Shark Girl (2 page)

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.