Free Shark Girl by Kelly Bingham

one needs to worry about me. I’m
fine.
    All right. Listen honey, put your mom on, okay? I want to say hello before we sit down to eat.
    Okay.
    Love you, Janie.
    Bye.
     

    “See you later, alligator.”
    Mom heads out for shopping.
    Michael sleeps the day away
    while I
    lift every clock, photo, and scrap of paper
    from every table, dresser, and shelf.
    Lemon-scented polish,
    the damp rag makes a dark slash through the dust.
    Every item returned to its shiny home,
    and then it’s the heavy vacuum,
    maddening in its complacent
    refusal to cooperate. I wonder if it’s friends
    with the lawn mower. Soon, I am exhausted,
    but the floor is done.
    Folding laundry is a joke. But I can
    peel sheets from the bed,
    traveling from one side to the other,
    then stuff them into the wash, one-handed,
    unscrew cap, pour in suds of neon blue,
    listen to the gurgle of a machine well fed.
    Mom comes home,
    crushes me in a hug.
    “Thank you, honey. This is a nice surprise.”
    I sit in the chemical cleanness,
    breathing the works of my labor,
    feeling tired in a good way,
    knowing this nice surprise
    needs to become, once again,
    my weekly obligation.
    Not just for Mom,
    but for both of us.
    Because saying “I can’t”
    isn’t going to cut it
    when I’m living alone.
    I think about calling Grandma to gloat.
    But I hold off,
    savoring instead
    the quiet hum of the dryer,
    clothes spinning inside.
     

    Use of a hip
    to pin one strap down,
    plus some creative wiggling
    makes putting on a bra
    possible.
    I can now deal with maxi pads
    and their “wings”
    fairly well.
    Tying shoes?
    Still a problem.
    But,
    I can button and zip
    all by myself.
    I’ve even made my own
    bowl of cereal
    twenty-two mornings in a row now.
    Inch by inch,
    centimeter by centimeter,
    I gain back pieces
    of lost ground.
     

    After art, I swing by Mrs. Guiano’s desk.
    She’s our guidance counselor extraordinaire.
    “Jane.” She hugs me long, smelling of vanilla,
    her glasses on a chain, crushed between us.
    “I want to talk about nursing,” I hear myself say.
    I sit and listen to myself, tentatively, edge of my seat,
    watching how myself will unfold this event.
    “I want to know what classes I could take now
    that will help me if I go into nursing school later.
    Or physical therapy. Art therapy. Something like that.”
    Mrs. Guiano sits back as though I’ve just announced
    I have a cure for cancer.
    Stunned melts into thrilled.
    “You come back,”
    she says, flipping open her calendar and scribbling in it.
    “I will have a stack of information waiting for you
    after the holiday break. Classes, schools, careers,
    you name it.”
    I hurry off, still smelling of vanilla from our hug.
    I must not be so empty, after all.
    A presence has dripped into my being —
    something
    that might be
    excitement.
     

    Spies me hurrying along,
    says:
    “Can I help you with your books?”
    I
    say:
    “Uh.”
    He takes the books to my locker,
    hands them over with a smile.
    Heads swivel our way.
    The rest of my day is spent
    conjugating numerous other,
    better
    replies
    than
    “Uh.”
     

    Wrapping presents is,
    as my book on being handicapped urges me to say,
    a
challenge.
    Not
    a @#%&! pain in the ass.
    NOT
    a cause for smashing this room to pieces.
    I’ll ask Rachel to help me.
    Then I’ll ask Mom to help me with Rachel’s.
    But I won’t cry in frustration,
    no way.
    It’s Christmas.
     

    Mom likes the robe I got her,
    holds the pink softness to her face,
    smiles at me,
    holds that smile.
    I see a shine of tears
    when she bends to
    fold it back up.
    Grandma serving up cinnamon rolls,
    urging us to eat just one more;
    Grandpa yawning, scratching his head,
    an unopened gift in his lap,
    slippers half off,
    reaches out, squeezes my hand.
    Michael in his gray wrinkled
    sweatpants, gathering
    balled-up wrapping paper,
    flipping it into the fireplace,
    asking “When is dinner?”
    Already, even though it’s early.
    “I like a boy with an appetite,”
    Grandma