I doubt it.”

Angie sighs. “Jane, you can’t

hold out for Max, you know.”

Stung, I fall back on pretense.

“Huh? Who says I am?”

Angie leans against the doorjamb,

lowering her voice as students

squeeze past us.

“Come on. I know you’re, like,

in love with him. But he’s with Megan.

And he’s kind of out your league.”

“Thanks a ton.”

“My league, too,” Angie says,

hurt, confused.

“I’m not saying it has anything to do

with your arm, so don’t go there.

I just meant, he’s, you know.

Max. He’s got girls his own age

all over him, and he’s got Megan.

I’m just saying, you need to open

yourself up to other possibilities.”

“Got it, Mother.”

Angie huffs. “You are so pissy sometimes,

you know that?”

She stalks off.

I rip into class,

ready to plunge my hand into some clay,

pretend it’s Angie’s mouth,

and I am mashing it, mashing it shut.

But today,

we are doing string art.

Maybe I could make a noose

and hang her.

Waiting for the bus,

Angie picks at a scab on her elbow.

“God, look at this.

It’s disgusting.

I’m never going Rollerblading again.”

“Hey, what are you guys doing Saturday?”

Rachel asks,

trying to ignore the tension

that sits like an elephant between Angie and me.

I know I should say something,

make a joke,

something witty like,

“Yeah, scabby elbows suck.

That’s why I got rid of my arm.”

But I don’t feel like being the glue.

To hell with being glue, as a matter of fact.

Angie should be more aware.

She doesn’t look at me

as we board the bus.

She knows I’m right.

Dear Ms. Arrowood:

I am shocked and saddened by what has happened to you, and I send my deepest sympathy for your loss.

I am sure your recovery will be long, but I wonder if you will find this all makes you stronger in a way. It is my personal experience that sharing your story with others can help in the healing process. Which is why I am writing today. Ms. Arrowood, we would so love to interview you for our series, “American Inspirations.” In case you haven’t seen it, this is a weekly feature in our magazine about Americans who have overcome huge obstacles in their lives and gone on to triumph. I am sure your story would be inspirational and powerful, and who knows? You may very well help someone else who is suffering, too.

Please contact me at your earliest convenience. I sincerely hope you will say yes.

Best wishes,

Barry Epson

Mom could have

tucked away

my pencils,

my bottles of nail polish,

the ball of half-knit yarn

before I came home from the hospital.

Did she stand in my room,

and wonder if she should?

I think

she must have.

She’s that kind of wonderer.

But she left it as it was.

I look over at her on the couch,

watching TV.

I’d like to thank her,

but I’m not sure how.

Emily bumps her tray into mine

as we negotiate the

cafeteria line.

She gives me a look

that could wilt lettuce.

Eating, listening to Angie

give me mascara advice,

I think about Emily and the girls

around here,

the popular ones. Boys, too.

They want to flatten everyone

all the time.

Anyone who challenges

their own feelings of self-worth.

“When someone is jealous of you,

they make themselves your enemy.”

That’s what Uncle Ben told me once.

But I’m Shark Girl.

Why would anyone be jealous

of me?

He glances over,

but he’s too busy talking

to Megan Dalloway

to really see me.

I stand there,

ridiculous in the wake of

Megan’s long, sleek hair, perky nose,

and slim, perfect body.

You know the part in Cinderella

when everyone goes to the ball

and she sits at home, crying?

It wasn’t because her gown was ripped.

It was because she knew

she was an idiot

for thinking

she could grab a prince.

I know how she feels.

“Jane, I have to tell you,

red is not your color.

You wear too much of it.”

In the cafeteria,

chewing around a stick of celery,

Angie announces this in front of my friends.

“It makes you look kind of,

I don’t know. Pale.”

“Since when are you my fashion consultant?”

I say. I’ve had it. “Who asked you?

Who the hell do you think you are?

Stop picking on me, Angie! Just STOP!”

Tears burst out, run down my cheeks.

I run out of there like a baby.

Crying in the restroom.

Trying to erase Angie’s stunned face,

Rachel’s stricken stare,

the jeering “Tell the bitch,”

from Emily Morrison

as I ran past.

Angie knows she’s hurting me

when she talks like that,

and she doesn’t care.

We’re through.

Dear Jane,

I can’t believe what happened to you. My friend’s dad is a doctor. He says losing an arm is way worse than losing a leg. I hope you’re feeling better.

Get well soon!

Your friend,

Naomi

“Are you guys going to be mad at each other forever? Is this it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Jane, you can’t let this break up our group.”

