Shark Girl (12 page)

Sincerely,

Paul

I’m not thankful for much these days.

But I thank heaven and lucky stars

that Dr. Kim was straight with me

about my prosthesis.

“It’s not going to do the things your hand

could do.

Give it six months, then decide.”

Open, close. Click,

click.

Sam, the prosthesis maker,

demonstrates the metal hook attachment.

“It’s not the most attractive thing in the world,”

he says. “But it is functional. There are other options,

    too.”

Mom is silent.

There’s a cosmetic arm,

with “skin” that looks soft and smooth.

“Doesn’t do anything,

but gives some people confidence,” Sam says.

“Some patients wear it

when they’re on a date,

or a job interview, or just walking around.

It depends on how you feel.”

I could tell him how I feel.

This
place
feels like mannequin purgatory.

It’s unbelievable

that I belong here.
Need
to be here.

I wonder what makes a person

want to make artificial limbs for a living.

“I love it,” Sam replies.

“I get to meet some pretty fascinating people.

Like you. Your mom said on the phone

that you are an artist?”

Mom has the decency to blush.

“I
was,
” I tell Sam.

“You still can be, you know,” Sam says. “I had a —”

I shut him up quick. I don’t want to hear any more

inspirational stories. I’m sick of them.

“Do people ever have more than one prosthesis?” I ask.

Sam nods. “Yes, most have one functional

and one cosmetic.”

After a discussion over insurance,

we order both.

But I’m thinking:

I can’t wear that thing.

I won’t.

It’s an insult.

“It’s not bad enough people lose arms,”

I say to Sam and Mom.

“But on top of it,

we’re supposed to look like Captain Hook?”

Sam regards me seriously.

“You are a very attractive girl, Jane.

Inside and out. I can tell.

I think you’ll find

the more comfortable you are with yourself,

the more people won’t notice your prosthesis.

Or absence of one,

if that’s how you eventually choose to go.

I think that you’ll find . . .”

I let him prattle on.

He’s trying to help.

But obviously, he’s never been

in my shoes.

So aside from the medical part,

what

does he know?

Fixing me lunch. Fixing me snacks.

Hanging around while I talk on the phone.

Mom hovers like a fly, buzzing.

“Don’t forget to —”

“Be sure and —”

“No. Not that way.”

Reminding me

about
everything
I already know.

“Buckle that strap; no,
that
one . . .”

two seconds before I plan on doing it.

“Now clean that socket before you put on your prosthesis,

and
after you take it off.

You don’t want it to get an odor.”

“I know!” escapes my lips.

Then

hurt eyes,

pouting,

silence.

“I’m just trying to help” hangs heavy in the air.

Sometimes her “help”

is more exhausting than doing it myself.

Seems easier to just shut up and let her talk,

then let her do it all for me, anyway.

I wonder sometimes

if she knows that.

When I was nine, I took horseback riding lessons.

My instructor, Debbie, imparted advice around a cigarette.

“Throw your heart over the fence,” Debbie said.

“The horse will follow. Confidence.

Your horse responds to your body language.”

Maybe this fake arm,

whom I have named Chuck,

is like a horse.

Practicing reaching for a book,

I visualize, stand tall,

then throw my heart over to the object,

hoping Chuck will follow.

Tilt forward at the waist,

shrug, open hand, pull back to shut.

As in riding,

the ideal doesn’t always happen.

Sometimes the book slithers to the floor.

I want to whip something. Someone.

I have to walk around and breathe deep.

Chuck and I cool down, apart.

But as in riding,

sooner or later,

we saddle up

and try again.

Here’s a question.

If we —

and by “we” I mean an amputee —

are supposed to be accepting,

unashamed of our new body,

unconcerned by gawks and furtive glances,

unfazed about blending,

then why are artificial hands crafted

to look so real?

There’s “hair” on the “skin,”

half-mooned fingernails,

and wrinkles around the knuckles.

The labor involved

in painting a freckle,

an age spot on a silicone glove,

the money spent

on such artists to do such things

speaks to a desire

to melt

back into the blur.

Why don’t they just come clean

instead of giving us

pamphlets about

self-image?

If only Michael hadn’t been so busy flirting his butt off with those stupid girls. He would have come in with you.

So?

Then it wouldn’t have happened. Maybe the two of you together would have looked like too large a mass to be a seal or a fish or whatever, and the shark would have passed you by.

Or it might have been Michael.

Better him than you.

Oh, God, how can I even think such a thing? Stop it!

Your life would be so different right now.

He didn’t come in. And it wasn’t him. It was me. That’s the way it is.

It could have been different.

I know.

It
should
have been different.

I run my hand

along the spines of the albums

lined across the shelves.

My finger rests on the plaid one.

Dad’s last year.

I know all the pictures by heart,

and today, I’m in the mood to see his face.

But not

all those pictures

of the two-armed me.

Justin called me today. “I miss you,” he said.

Before I could tell him that I missed him more,

he was running like a faucet,

gushing about his friend Sam

and the LEGO set his grandparents sent him.

Something to do with Superman.

He didn’t mention his leg at all.

Justin has other things on his mind.

Like life

and living it.

I miss his little face

and his skinny arms, too.

“Can I come over sometime?” he asks.

“I think I should come to
your
house,”

I say, trying to steady my voice.