Shark Girl (20 page)

The surprise party launches

full swing into gossip

and Cheetos.

Mom has her camera out;

I corner her quick.

“No pictures, Mom.”

“But this birthday is special.”

She lifts the camera again. “Please?”

“No, really.”

Her lip trembles. “Jane. Back

in the hospital,

I thought —”

Mom’s face wrenches suddenly

and she whispers,

“I thought you wouldn’t live

to see this day.

I thought I’d be visiting

your grave . . .”

Cheetos poised,

everyone stares

as I put my arm

around my sniffling mom.

I get everyone together for a photo,

but I stand

in the back.

Angie gives me a makeup kit.

All purples, all
not
my colors.

She wants so much for me to transform

to someone new, someone more like her.

Can’t she see I’ll never be like her,

whole and pretty and normal?

Can’t she see?

If only this had never happened. You would be doing so much more right now.

I’d be drawing normally.

Yes!

I’d be driving. Dating. Maybe working at a paid job.

Your whole life would be normal. THIS is not normal.

Stop.

Your life is so different now.

It is what it is.

It’s not fair, and it won’t ever be the same.

I know.

It
should
have been different.

I know.

Different.

Lindsey is thrilled at my request.

“We would
love
to have you

as a volunteer.”

I fill out papers,

attend training.

Then I’m ready to go.

Saturdays, nine to twelve.

“You really want to do this, Jane?

These are your
Saturdays

we’re talking about.”

“It’s not like I have a lot going on,

Mom. And yes, I really

want to do this.”

“Your little outfit is cute.”

“Thanks.”

“I’ll pick you up at twelve.”

“If we start my driving lessons soon,

I can drive myself eventually.”

“Um. Yes.”

“Wouldn’t that be good?”

“Yep. All right, see you later.”

“Bye.”

Inside the hospital walls

everything comes back;

suddenly,

I think

I’ve made a terrible mistake
.

I can’t breathe here.

The hallways, the food trays,

the noises of phones and medical

blips and beeps. . . .

When I see the door to the room

that was mine,

a wave of ice washes over me.

Lightheaded, I take refuge

in the restroom

before I’m ready to try again.

But seeing the faces

when I deliver flowers

helps.

Lindsey’s thumbs-up as she flashes past

does, too.

Mel drops by, for a hug,

with a shining smile.

“Good for you, Jane.

Good for you.”

The thing that helps

most of all

is remembering how it felt

to be here

and how much the people

around me

made a difference.

Isn’t that what I wanted, after all?

To make a difference?

I check my palm,

pressing it against my cheek.

Cold.

But useful in delivering get well cards,

filling water pitchers.

So, I get on with it,

trying to make a difference.

Dear Jane,

I am writing to tell you that I hope you get well soon. It must be difficult to recover from such a loss, but I am told it is possible. I myself have lost the use of my left arm due to a recent stroke, and I can sympathize with what you must be going through. Many things I loved to do I can no longer do, or at least, not as easily. Life is funny, and sometimes it’s easy to question why terrible things happen to good people, especially young folks like yourself. I believe there is a reason, though we may not see it for a long time. My hope for you is that someday, you feel that this accident has not ruined your life; only changed it from the original plan.

As I work through my physical rehabilitation, I will think of you, going through the same. I wish you the best.

Courage,

Andy

A big cardboard box arrives

Saturday afternoon.

Stuff I ordered off the Internet,

from a specialty site.

Michael, home for the weekend,

carries the box inside,

cuts it open with a knife.

Together,

we dig through the contents.

“The Unskru jar opener,”

he says, holding the object aloft.

We stare at the spelling a moment.

“Bolt it underneath the cabinet,”

I explain, fishing another object

from the box.

“Then I can slide the jar into the slot

and twist it open.”

“For all your mayonnaise needs,”

Michael says.

“Oh, shut up.” I pull out the special knife,

resembling an arc,

the blade curved and shining,

the handle round, straight, and fat.

At last. I can chop, or slice a sandwich,

without making such a mess.

“Hey, that’s pretty cool,”

Michael says, reaching for the knife.

“I want one of these.”

At the bottom, among Styrofoam peanuts,

lies a cutting board.

Michael holds it up,

turning it over in his hands.

“There’s a lip,” I point out,

touching it with my little finger.

“You can hook it

to the edge of the counter.”

Two “feet” at the edge

keep the cheese

or the whatever

from sliding off the board.

There’s also a white mixing bowl

that will not slip.

“Well, aren’t you all set,”

Michael says. He gathers up

the scattered packing bits.

“You can go back to cooking for us.

Please.

Before Mom kills us all.”

Fingering my new tools,

I think about the people

who devote their lives

to inventing stuff like this.

Things that make life

a bit easier.

I wonder who they are

and why they invent things like this

and if they ever hear the words

“thank you.”