Hope Girl (6 page)

“I commend you for following orders, Rosa,” he says, “however, they're now cleared to visit.”

“Thank you, Dr. Wing.” Rosa moves toward Gram's feet to straighten her blanket.

When I finally see Gram's face, I actually feel better. She looks almost like she does when she's sleeping at home. Except for the wires and machines, the only difference is that she's not snoring or wearing her tie-dyed nightgown with glow-in-the-dark peace signs.

Dr. Wing moves close to Gram. “Rosa, has there been any change in Mrs. Nuthatch's status?”

Rosa shakes her head. “No, Doctor.”

He takes Gram's hand. “Good morning, Mrs. Nuthatch. If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”

Gram doesn't move.

“Mrs. Nuthatch, can you blink your eyes?”

I watch Gram's eyes. Nothing.

Dr. Wing slides a chair close to Gram's bed. “River,” he says, “please sit. Hold your grandmother's hand and talk to her. I'm not sure if she can hear, but it's worth a try.”

As I tell Gram I'm sorry for being mean to her, Dr. Wing pulls Dad to the other side of the room. I hear their conversation.

Dr. Wing clears his throat. “The swelling caused considerable brain damage. Without life support, there's basically no chance she'll survive. But if she does, she'll never walk, talk, or have a meaningful life.” He clears his throat again. “We could keep her on life support for months, but there's no point. You should make funeral arrangements. If there's no change by Friday morning, I'll turn off the machines.”

I tell myself not to worry. I know she'll wake up.

8

But I Know Different

D
ad pulls out of the hospital's parking lot. “Tell you what,” he says, “let's get your mind off things and head into town. I have something to show you.”

He drives down Main Street, pulls to the side of the road, and then parks in front of a small house. The sign out front says: For Rent. It looks like a small cottage you'd find hidden deep within the woods. It's white with forest green shutters, and below each window is a flower box filled with red geraniums.

Dad turns off his car. “Wait 'til you see inside.” He jumps out and heads for the front walkway.

I hurry to catch up. “What's going on?”

He pulls the rent sign from the ground. “We won't need this anymore.” He places a key in my hand. “Take a look.”

The door swings open to a place that feels magical—like it's from a different time. Everything's old and dusty but cozy in a different kind of way. To the left there's a small living room with a big stone fireplace. It has a straw broom leaning against it, and there's an oil lamp on the mantle with a box of matches. To the right of the entryway is a tiny bedroom with one bed and a small wooden desk with a metal lamp.

I walk forward down the hall to a small kitchen. The cupboards are filled with dishes, cups, pots and pans, and silverware that look so old that they're probably antiques. I run my hand across the table. “Are we living here 'til Gram gets better?”

Dad laughs. “No, but you can come here as often as you want. A photographer needs a good assistant.”

“What are you talking about?”

Dad smiles. “I'm moving to Birdsong.”

“So… this is our new home?”

“No, this will be my studio. I'm starting a photography business.”

“Then where are you going to live?”

Dad explains, “I planned on staying with Henry and Elizabeth while I had a house built, but since your grandmother's in the hospital, I'll put that on hold and stay with you at your grandmother's until she recovers. How does that sound?”

“Seems like a good idea. That way you can sleep in Gram's bed and won't need to sleep on the Whippoorwills' couch.”

“Then it's a plan. Now getting back to the studio,” he says, “take a look at that lighting in the living room. It's full of natural light, perfect for pictures. The bedroom will be my office, and the kitchen's exactly what we need for a quick meal when we're here.” He pulls back a dusty curtain covering the kitchen window. “Look at the backyard—it couldn't be more beautiful.” Then he walks around the table to a small door. “Come this way,” he says and ducks while going out. I follow him through the door and along a stone path leading to a pergola covered with coral roses. He scans the backyard. “Can you imagine a young bride standing in this very place with the man of her dreams? The scenery's exceptional for wedding photos.” All of a sudden, it looks like Dad's mind is turning. “This place has endless possibilities,” he says. “Not only is it great for pictures, it's also perfect for the ceremony. We could host outdoor weddings, and since Henry's a pastor, he could marry the bride and groom!”

