Shark Girl (8 page)

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.