Shark Girl (11 page)

I lie on the couch,

watching TV.

Mom zips the vacuum around the room,

Michael starts to step outside

and gets snatched back.

“I asked you to do the dusting

and empty the dishwasher,” Mom says.

Michael slams the door,

stomps into the kitchen,

and mercilessly crashes the dishes into the cupboard.

He leaves the house

with a black cloud around his head.

“Grump,” Mom mutters,

and returns to mopping,

the squish of water

moving

farther

away.

Finally, it is quiet

enough to slide

into sleep,

safe

in the daylight.

“There’s a support group at the hospital,”

Mom says. “You could go.”

I know better than to say “No,”

outright. “Maybe. Sometime.”

Mom sighs and leaves me

crumbling toast across my plate.

“See you tonight, honey.”

Walking Mabel down the street,

wearing a bulky sweater in the broiling

heat, so as to better hide my missing limb,

I think about the Internet sites I have found.

There’s a community out there,

broken people like me, pressing on,

and maybe some of them are doing just fine;

many are now better people, according to them.

But really, aren’t most of them pretending?

Aren’t most of us pretending

all the time,

able-bodied or not?

Before,

I drifted, separate

from the flow,

watched land masses of fellow students

shift and merge, part and dissolve,

all the while

putting forth my own small beacon

of calm, confident belonging.

All false.

I’d figure it out eventually, I thought.

Where is the truth now?

Where can I find that line to stand upon,

step into the stream of humanity,

the place that is mine?

I am reflecting on this

while Mabel investigates a bush.

When someone passes,

murmuring, “Good morning,”

and brushes their sleeve against mine,

the touch is like a magnet,

so powerful

my whole body turns

toward them,

wanting to stick.

If only I could grab hold of something,

and hold tight.

Driving home from physical therapy,

Mom announces, “I have to stop

at the store for a few things.”

Great.

I know Mom.

A “few things”

means she’ll be half an hour.

“I’ll wait in the car.”

Mom protests.

“It’s too hot. You’ll roast.

I’d rather not leave the AC

on, honey. You know how the car is.

It will over —”

“I’ll be fine,” I tell her.

I won’t let her win this one.

She will not make me go inside.

But of course,

ten minutes later,

the parking lot

is swimming in shimmers,

sweat crawls down my neck,

I am growing dizzy,

and I have to step out

and find Mom.

The guy at the sandwich counter

studies me like I’m an animal in the zoo.

A woman in the fruit section

stands with a cantaloupe in her hand,

the empty scale dangling beside her,

staring. At me.

Walking too quickly, I bump into a girl

rounding the corner. She drops

a bag of pretzels.

When I try to help her

she exclaims,

“It’s okay, really!”

God. Get me out of here.

Finally Mom is snared by

the frozen peaches.

“What is taking you so long?”

I say.

“Sorry,” Mom says. “I’m almost done.”

Then,

I feel the tears welling up,

and I smash them down.

Two boys, passing, look,

and look again.

I want to shout to everyone

that my new arm will be ready soon,

that I will wear it every minute

when I get it

so no one

will have an excuse to do a double take.

But all I do, of course,

is cling to the cart like I’m five years old,

and follow Mom

as she guides us both

to the checkout.

Missing an arm is like wearing a coat,

a really big, hot, ugly coat

that I can’t take off.

Ever.

It’s all that people see.

Before this happened,

once in a while I would see someone.

Someone without a leg or an arm.

My stomach would flip,

I’d look away fast,

then look back,

a crawling sensation behind my belly button.

I’d wonder about them.

Now I’m one of those people

and people wonder about me.

I get that crawling sensation

just thinking about it.

Angie and Trina

come to visit. They look so pretty.

Skinny Angie’s makeup is perfect,

Trina wears new black sandals.

She scoops up wiggly Mabel,

kissing Mabel’s curly white-haired head.

“I missed this dog.”

Mom offers us brownies

she has made,

but they are so dry

we smile and disappear upstairs to my room.

“You guys, I am
so
fat,”

Angie moans,

sprawling across my bed.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I’ve been eating like a pig.”

She pulls at the waistband

of her jeans.

“See? I can barely zip.”

“Yeah, you’re taking up the whole room,

you must be a size
two
by now,”

Trina says, rolling her eyes.

She catches sight of my drawing table.

She fingers the pens.

“Jane, have you tried drawing again yet?”

I hear myself lie.

“No.”

Angie and Trina exchange looks.

“You will, though, right?”

Trina asks.

Angie sits up. “You should.”

I shrug. “Yeah, I will.

Sometime.”

For a moment,

we all listen to a crow,

cawing outside.

Then we resume talking

about Angie’s fat.

“You have to
make
me

watch what I eat!” she says.

And this talk is fine.

It’s better

than the

bare-boned

truth.

Uncooked

red beans, black beans, white rice,

filling up a wide glass jar.

Pretty enough

to sit on a shelf just for looking.

Instead,

I stick my stump

inside the jar,

and roll it around,

feeling.

Rough and smooth.

Grainy on my flesh.

Doctor’s orders.

Desensitization, in preparation for my prosthesis.

Does it get any weirder than this?

To Jane Arrowood,

My name is Paul Shaylor. I am writing because my English teacher, Miss Felix, is making us do a nonfiction report. We have to interview somebody about something and write a report about it like it’s a newspaper column. I saw the video on TV. The newspeople said you’re home now. Will you interview with me?

You could e-mail me or call me, or maybe just fill out these questions on a separate sheet of paper.

Thanks for helping me.