“I know. I’m the glue.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, Jane, you’re bigger than this. You’re pouting.”

“Whose side are you on?”

“I refuse to take sides, that’s just it. You guys are dividing the group. Elizabeth and Trina don’t know what to do.”

“You know what she’s like. Why doesn’t she just come right out and say it? I’m hideous. ‘Jane, you really should camouflage that deformity you’ve got. Wear more makeup. Grow your hair into a cloak and wrap yourself in it.’ I hate her.”

“You’re being stubborn. And you really hurt her feelings.”

“You’re taking sides.”

“I am NOT. But she is just trying to help, in her own screwed up, kind of shallow way.”

“She says the most stupid things. It’s like she doesn’t even think about what I’m going through.”

“Jane. Angie was like that before your accident. And we all try to think about what you’re going through. Since last summer, we’ve tried so hard. We’re only human.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re not the only one with feelings.”

“I know that!”

“She’s really upset, Jane. Please talk to her. Just think about it, okay?”

“Maybe.”

“I have to tell you. That surprise birthday party we threw for you? It was Angie’s idea.”

“No.”

“Yeah. She wanted to do something special for you. She said you had been through so much and you deserved to be treated really special.”

“Angie?”

“You know she can be nice! Think about it, okay?”

“Why did you have to tell me that? Now I feel rotten.”

“I can think of a cure for that.”

“Don’t rush me.”

“Think about it.”

Max pulls up

as we stand outside school,

waiting for our buses.

“Jane, need a ride home?”

Rachel gives me a fierce poke.

“Call me later,” she whispers.

Elizabeth gives me the wide-eyed “Wow” look.

Angie, standing apart from us,

watches silently.

Driving,

Max and I talk and talk.

I wish

all the traffic lights

would stay red.

I check with Lindsey

to see if I can plan

a party for the kids at the hospital.

Something, some reason

for them to all have some fun.

Lindsey says,

“We are way ahead of you, babe.

Our spring party is on the twenty-third.”

“Oh. Good,” I say.

“We’d sure love to have you

come help,” Lindsey says.

“We could use some help decorating,

face painting,

and serving food.”

She is grinning as she fills out papers.

“You’re welcome to bring a date,

if you’d like.

Do you have someone to bring?”

Should I invite him?

People may talk.

He may say no. But

what the hell? Smiling, I answer her.

“Actually, I know just who to ask.”

Well.

There it is.

We’ll see what Justin thinks

of his present.

I think about showing Mom,

or Michael,

then decide not to. It is for Justin,

only.

Wrapped up tight in red paper,

I slide the thing deep into my closet,

then close the door.

Suppose he hates it?

Are we doing this again? I’m trying to sleep. Besides, he won’t hate it.

You’re not showing it to anyone because you know what their reaction will be. Pity. Sadness. Suppose they stop pushing you and admit it. You may never draw well again.

Stop.

Suppose this had never happened. You wouldn’t even have this problem. You wouldn’t even know Justin and you wouldn’t have this birthday to worry about.

It’s not a worry.

Suppose you had stayed home that day instead of going to the beach? It could have been different.

I cannot keep thinking like this. I won’t.

It should have been different.

But it’s not.

Different.

Did you know UCLA has an awesome school of occupational therapy?

(I did.)

I’ll bring the lit. home this summer.

(I’ve got it.)

Not that I want you going here while I’m here, J-Pain.

Hey, Mother’s Day is coming. I think you should make Mom those lemon bar things like you always do. You know they’re her favorite.

(His, too.)

And if you want, you could make extra, and send some here.

M.

Mabel hovers,

licking up spilled sugar, salt.

I do the mixing, dropping, picking up,

and pouring

without tears, without bad language,

even when I’m tempted.

The bars come out with

a crispy crust,

a tart, golden filling,

smelling sweet

and light.

I come out with

flour in my hair,

burned thumb throbbing,

dishes to wash, a slippery floor to vacuum.

“Lemon bar things”

are a real pain.

But then again, Mom is worth it.

I set some aside for Michael, in a box.

Getting to the post office will be a pain.

But then again,

he saved my life.

Mom? I brought you some tea.

Mmm.

I can’t believe you have the flu on Mother’s Day.

Lucky me. Hey, what’s that? Are those lemon bars?

Yeah. Here, sit up.

Oh, honey. You made these for me? Thank you!

You’re welcome. Here’s your card, and stuff.

This is all so nice. Thank you. Wow. These are great. You haven’t lost your touch.

Not entirely.

Michael will be jealous.

