Shark Girl (6 page)

come out.

Mom sinks into the blue

vinyl chair by the bed.

“I’m going to have a few sessions

with Mel.”

I stare at her

over my pudding cup.

“Why?”

She smooths the knees

of her pants,

smoothing and smoothing

with slow, firm movements.

“Well. He thinks, as family,

Michael and I should

talk about what happened.

Talk about how we’re feeling.

But Michael won’t go.

So it will be just me.”

“Oh.”

I put the cup aside.

Outside the window,

the sun shines brightly,

the sky is clean. Tops

of palm trees sway slightly

in a breeze.

“It will probably only be

a couple of times,” Mom adds.

We don’t look at each other.

What is this? She’s not stealing

a guy I like, a best friend, or anything like that.

But I’m upset.

Maybe because my mother

needs therapy

to deal with this thing,

this thing that is me

that has disrupted

not just my life

but hers, too.

That’s what hurts.

That I’ve caused her this.

And that she and Mel will

discuss

behind that closed door

what Mom is feeling.

What
is
she feeling?

I wish

I could be a fly on the wall

when she begins.

Justin drew me a picture.

Blobby men with stick legs

and a sausage roll with long ears.

“That’s my parents and my dog, Spot.”

“You have a dog named
Spot
?” I ask.

He nods. “I miss her.”

I ask Michael to tape the drawing to the wall.

“You’re a good artist, Justin,” he says.

“Jane’s an artist, too.”

Justin turns those blue eyes on me.

“Will you draw me a —”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I lost my hand, Justin. I can’t draw anymore.”

He points to my left hand.

“But you could use that one.”

“I can’t, okay, Justin? It’s not my good hand.”

Justin looks down. “
Both
my legs were good.

But now I only have one, so it’s the good one.

Isn’t it that way with your arm?”

He doesn’t get it. No one gets it.

I wish they would all leave me

alone.

Mom always waits for me

outside of Mel’s office.

She walks me back up

to my room.

Always smiles at Mel,

says, “Thank you.”

She waits until we’re in the elevator

to look at my face,

searching for red eyes.

Her hand warms my shoulder,

hugging with her fingers.

One day, after Mom meets me,

starts to turn us away,

I catch Mel’s look.

In that instant

he sends me a silent message.

“You need each other.”

We step into the elevator. The flickering light

makes our skin appear blue.

I feel Mom’s fingers on my shoulder,

soft, steady.

I reach up and touch her hand.

Both of us are surprised.

In the gym today

Justin fell down.

His new leg shifted sideways

when he got out of a chair.

He fell down

and he cried.

Justin has never cried in therapy before.

I hate life.

Don’t even tell me

God has a reason

for making Justin suffer.

Or me, either. He wouldn’t.

Would he?

I wish I could fix things for him,

for me. For everyone.

I wish I knew

why some people live

and some people die

and some people

get stuck

in the middle.

Grandma and Grandpa are leaving today.

Aunt Karen and Uncle Ben arrive in time to say hello,

trade hugs and thumps on the back,

high voices, the smell of hairspray from Gram,

pillowy cheeks and lined faces

touched to mine; careful kisses.

As Mom prepares to go home,

everyone shuffles out into the hall together.

Whispering ensues —

I know they’re talking about me.

That’s what they’re here for, I guess.

To assure themselves
I’m
still here.

I want them to sit by my bed

and tell me the news from Kansas,

but I want them to leave, too.

I want

to experience stillness.

Dear Jane,

I read about your story in the newspaper. My heart goes out to you. You are so young, and, judging by the picture in the paper, so beautiful. I have been in your place, Jane, and I am writing because if you’re anything like me you could use an encouraging word right now.

My left leg was amputated above the knee ten years ago, after an accident at work in which I nearly died. At first I shut myself off from the rest of the world, even the people I loved. But then I joined a support group for amputees and let me tell you, it was the best thing in the world for me. It helps to see you’re not the only one going through all the adjustments that come with amputation.

I went back to work eighteen months after the accident. Not long afterward, I got engaged to my boyfriend, William, who I met through the support group. He lost both legs in a car crash. William and I married seven years ago and I’ve never been happier. Both of us love to be outdoors and do all kinds of sports. We swim, sail, kayak, and ski. I also take yoga and find it highly relaxing.

I’m enclosing a picture of us — I hope you don’t mind. Please feel free to write or call when you are well enough, if you ever want advice or just to talk. I’d love to be friends.

Best wishes,

Kristen Miller-Capshaw

Jane, I’m going to go home for a while. Aunt Karen is going to stay with you.

Okay, Mom.

Hi, honey. Do you need anything? Some more water?

No, thanks, Aunt Karen. I’m fine.

Ben and I are staying in your room back home. I hope you don’t mind, but I was looking through your bookshelves last night.

I don’t mind.

I didn’t know you had so many cookbooks. I didn’t know vegetarians had so many great recipes. Your mom said you like to cook. That you do most of the cooking during the week.

Yeah, well, I guess I won’t be doing that anymore.

You’ll learn how. You don’t need two hands to cook.

Mmm.

You sure have some nice art books, too. Would you like me to bring some in for you to read?

Uh, no. That’s okay.

I don’t mind.

I don’t want to read art books right now.

Well, I brought all your Harry Potter books. See? I’ll put them over here. Your mom says you always read these when you’re down.

How would she . . .

What, honey?

Nothing. Thanks, but I don’t feel like reading.

Oh. Well, I’ll just put them over here. By the roses, see? On top of these cards. Goodness.