Hope Girl (10 page)

“Mrs. Nuthatch,” says Uncle Henry, “isn't that Myrtle you were sitting with? Maybe she'd like to join us.”

“She couldn't give a hoot,” says Gram. “Without those hearing aids,
she can't hear for beans. And no matter what I say, she refuses to put those gol-blasted things in her ears. I can't get her to talk, or smile, and God forbid I'd get her laughing.” Gram shakes her head. “I give up!”

I take Gram's hand. “But Gram, you never give up. Maybe you should try again.”

Gram scrunches her nose. “Well, all right, Sugar Pie. Would you ask her so I don't have to maneuver back through that maze?”

I make my way to Myrtle. When I touch her shoulder, all she does is look up. Then I wave at her, and she smiles. I point toward our big table and motion for her to join us. All of a sudden, she stands up, grabs her plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and shuffles across the dining room in her pink, fuzzy slippers.

Uncle Henry has a chair ready for her right across from Forrest. When Forrest waves at her, Myrtle grins so big I'm afraid Gram will jump out of her wheelchair and set her alarm off. But she doesn't. She just shakes her head and says, “Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle!”

After the waitress gives us each a plate of spaghetti, she puts four loaves of bread, two pitchers of milk, a stack of cups, a mound of silverware, and a handful of straws and napkins in the middle of the table and then walks away (had she any idea what kind of chaos this would cause, I think she'd have done things differently).

First Hannah yells, “Can someone pass the bread?”

“And send the milk this way,” says Nathan.

Bethany hollers, “And don't forget the cups.”

Then Daniel stands up and looks around. “I can't believe this! Why are we the only ones without meatballs? It's not fair!”

While everyone yells and passes things, Myrtle picks up one of her meatballs and gives it to Forrest. No one realizes this but me. I hold my breath.

Forrest takes the meatball and smiles. Then he looks at Uncle Henry and shouts, “Catch, Dada!” The meatball soars diagonally across the table, hitting Uncle Henry right between his eyebrows.

The entire dining hall falls silent—except for Myrtle, who's laughing so hard that milk squirts out her nose.

Later that afternoon when the little Whippoorwills take naps, I take a walk. I think about going to the birding place, but I don't want to go alone. I'm not sure where to go, so I kick a stone down Meadowlark Lane and enjoy the warm sun on my shoulders. When I reach the end, I know where to go. I turn onto Main Street and walk a mile or so to Dad's studio.

Since everything inside is dusty, I decide to clean. I sweep all the rooms and open the windows.

After I sweep, I find more cleaning supplies—a bucket, mop, and window cleaner. But there's no paper towels. I remember helping Gram wash windows when I was little. We used newspapers instead of paper towels because they don't leave streaks. And since there's a box of old newspapers by the fireplace, I have everything I need.

Once the living room windows are clean, the sun shines in, making the whole room glow like a field of golden dandelions.

Next I wash Dad's office windows. I'm glad there's a desk because Dad will need it for his business. I set my supplies on it. That's when I notice an orange piece of paper tucked under the lamp. I pull it out. It's Dad's handwriting.

M

691-375-2727

731 Swift Road South

Sparrow Harbor, West Virginia

I realize two things. This address is just fifty miles north of Birdsong, and it can only belong to one person—Maggie, my mom.

I sit at the desk, pick up the phone, and dial zero. The operator answers, “Good afternoon, may I help you?”

My heart's beating so loud I can hardly hear myself talk. “I'd like to make a long distance phone call to 691-375-2727.”

“One moment please.” Soon a phone rings. A woman answers, “Cassandra residence, Margaret speaking. May I ask who is calling?”

Words stumble from my mouth, “Mom? This is River.” I wait for a happy shout like “Oh my goodness, I remember!” or “I can't wait to see you,” or something, but there's only silence. “Mom?”

There's a click and then a dial tone. We must have got cut off.

I call the operator and she redials. The phone rings once. No one says hello, but I hear breathing. “Mom? Are you there?”

Click.