I’ve got some for him, too. I’ll mail them out tomorrow.

Need me to drive you to the post office?

No, I can walk. I can handle it.

I know you can. It might be easier if I drive you.

You don’t have to.

I know. I want to. Okay? I still like to do things for you, you know.

Yeah, but —

Not because of your arm or anything else. Because you’re my daughter. You know? You’ll always be my little girl, to some extent.

Mom, stop. Okay, you can drive me.

Thanks. Moms need to help their kids once in a while, you know. It keeps us feeling useful.

But you can only drive if you’re feeling better.

I will be fine. I can’t take a sick day off, anyway.

Mom, you should. Take it easy for one day, okay? The world won’t fall apart.

Well, when did you get so wise? Now who’s being the mom?

I’m just saying. You’d make me stay home if I were sick. Besides, you’ll only infect everyone else if you go in.

That’s right. You’re right. You’d make a good doctor, by the way. Have I told you that?

You saw my pamphlet from the medical school.

I did. When did this happen? Are you thinking of a career in medicine now? Is that why you volunteer at the hospital?

It’s just something I think about sometimes. And being at the hospital is . . . I don’t know, good. It helps me think about what’s important, I guess. What I want.

And what is that?

For you to get well. And eat another lemon bar.

Yes, ma’am. But Jane. I haven’t seen you drawing at all. We’re coming up on a year now. Do you plan on ever taking art back up again?

Yes.

That’s it —“Yes”? What are you waiting for?

The right time. It’s hard to explain.

Oh.

You want to watch a movie or something? I can see what’s on.

Sure. And honey?

Yeah?

I’m proud of you. You’ve been through a lot, and you’re doing great.

I’m proud of you, too, Mom. Same reason.

This calls for another lemon bar.

Hey. Save one for me.

Are they fading, just a little?

In the mirror,

I study it. It’s not going anywhere.

Avoiding it

hasn’t proved useful.

I sprinkle on some baby powder,

touch the rounded, smooth flesh,

compare the differing thicknesses

of my two upper arms.

Somehow,

this thing

that was once alien

is returning to being

part of me.

This morning I opened Angie’s

makeup kit, the one she gave me,

and looked through it again.

Among the purples,

there’s a delicate blush,

sparkly on my cheeks,

subtle, smooth. Something

I may have actually

picked out myself.

Keeps me from walking up to her,

from saying,

“Sorry.”

But it doesn’t keep me from noticing

how she turns her head away,

how her eyes blink fast, how she’s

pretending with her whole body

that she doesn’t care

when I walk past her seat on the bus.

We sit at lunch,

a nation divided.

The others don’t know who to side with.

Angie and I,

by unspoken agreement,

sit at either end of the same table

so Rachel, Trina, and Elizabeth

can sit between us.

Nobody can actually eat.

Our throats are full

of words unsaid.

I corner Angie on the way to the bus stop.

Trapped between the building

and the parking lot,

there is nowhere for her to run,

no crowds to melt into.

I want to lie down in the path

of an oncoming bus.

Anything but talk to her.

But I have to make this right.

“Angie, look. I just want . . .”

I steady my voice.

“I want us to be friends again. I want you to stop

being mad at me.”

With the ball in her court,

Angie holds the power.

She looks down at the books in her arms

and shrugs. In a small voice, she says,

“You’re just so different lately.”

Yes, I AM different, I want to shout,

I want to wave my fake arm around.

Angie says, “I mean . . .

what I meant was, I know you’re different now,

but you just seem so MAD all the time.

What did I do?”

I could list. But I say only,

“Sometimes you just get kind of bossy.

Like with my hair,

you wanted me to get your permission to cut it.

And my makeup.

This is the way I wear it.

I don’t want to change.

I’ve changed enough.”

With each excuse, I shrink.

Smaller and smaller,

until I am a marble on the sidewalk.

Such petty crap.

God, do I really think

our problems are about hair and makeup?

We’re standing here crying.

Let’s get to the truth, and end this.

So I dig deep, and pull out

the darkest seed I find.

“The thing you said about Max.

It really hurt my feelings.”

She looks up at me.

“I need you to be on my side,”

I say.

“I am,” she starts, then wilts.

There is a long silence.

“I’m sorry.

I was trying to help,” Angie says,

still in a small voice.

“We’re all just trying to help.”

She shifts. “I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”

Now comes the question.

Do I believe her?

Because this would make an easy way out,

and then we could go back to pretending.

But looking at Angie’s face,

the weird thing is,

I do believe her.

