Shark Girl (25 page)

I left Chuck at home.

Who needs that hot thing?

I’m busy painting faces.

It’s kind of a mess, but the kids don’t mind.

Justin helps with the games,

nurses pass out treats,

Dr. Kim and Mel come by my table for a hug

and hello.

“It’s good to see you.” Dr. Kim says,

then his pager goes off.

He whips out of there, waving.

“How’s it going, kiddo?” Mel says.

He plants a kiss on the top of my head.

Plops down in the chair before me.

I begin painting

a lopsided sunflower on his cheek.

“Mel?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you remember when I told you —

when I said — that —

sometimes, I wished I had died that day?”

“Yes, I do.”

I dab a tiny leaf on the flower’s stem.

“I don’t feel that way anymore.”

Mel smiles. “What changed your mind?”

I stop. I think.

A little Justin, a little Mel,

a lot of Mom and Michael,

some Rachel, some Max,

Uncle Ben and Aunt Karen,

even some Angie,

and maybe something else.

But what?

“I’m not sure.”

Mel nods. “Someday, you will. For now,

enjoy the feeling.”

So I do as he says,

and enjoy.

As the kids glue together

tissue-paper flowers,

and parents hold each other’s hands,

I poke Justin.

“Come outside for a minute.”

He steps out with me

into the hall

where it is cool and quiet.

I give him the tube I’ve been hiding.

“Happy Birthday.”

Justin shakes out the rolled-up paper inside.

He unfurls it and

his face

splits

into

a huge

grin.

“That’s her!” He shows me

the pastel sketch,

as though I didn’t make it,

as though I haven’t seen it.

“That’s Spot!”

“Do you like it?”

Justin is still grinning at the drawing.

“It’s so
good
.”

“I’m still pretty wobbly. I tried

to get everything right,

but some of the colors smooshed around on me.”

Justin shakes his head. “It’s perfect.”

Another hug,

and this time I hold on to him, tight.

I love Justin as much as I love Michael.

But

something is drawing to a close tonight,

and I know

it will be a long time

before I see Justin again.

We’re moving on with our lives.

He has his friends, his family, his life,

and I have mine.

It’s time to let go.

Company is coming for dinner.

Two of Mom’s teacher friends

who play a mean game of croquet.

Angie, Rachel, Elizabeth, and Trina

are due to arrive any second.

Aunt Karen and Uncle Ben, visiting

for the weekend, fuss with their

matching dress shirts.

Michael wears shorts that are not ripped.

That’s his idea of dressed up.

Mom looks beautiful in her red tank

and shimmery skirt.

I have painted my toenails in honor

of the occasion:

our annual Memorial Day cookout.

A kickoff to summer.

“Did you ever see a nicer-looking bunch?” Mom asks,

and Michael smiles, gathering up

fork, spatula, and timer

for the grill.

“Mom, you say that every year.”

Mom picks up her camera.

“Well, this year . . .”

“— I really mean it,”
Michael and I chant in unison,

turning to her to make a face,

and when we both laugh,

Mom snaps a picture.

If only you had helped that woman. If only you had —

Shut up.

You lost your arm.

Yeah, I noticed. Now shut up.

You —

I’m done doing this to myself. Got it? Done.

But it could have been different —

It wasn’t. It is what it is. And yeah, it sucks. But listening to this crap doesn’t help.

But —

It doesn’t help. I’m done.

It —

Done.

At the albums again,

open pages, shiny plastic,

shielding us,

the Old Us,

spread out in photos,

a time line

of our innocence.

Dad: lighting the grill,

holding back my small hand

as I reach for the flame;

he is free

from the knowledge

that soon

he will be dead from cancer.

Mom, posing before her new car,

Michael clinging to her leg,

me, barely more than a lump,

lying across her arms.

She had no idea

that soon, she would be left

to raise us

by herself.

None of us knew.

None of us know now.

Life is what it is,

at any second.

A snapshot.

Nothing more.

Maybe

the trick is learning

to live the moment

celebrating our

freedom;

the freedom

of not knowing.

Dear Mary,

Thank you for your letter. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write back. I’ve had lots to do. Congratulations on beating cancer. I’m sure that must have been scary. How is Patty? I have a new arm, too.

I took your advice, Mary, and had a funeral for my arm. It was a private one, and I didn’t really make a grave. I got out my photo albums instead and looked at all the old pictures of me. I looked at my arm, the one that is gone, in all those pictures, and then I did what you said. I said good-bye.

We started a new photo album today, and we have lots of pictures to put inside. We have lots of empty spaces in the album for all the things we’ll do this summer, too.

Thank you for writing. You are a special girl to try and help someone you don’t even know. I hope you and Patty have a great soccer season, and many, many days at the park.

Your friend,

Jane

There are many people I feel a great appreciation toward, without whom this book would not have been written or published. It is my honor to give them thanks:

My parents, Richard and Barbara Haberly — who always encouraged my writing and made possible my studies at Vermont College; my family for their moral support; my sons, Sam and Ben, for the love and inspiration they give continually; and my husband, Marty Bingham, for his love and unwavering belief. I would also like to thank my mentors, who were integral to the development of this story: Ellen Howard, Jane Resh-Thomas, Alison McGhee, and Liza Ketchum. To
all
faculty in the Vermont College MFA in writing for children and young adults program: thank you for the encouragement and advice — it made all the difference. A special thanks to M. T. Anderson for his endless help in getting this book completed and into the right hands.

I would also like to thank my beloved classmates. Each one of you has given priceless encouragement, assistance, and affirmation. I must single out Betsy Wernert, who read and re-read multiple, often wandering drafts of the manuscript, and became my tireless second pair of eyes during the revision process. Without her, I would have been lost.

Thank you to David Loney of Vermont, maker of prosthetic limbs, for his time and information. Deep appreciation to Duane Schmidt of Hutchinson, Kansas, for sharing his personal story with a complete stranger, inspiring much of my writing. Thank you to Dave Goetz, humble art director, for a suggestion that sent Jane on a different path and gave the book new dimension. And deepest gratitude to the late Marty Scully, who inspired by example, and continues to do so.

Last but not least, a huge thank-you to Liz Bicknell, editor extraordinaire, who took a chance on an unknown author and gave my story wings to fly.

KELLY BINGHAM
was a story artist and director for Walt Disney Feature Animation before receiving her MFA in writing for children and young adults from Vermont College.
Shark Girl
is her first novel. She says, “I began writing this story in the summer of 2001, when the news was focusing on a so-called rash of shark attacks around the country. Originally, I planned the book with a much younger character in mind, but right away, Jane Arrowood stepped in. She had a story to share and would not leave me alone until I opened myself to her words.”