business
and I would prefer you don’t ask me
such personal questions!”
We stare at each other,
shocked.
Then Rachel smiles,
and she is herself again.
“Good. I think you’re ready.”
Chuck is strapped on.
The three of us set out
for the perfect cup of java.
My knees shake,
my armpits grow wet
when we enter the coffee shop,
teeming with bodies and voices,
the clatter of humanity over
the smell of espresso and shortbread,
we’re onstage,
all the world is watching.
I’ve forgotten the script.
I grab Rachel’s elbow.
“I can’t do this. Let’s go.”
She shakes me off.
“Ten minutes,” she whispers.
“We can last ten minutes.
That’s all I ask.”
For a second, I hate her.
With alarming passion.
Deep breaths,
I think. She’s right.
Ten minutes.
We can do it.
Waiting our turn,
I whisper my line once more,
for practice.
“Tall mocha latte, please.”
My throat is so dry,
so tight,
I know one sip
will choke me.
At a table barely big enough
for two cups and a scone,
Rachel and I sit.
We don’t really talk.
I am watching the clock.
Feeling the pressure of
so many bodies, so much noise,
crushing.
Rachel seems nervous, too.
We smile thinly at each other,
and absorb.
Those girls over there,
tossing their heads
and jabbering away,
those two guys
sitting facing straight out
instead of toward each other,
talking,
laughing,
that woman reading a magazine,
sipping a chocolate drink
with cream on top
who looks at me briefly,
takes in the fake hand
and doesn’t look again,
all of them
have no idea
how whole they are,
how beautiful
and dangerous
and fragile
they are,
and that
for this moment,
they are all
safe,
on dry land.
This very thing happened to someone else.
A girl, in Hawaii.
Her arm was taken completely off.
She was back surfing a month later.
Why can’t I be like that?
I want to be like that. . . .
And I don’t.
I suck.
Everyone wants me to be brave,
to impress them with dazzling fortitude,
to give them inspiration
and smiles and a feeling of,
If
she
can do it, I can, too.
Maybe the old
If
she’s
not complaining about life,
then I won’t, either.
Because then,
everyone else gets to say,
Looking at the Shark Girl, I realize —
I’m lucky.
Well, screw that.
Complain? Yeah. The pain,
for one thing. The tingling,
the numbness, the stupid chafing.
The hot prosthesis,
the stares, the inability to do
ANYTHING normally.
Some days, I hate everyone I see.
Even babies.
How’s that for inspirational?
I must love to punish myself.
I can’t leave that
pad of paper alone.
The point of the pen
won’t travel the path
I have planned.
It oozes out of a circle,
wobbles to the left,
wanders off
in midline.
I draw shaky ovals,
crooked squares,
while the lamp on my bedside table
patiently dries out my scalp.
Maybe I’ll never get the shapes
precisely
the way I want.
Maybe
it’s all just a big,
fat joke.
But I continue,
just in case.
Dear Jane:
My Uncle/Aunt/Brother-in-Law’s Friend Had Their Leg/Foot/Toe/Finger or Hand Amputated Because of Diabetes/Frostbite/Circulation Problems/War/Job Injury, But You’d Never Know It, Because They Are So Funny/Athletic/Good-Natured/Spiritual/Successful/At Ease with Themselves/Happy.
If I have to listen to one more story,
I will scream.
“Get out here, we’ve got lots to do.”
Michael has the lawn mower
and clippers.
“Bring the trash can,” he tells me.
I roll it over to the edge of the lawn.
Awkwardly, as with anything else.
I am not wearing Chuck for this;
Chuck is driving me insane with his clumsiness,
and besides, it is too damn hot to wear that thing.
“It’s too damn hot,” I say, trying Michael.
Maybe he’ll be nice again.
Mr. Martinez is in his driveway,
washing his car. He waves. He watches.
But Michael is not nice; he is Michael.
“Stop whining,” he says. “Now.