In her own way,

she wanted to make me over into someone

like her,

someone who gets guys and

who doesn’t get hurt by the serious stuff

because the serious stuff

doesn’t get acknowledged.

And all of this makes it easier to say

“I’m sorry, too.”

Two inches shorter than me,

too thin, and her lipstick all smeared.

What was I afraid of?

She is my friend.

Not my final answer.

She can stop protecting me,

and I can help her do that.

Only nicely.

I’m going to start living again,

only differently.

When Angie looks up at me,

I think maybe, she is seeing what I just saw.

The two of us,

with everything changed.

“Can we just try again?” I ask,

and after a pause filled with the sounds

of rumbling bus engines and

students’ loud voices as they crowd past us,

Angie nods.

So we walk home,

trying again.

“Happy Spring,” Lindsey says,

squashing me close.

“Happy Spring, Lindsey.”

“And let me give your date a hug,” Lindsey says.

“I must say, you are a handsome fellow.”

Justin grins.

He wraps his skinny arms

around Lindsey’s waist.

“Happy Spring.”

The kids, in bathrobes and gowns, two in

party hats,

gather in the cafeteria.

The ones that are too sick to come

will be visited later by all of us,

with toys, plates of cookies,

and most important,

understanding

and compassion.

I ache for them. But I focus on the faces

before me; eager, wanting some fun.

“Who wants their face painted?”

I left Chuck at home.

Who needs that hot thing?

I’m busy painting faces.

It’s kind of a mess, but the kids don’t mind.

Justin helps with the games,

nurses pass out treats,

Dr. Kim and Mel come by my table for a hug

and hello.

“It’s good to see you.” Dr. Kim says,

then his pager goes off.

He whips out of there, waving.

“How’s it going, kiddo?” Mel says.

He plants a kiss on the top of my head.

Plops down in the chair before me.

I begin painting

a lopsided sunflower on his cheek.

“Mel?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember when I told you —

when I said — that —

sometimes, I wished I had died that day?”

“Yes, I do.”

I dab a tiny leaf on the flower’s stem.

“I don’t feel that way anymore.”

Mel smiles. “What changed your mind?”

I stop. I think.

A little Justin, a little Mel,

a lot of Mom and Michael,

some Rachel, some Max,

Uncle Ben and Aunt Karen,

even some Angie,

and maybe something else.

But what?

“I’m not sure.”

Mel nods. “Someday, you will. For now,

enjoy the feeling.”

So I do as he says,

and enjoy.

As the kids glue together

tissue-paper flowers,

and parents hold each other’s hands,

I poke Justin.

“Come outside for a minute.”

He steps out with me

into the hall

where it is cool and quiet.

I give him the tube I’ve been hiding.

“Happy Birthday.”

Justin shakes out the rolled-up paper inside.

He unfurls it and

his face

splits

into

a huge

grin.

“That’s her!” He shows me

the pastel sketch,

as though I didn’t make it,

as though I haven’t seen it.

“That’s Spot!”

“Do you like it?”

Justin is still grinning at the drawing.

“It’s so good.”

“I’m still pretty wobbly. I tried

to get everything right,

but some of the colors smooshed around on me.”

Justin shakes his head. “It’s perfect.”

Another hug,

and this time I hold on to him, tight.

I love Justin as much as I love Michael.

But

something is drawing to a close tonight,

and I know

it will be a long time

before I see Justin again.

We’re moving on with our lives.

He has his friends, his family, his life,

and I have mine.

It’s time to let go.

Company is coming for dinner.

Two of Mom’s teacher friends

who play a mean game of croquet.

Angie, Rachel, Elizabeth, and Trina

are due to arrive any second.

Aunt Karen and Uncle Ben, visiting

for the weekend, fuss with their

matching dress shirts.

Michael wears shorts that are not ripped.

That’s his idea of dressed up.

Mom looks beautiful in her red tank

and shimmery skirt.

I have painted my toenails in honor

of the occasion:

our annual Memorial Day cookout.

A kickoff to summer.

“Did you ever see a nicer-looking bunch?” Mom asks,

and Michael smiles, gathering up

fork, spatula, and timer

for the grill.

“Mom, you say that every year.”

Mom picks up her camera.

“Well, this year . . .”

“— I really mean it,” Michael and I chant in unison,

turning to her to make a face,

and when we both laugh,

Mom snaps a picture.

If only you had helped that woman. If only you had —

Shut up.

You lost your arm.

Yeah, I noticed. Now shut up.

You —

I’m done doing this to myself. Got it? Done.

