Formerly Shark Girl (7 page)

Dear Jane,

I read an update about you in
Valley Magazine
a while back, and I keep thinking about you. I always wondered how you were doing, and I’m so glad to hear you are well.

I can only imagine the tough road you have traveled. I think it’s wonderful that you have moved on with your life and not let this one thing drive you down the wrong path. The article mentioned you are planning to become a nurse. That is fantastic. I am sure you will be spectacular at that. Good for you, Jane.

As the magazine said, I bet you will be wonderful at whatever you do in life. You are obviously an exceptional person with a great deal of courage.

Best wishes,

George

“You would apply pressure,

like this.” The instructor of the triage class,

a birdlike man with the longest

legs I have ever seen

(and, unbelievably, named Mr. Stork),

demonstrates for the class,

pressing a mound of cloth to the fake victim,

who is sprawled on a silver metal table.

All of us watch, take notes,

then put down our pencils and gather

at the front of the room to practice on one another.

This is the first of three triage classes.

I am here, partly, because it helps,

when applying for nursing school,

to have as much training as you can.

But mostly I am here because

I want to be. I want to know

what to do in an emergency.

I want to know how to save a life.

Call me crazy, but this knowledge?

It makes me better. Stronger. Empowered.

“I am handing out injuries,”

Mr. Stork says with a ghoulish grin.

“Break into groups of four, with one person

the victim and everyone else the helpers.

When it’s your turn, your fellow students

will assess your injuries and decide what to do about them.”

Four of us gravitate nervously together in a clump,

all of us different ages. Some of us are serious, and some,

like the boy behind me, chuckle and shuffle.

“For your group,” Mr. Stork says,

handing the boy a slip of paper.

The boy opens it and reads out loud:

“Sucking chest wound.

Severe shortness of breath.

Uneven chest.”

He puts the paper in his pocket.

“Man. Sucks to be me.”

The boy lies on a spongy blue mat on the floor.

Around us, other groups play out similar scenarios.

I overhear someone say, “Burns and shrapnel on the torso,”

and then everyone bumps shoulders

as we cluster around the red-faced boy,

who lolls his head to one side.

“Don’t let me die, okay?” he pleads theatrically,

eyelids fluttering.

We work as one, recalling what we learned

about triaging a sucking chest wound.

“Uneven chest — his lung is probably collapsed,”

I say. “We have to seal the wound.”

A gray-haired man with glasses shakes his head.

“Sealing the wound can prevent air from getting in,”

he says. “The guy may suffocate.”

Mr. Stork materializes by my side.

“This young lady is right. You need to seal the wound.”

We search through the list of items we have to work with.

A lady in a pink sweater grabs a box of Saran Wrap.

“Here!”

We snatch up tape.

I hand scissors to Gray-Haired Man because

cutting with my left hand is not my speediest thing.

Murmuring advice, we watch as he cuts the patch.

“It needs to be much larger than the wound,”

Sweater Lady says, and the man snaps,

“How am I supposed to know how big
that
is?

There’s no real wound, in case you haven’t noticed.”

In the end, he cuts out a piece the size of a fist.

Sweater Lady tapes it down while I hold it in place.

Then we apply a clean bandage, all three of us working

together.

“And what would you do,” Mr. Stork asks,

“if there was a knife sticking out of his wound?”

“Freak out,”
says Laughing Boy loudly, from the floor.

I answer the question. “We’d leave it there,” I say

while Gray-Haired Man gives me a reproachful glare.

“Correct,” says Mr. Stork. “You could make things worse

by removing it yourself. Leave that for the paramedics.”

He bobs his birdlike head on his birdlike neck.

“You all get an A on this one!” he announces merrily,

as though this was just a party game

and not someone’s very life, dangling by a thread.

We high-five each other,

and the boy victim springs from the mat.

“Thanks, guys,” he says. “You saved my life!”

Back home, I put my notes away in the desk.