Welcome to the Arrowood school of
and I would prefer you don’t ask me
such personal questions!”
We stare at each other,
shocked.
Then Rachel smiles,
and she is herself again.
“Good. I think you’re ready.”
Chuck is strapped on.
The three of us set out
for the perfect cup of java.
My knees shake,
my armpits grow wet
when we enter the coffee shop,
teeming with bodies and voices,
the clatter of humanity over
the smell of espresso and shortbread,
we’re onstage,
all the world is watching.
I’ve forgotten the script.
I grab Rachel’s elbow.
“I can’t do this. Let’s go.”
She shakes me off.
“Ten minutes,” she whispers.
“We can last ten minutes.
That’s all I ask.”
For a second, I hate her.
With alarming passion.
Deep breaths,
I think. She’s right.
Ten minutes.
We can do it.
Waiting our turn,
I whisper my line once more,
for practice.
“Tall mocha latte, please.”
My throat is so dry,
so tight,
I know one sip
will choke me.
At a table barely big enough
for two cups and a scone,
Rachel and I sit.
We don’t really talk.
I am watching the clock.
Feeling the pressure of
so many bodies, so much noise,
crushing.
Rachel seems nervous, too.
We smile thinly at each other,
and absorb.
Those girls over there,
tossing their heads
and jabbering away,
those two guys
sitting facing straight out
instead of toward each other,
talking,
laughing,
that woman reading a magazine,
sipping a chocolate drink
with cream on top
who looks at me briefly,
takes in the fake hand
and doesn’t look again,
all of them
have no idea
how whole they are,
how beautiful
and dangerous
and fragile
they are,
and that
for this moment,
they are all
safe,
on dry land.
This very thing happened to someone else.
A girl, in Hawaii.
Her arm was taken completely off.
She was back surfing a month later.
Why can’t I be like that?
I want to be like that. . . .
And I don’t.
I suck.
Everyone wants me to be brave,
to impress them with dazzling fortitude,
to give them inspiration
and smiles and a feeling of,
If
she
can do it, I can, too.
Maybe the old
If
she’s
not complaining about life,
then I won’t, either.
Because then,
everyone else gets to say,
Looking at the Shark Girl, I realize —
I’m lucky.
Well, screw that.
Complain? Yeah. The pain,
for one thing. The tingling,
the numbness, the stupid chafing.
The hot prosthesis,
the stares, the inability to do
ANYTHING normally.
Some days, I hate everyone I see.
Even babies.
How’s that for inspirational?
I must love to punish myself.
I can’t leave that
pad of paper alone.
The point of the pen
won’t travel the path
I have planned.
It oozes out of a circle,
wobbles to the left,
wanders off
in midline.
I draw shaky ovals,
crooked squares,
while the lamp on my bedside table
patiently dries out my scalp.
Maybe I’ll never get the shapes
precisely
the way I want.
Maybe
it’s all just a big,
fat joke.
But I continue,
just in case.
Dear Jane:
My Uncle/Aunt/Brother-in-Law’s Friend Had Their Leg/Foot/Toe/Finger or Hand Amputated Because of Diabetes/Frostbite/Circulation Problems/War/Job Injury, But You’d Never Know It, Because They Are So Funny/Athletic/Good-Natured/Spiritual/Successful/At Ease with Themselves/Happy.
If I have to listen to one more story,
I will scream.
“Get out here, we’ve got lots to do.”
Michael has the lawn mower
and clippers.
“Bring the trash can,” he tells me.
I roll it over to the edge of the lawn.
Awkwardly, as with anything else.
I am not wearing Chuck for this;
Chuck is driving me insane with his clumsiness,
and besides, it is too damn hot to wear that thing.
“It’s too damn hot,” I say, trying Michael.
Maybe he’ll be nice again.
Mr. Martinez is in his driveway,
washing his car. He waves. He watches.
But Michael is not nice; he is Michael.
“Stop whining,” he says. “Now.
Welcome to the Arrowood school of
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