Shark Girl (13 page)

“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.