Two more classes to go, and I will be certified

in triage. I sit at the square art table,

select a black pen, and sketch the long limbs

of our instructor onto thick white paper.

I hope

that I never have to help someone

who’s been stabbed in the chest.

Still, if it happened? I could help.

I could make a difference.

And hopefully,

that difference

would be enough.

“Are you excited about your date on Saturday?”

Rachel asks. It’s Thursday, and we’re doing homework.

I roll onto my side, on Rachel’s bed,

pushing books and papers aside.

“Yeah. And nervous.”

“Did your mom give you a curfew?”

“Um, no.” Come to think of it,

Mom barely responded

when I asked about going to the movies.

I don’t tell Rachel about the dating site.

About the slick photos of men and women

all having the time of their lives.

About her mailbox being full.

“I’ll see if she wants to go out tomorrow night.

We haven’t done anything together in a while,”

I say.

So the next morning, I ask Mom,

half asleep over her coffee,

“Want to go out to dinner tonight?”

Her eyes widen; she sips too hard,

and in that microscopic window,

I know.

She has a date.

NEED A FOOT MASSAGE?

Oh, Lord. Surely she didn’t pick him.

If not, then who? What? When?

Is he coming
here?

“I have some plans tonight, actually,”

Mom says, busily mopping up

a microscopic speck of coffee.

I try to act nonchalant,

biting into my bagel. The bread

sticks in my mouth.

“Really?” My tone matches hers.

“What are you doing?”

“Going out with some friends.”

Mom waves her hand dismissively.

“We’ll probably get drinks or something.

Nothing exciting.”

The ticking of the apple-shaped clock

fills the silence.

I chew, aware

that my mother

is lying.

J: You will not believe what Mom is doing.

M: Ballroom dancing lessons? Hot-air balloon classes?

J: She’s DATING.

M: Seriously?

J: Yes.

M: What’s he like?

J: I haven’t met him. And there may be more than one. She’s joined a dating site. And I think she’s going out with someone tonight.

M: But you don’t know that?

J: No, she said she’s going out with friends.

M: Does she know you know about this dating site?

J: No. I kind of found it by accident.

M: I bet.

J: REALLY. Aren’t you worried?

M: About you SPYING on people? Yes.

J: About MOM.

M: Mom is an adult. Leave her alone. Let her do this. It’s about time, really.

J: She could go out with an ax murderer or something. She could get hurt.

M: She could find love. She could have a few laughs. She could see a movie and get free popcorn. Come on, Jane. Lighten UP. And DON’T tell her you found out about this dating thing. If she’s not telling you, she’s not ready.

J: SHE’S not ready? What about me?

M: This is not about you.

J: You are no help.

M: Thanks. :)

J: When are you coming home next?

M: Not for a few weeks. Have to hand in a film project. And finish a script.

J: My brother, the filmmaker.

M: We’ll see.

J: Good luck.

M: Thanks!

J: CU.

I call Justin that evening

as I sit alone — alone because

my mother is out with someone,

I have no idea who, or where,

and she won’t come clean.

Justin answers. Before I can say anything,

he blurts out, “I’m going to a
professional
soccer game!”

“That is fantastic!” I respond.

Justin is a big soccer fan. “When is it?”

“April. I can’t
wait.
It’s the L.A. Galaxy.

And Dad says he’s going to get me

a
vuvuzela
for the game.”

“A voozoo . . . what?”

He laughs, and happiness

spills from my heart to my toes.

There was a time when Justin

didn’t laugh so freely.

There was a time when Justin

fell down in physical therapy,

getting used to his new leg,

and I wanted to destroy the world

and everyone in it to end his suffering.

I’m glad those days are behind us.

“A
vuvuzela
is a
horn,
” he explains.

“They make this really loud honking sound.

Everyone
brings them to big soccer matches.”

“Well, I hope you have the loudest
vuvuzela
there.”

“Do you have any new drawings for me?”

Justin asks, hopeful.