Formerly Shark Girl (24 page)

We turn and watch him,

and see him snatch his father’s arm

just as the man is about to step off the curb

in front of an oncoming car.

The car slows

and blares its horn.

Max tugs at his father,

who jerks his arm away

and shouts a torrent of anger.

Then they both climb into

Max’s old car.

“That’s his
dad
?” Rachel asks.

We watch them get into the car,

the father gesticulating the whole time

as Max carefully buckles the seat belt

around his dad’s body.

“I guess so,” I answer,

aching over what Max is going through.

He doesn’t deserve that kind of abuse.

And he lives with it every day?

Aren’t there . . . services or agencies? Something?

I picture

what the last three years must have been like

for Max, the three years

since the day his mother died,

leaving him this burden to bear

all alone.

And suddenly I think I get it.

Why Max is studying psychology.

“It’s a great way to help people with their lives.

People who really need it. You know?”

Yes, Max. I do know.

Now I know.

When we find our table in the corner,

I sit across from Rachel

and tell her about the swimming pool.

“Wow,” Rachel says

when I finish. “Just . . . wow.”

We stare at the scone

on the plate between us.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rachel asks.

“I don’t know” is all I can say,

because that’s the truth.

After another minute, Rachel says,

“Maybe this is just how it’s going to be for you.

Being afraid of water.

Maybe that’s how it will always be.”

The word
always
hangs in the air,

almost visible

in black, leering letters.

Always
afraid? Me?

“I’m sure Max understands,” Rachel adds.

I sip and think.

Obviously, Max has things on his mind,

the least of which is me.

The mortification

over how I behaved at the pool

begins to melt away.

In its place is a new focus.

Am I going to be afraid of water the rest of my life?

And if so, am I going to just allow it to be that way?

Is that what I want for myself?

This thing about being disabled.

It’s both true, and it’s not true.

And in some ways,

it’s beginning

to define me.

I’m either working around it,

raging against it,

or wondering about it.

“What should I do?” I ask Rachel.

She sips her latte thoughtfully.

Finally she responds.

“Who says you have to
do
anything?”

I think about this.

Then I disagree.

Doing

or not doing?

That’s
what defines us.

And right now

I feel as though

I have to reclaim myself.

I don’t know
how

to do that

or what

I mean, exactly.

I just know

it’s something

I must

do.

The book I’m reading,
True Stories of Nursing,

mentions a nurse confined to a wheelchair.

According to this story,

the woman had a reputation

for being hostile and edgy

and so fixated on showing that she could do anything

anyone else could do

that she lost sight of taking care of her patients

and became focused on proving herself.

“Sometimes she was so busy showing off,”

one co-worker wrote,

“that she would do things

that were not in the patient’s best interest.

I guess she thought she was a hero

if she did certain big, grand things.

But she was so angry all the time.

The way she behaved ended up

defining her as a person.

And it cost her her job.”

I put the book down

and pull up a chair to my art table.

I take out the sketch of Max

and continue shading the depths of his curls,

the thickness of his hair.

Interesting that the book used the word
define.

That’s just what I’ve been thinking about.

This business of defining

who you are

and
what
you are

and where you are headed —

it’s all harder than I thought it would be.

I thought that this stuff

just . . .

happened,

I thought that life

just
happened,

and I guess I thought

I’d drift right along,

like a leaf on a river,

flowing with the current

to wherever the river wanted to go.

I push the drawing of Max aside,

take up white paper,

and stroke the curve of a leaf,

the stem, the delicate veins.

For so long I’ve been stuck, confused.

I’ve been waiting for a sign.

I was “spared” for a reason, some say.

I have a “purpose,” some say.

I’ve been waiting, I guess,

for that reason

and that purpose

to be made clear to me.

I’ve been drifting. Floating.

Now I see that I have a paddle.

Myself. I’m my own paddle.

I don’t have to drift.

Defining who I am

and what I want

and how I’ll get there?

It will involve parting

from the current.

It will mean choosing a direction

and beginning

to

paddle.

Dear Jane,

I’ve been thinking about you for months, ever since I read an update about you. This may sound crazy, but I wanted you to know that your story has changed my life. I look at what happened to you and realize that I have so much to be grateful for, so much I take for granted. I know we are supposed to appreciate our health, but I have to confess I haven’t always done so. I am fifty-four years old and have terrible asthma, as well as diabetes and frequent migraines. I can’t always do the things I want to do. But you know what? I am alive. And imagining what it would be like to go through life with only one hand has really made me thankful that I don’t have to. Seeing you lose so much but pick up and go on with your life, and even give back to others by volunteering at the hospital, makes me ashamed of my past griping and all the excuses I’ve made. I am embracing what I have, and taking better care of myself, too. For that, I thank you.

I wish you the very best in your young life, and a long and healthy future.

Rita

More needles

as I lie on the table

at the acupuncturist.

More heating pads

and ice packs. More time.

More pain.

No results.

I’m playing a game,

trying to outsmart the nueroma,

and it’s not working.

As seven o’clock approaches,

I find myself pacing.

If I had two hands,

I think I’d wring them.

“Everything okay?” Mom asks.

“Everything’s fine,” I tell her,

then the doorbell rings

and I hurry to answer it.

Max walks in. He looks at me a bit sideways.

Mom chats away. “Jane’s science grades

have certainly improved since you started

working together.”

Max says, “Well, she’s a quick learner.”

Mom beams. “She is. When she was five —”

“Mom?” I interrupt desperately.

We really don’t need the

Jane learns to ride a bike story

right now.
“We have to get started.

We have a lot to cover tonight.”

“Well, I’ll be right here if you need me.”

There is a bit of unnecessary emphasis

on
right here.
At last, she’s gone.

A tangle of words races through my mind.

The swimming pool incident. The dad incident.