But it could have been different —

It wasn’t. It is what it is. And yeah, it sucks. But listening to this crap doesn’t help.

But —

It doesn’t help. I’m done.

It —

Done.

At the albums again,

open pages, shiny plastic,

shielding us,

the Old Us,

spread out in photos,

a time line

of our innocence.

Dad: lighting the grill,

holding back my small hand

as I reach for the flame;

he is free

from the knowledge

that soon

he will be dead from cancer.

Mom, posing before her new car,

Michael clinging to her leg,

me, barely more than a lump,

lying across her arms.

She had no idea

that soon, she would be left

to raise us

by herself.

None of us knew.

None of us know now.

Life is what it is,

at any second.

A snapshot.

Nothing more.

Maybe

the trick is learning

to live the moment

celebrating our

freedom;

the freedom

of not knowing.

Dear Mary,

Thank you for your letter. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write back. I’ve had lots to do. Congratulations on beating cancer. I’m sure that must have been scary. How is Patty? I have a new arm, too.

I took your advice, Mary, and had a funeral for my arm. It was a private one, and I didn’t really make a grave. I got out my photo albums instead and looked at all the old pictures of me. I looked at my arm, the one that is gone, in all those pictures, and then I did what you said. I said good-bye.

We started a new photo album today, and we have lots of pictures to put inside. We have lots of empty spaces in the album for all the things we’ll do this summer, too.

Thank you for writing. You are a special girl to try and help someone you don’t even know. I hope you and Patty have a great soccer season, and many, many days at the park.

Your friend,

Jane

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

There are many people I feel a great appreciation toward, without whom this book would not have been written or published. It is my honor to give them thanks:

My parents, Richard and Barbara Haberly — who always encouraged my writing and made possible my studies at Vermont College; my family for their moral support; my sons, Sam and Ben, for the love and inspiration they give continually; and my husband, Marty Bingham, for his love and unwavering belief. I would also like to thank my mentors, who were integral to the development of this story: Ellen Howard, Jane Resh-Thomas, Alison McGhee, and Liza Ketchum. To all faculty in the Vermont College MFA in writing for children and young adults program: thank you for the encouragement and advice — it made all the difference. A special thanks to M. T. Anderson for his endless help in getting this book completed and into the right hands.

I would also like to thank my beloved classmates. Each one of you has given priceless encouragement, assistance, and affirmation. I must single out Betsy Wernert, who read and re-read multiple, often wandering drafts of the manuscript, and became my tireless second pair of eyes during the revision process. Without her, I would have been lost.

Thank you to David Loney of Vermont, maker of prosthetic limbs, for his time and information. Deep appreciation to Duane Schmidt of Hutchinson, Kansas, for sharing his personal story with a complete stranger, inspiring much of my writing. Thank you to Dave Goetz, humble art director, for a suggestion that sent Jane on a different path and gave the book new dimension. And deepest gratitude to the late Marty Scully, who inspired by example, and continues to do so.

Last but not least, a huge thank-you to Liz Bicknell, editor extraordinaire, who took a chance on an unknown author and gave my story wings to fly.

KELLY BINGHAM was a story artist and director for Walt Disney Feature Animation before receiving her MFA in writing for children and young adults from Vermont College. Shark Girl is her first novel. She says, “I began writing this story in the summer of 2001, when the news was focusing on a so-called rash of shark attacks around the country. Originally, I planned the book with a much younger character in mind, but right away, Jane Arrowood stepped in. She had a story to share and would not leave me alone until I opened myself to her words.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2007 by Kelly Bingham
Cover photographs: copyright © 2007 by Anna Peisl/zefa/Corbis (girl); copyright © 2007 by iStockphoto/Rommil Santiago (breaking wave)

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.

First electronic edition 2011

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Bingham, Kelly L., date.
Shark girl / Kelly Bingham. — 1st ed.
p.  cm.
Summary: After a shark attack causes the amputation of her right arm, fifteen-year-old Jane, an aspiring artist, struggles to come to terms with her loss and the changes it imposes on her day-to-day life and her plans for the future.
ISBN 978-0-7636-3207-6 (hardcover)
[1. Amputees — Fiction. 2. Artists — Fiction. 3. People with disabilities — Fiction. 4. Self-acceptance — Fiction. 5. Interpersonal relations — Fiction. 6. Novels in verse.]
I. Title.
PZ7.5.B56Sha 2007
[Fic] — dc22    2006049120

ISBN 978-0-7636-4627-1 (paperback)
ISBN 978-0-7636-5447-4 (electronic)

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