I tell myself it's okay, then copy her address on a piece of paper and tuck it in my pocket. Now I don't want to clean. I put the newspapers back by the fireplace and look through the rest of them. Most of them are old, but off to the side is a new one,
The Birdsong Times
, dated Monday, May 9, 1983. Only two months ago. I read the headline “Birdsong Memorial Hospital Welcomes Rosa Amaranta.” The article goes on to say that she's a “recipient of numerous awards for excellence in nursing.” There's a picture of Rosa with a kid who looks sort of weird—it's hard to tell, but his skin looks almost twisted. He must be her patient. I keep reading: “Rosa Amaranta accepts head nurse position on the intensive care unit, where she'll begin employment in early June. Rosa states, ‘I'm looking forward to working and living in a small town. After everything Carlos and I have been through over the past year and a half, this is the new start we've been hoping for.' Rosa brings her thirteen-year-old son, Carlos, also shown in the photo, with her.”

Her son? Rosa never said she had a son. Then off to the side of the article, written in pencil, is another phone number, 816-4723. It's Dad's handwriting again. I carry
The Birdsong Times
to the phone and dial the number.

A guy answers, “Amaranta's. This is Carlos.”

I hang up. It doesn't make sense. Why would Dad have Rosa's number?

14

S Is for Spine

A
t seven o'clock Monday morning, Rosa pulls into the Whippoorwills' driveway. I hurry and say goodbye to Aunt Elizabeth. “You know I could come to your appointment with you,” she says. “Nathan can watch the little ones.”

“I'll be fine,” I say. “Rosa will be there.” I smile and give her a hug so she won't feel bad. She has enough to worry about.

I run out the door and hop in the passenger's seat. “Thanks for picking me up, Rosa.”

“My pleasure,” she says and heads toward Birdsong Memorial Hospital.

When we arrive, Rosa gives me my uniform. Even with my uneven shoulders and hips, it fits me perfect. I wouldn't have picked pink, but that's the color volunteers wear. My name's even on it. I take one last look in the mirror and smile. I can't wait to show Mom.

Next Rosa introduces me to Ms. Ruddy, the activity therapist. She's in charge of volunteers. I spend the first part of the morning helping her prepare for bingo.

“Will my grandmother be playing?” I ask.

Ms. Ruddy looks surprised. “I didn't realize you had a grandmother on the unit. But, yes, all residents play bingo. It's part of their rehabilitation experience.”

After bingo, Rosa comes to get me. “How was your morning?”

“Incredible.” I say. “I helped Ms. Ruddy with bingo, and Gram and Myrtle played. They're like best friends now.”

“Then it sounds like you'll be back tomorrow?”

“I can't wait.”

Rosa checks her watch. “We have twenty-five minutes before your appointment with Dr. Crane. Just enough time for a bite to eat.”

Rosa treats me to lunch at the hospital's cafeteria. I must have been hungry because I'm done when Rosa's only half finished with her cheeseburger.

I snitch one of her fries.

Then with her mouth half full, she says, “Did I ever tell you I have a son?”

I'm not sure what to say. Do I act surprised like I have no idea? Or do I say I read the article about them and ask what happened?

Before I have a chance to decide, Rosa checks the time again. “Oh my! We only have three minutes to get to Dr. Crane's office.”

Rosa grabs my hand, and we race down the hall to the next building where Dr. Crane's office is. We get there just as a nurse pokes her head in the waiting room, looks around, and says, “River Starling?”

I walk toward her, but Rosa doesn't move. “Rosa, aren't you coming?”

“I can,” she says. “I wasn't sure if you wanted me to go in.”

I grab her hand and pull.

The nurse measures my height: fifty-nine inches. She weighs me: ninety-one pounds. She checks my blood pressure: perfect. My heart rate: perfect. Then she gives me a hospital gown to put on: not perfect.

She tells me to take everything off except my undergarments and put the gown on so it ties in the back. Rosa steps out of the room, giving me privacy. I finish tying it just as Dr. Crane walks in. Rosa follows behind him.

“Hello, River,” he says. “I'm Dr. Crane.” He sits on a wheeled stool, scoots behind me, and unties my gown (a heads-up would've been nice). “Okay, River, bend forward toward your toes. Let your arms dangle in front.” So I do. “Hmmm,” he says, “looks like you've got quite a curve. Okay, stand up.”

As I retie my gown, I tell Dr. Crane, “Last April my school nurse checked my back, and she said it was fine.”