“Did he marry you?” I ask.

Dad looks confused. “Did he what?”

“Was Henry the pastor who married you? You know—when you married Mom?”

For a minute Dad doesn't say anything. “Yes, Henry did marry us.”

“Was your wedding outdoors like this?”

“No, we were actually married in Henry's church, right here in Birdsong. You had no way of knowing, but at one time your mother and I lived here.”

After all the times I've been to Uncle Henry's church, I never knew my parents got married there. It's hard to imagine them walking down the same aisle I walk down every Sunday.

“Dad?” I say.

“Yes, River?”

“Now do we have time for you to tell me about Mom?”

He nods. “But I want you to know it will be difficult for you to understand. So first,” he says, “let me ask you this—do you know what amnesia is?”

“Like when someone gets hit on the head and they forget everything?”

“Yes. When that happens, people lose their memories. Those memories are no longer in their brain.”

I visualize the abductors hitting Mom on the head and knocking her out, “Did Mom get hit on the head?”

“No, she didn't hurt her head. She got a different type of amnesia called dissociative amnesia. That can happen when someone goes through something traumatic. For her it was having you stolen.”

I try to understand. “So she remembers me but forgot I was stolen?”

“It's more than that, River. Unfortunately she doesn't remember anything about you or me. She remembers her life up through college until right before I met her, but that's it. When you were stolen, she stopped remembering anything that had to do with you or me. For her it was like we no longer existed. She left me to start a new life because she didn't know who I was.”

“When did she start remembering?”

Dad shakes his head. “She hasn't. With her type of amnesia, the memories are still in her brain, but they're buried so deep, she can't access them.”

“So the memories of us are still inside her?”

Dad nods.

“So when she sees us, she'll remember.”

“River,” Dad says almost harshly, “the problem is she has no interest in talking to or seeing us because to her we're strangers.”

“But you talked to her—you told her that you found me.”

“No, I told her husband.” Dad explains, “The only way I've been able to keep in touch with her is through her husband, Michael. He knows the whole story. And fortunately he wants to help. He told your mother you've been found. But she doesn't remember you or that you were stolen.”

“But you'll keep trying, right?”

“I'll check in with Michael from time to time. But, River,” he says, “don't get your hopes up. Even if she remembers someday, she has a new life… she's married and has children.”

“I know,” I say. But inside I know different. I know she'll remember me. And she'll remember Dad too. When she does, she'll want to be with us again.

9

Names

L
ater, instead of spending the night at the Whippoorwills', Dad and I sleep at Gram's. By the time we pull in her driveway, the sky's dark and eerie. Dad's headlights shine in the backyard where the sheets still hang on the line. They flap up and down like the wings of birds hurrying for safety, while thunder rumbles in the distance.

I push the car door open against the wind and shout, “I'll grab the sheets. Just go in.”

Dad yells back, “And the house key?”

“You don't need one. Gram and I never lock up.”

Dad seems surprised. “Really?” he says, shouting above the wind. “Well, that needs to change.”

Gram wouldn't agree. She says if a burglar wants to get in, they'll weasel their way in anyhow. Besides, I'm never scared. Plus Gram sleeps with a BB gun, and she's not afraid to blast an ear off a burglar.

While I fold the sheets at the kitchen table, I tell Dad, “The purple ones are mine. You'll use the orange ones. They're Gram's.” Then I decide I need to set the rules straight. “There's something you need to know about my sheets. I'm old enough to change them myself, so don't do them for me. It only causes problems.” I'm not trying to be difficult. I just don't want something bad to happen again.

“Got it,” he says.

After the sheet rules are clear, I give Dad the house tour, which ends in Gram's bedroom. I make sure he sees her BB gun.

“Thanks, River,” he says. “It's late, so I think I'll fix the bed and get some sleep.”

“Good night, Dad.”

“Night, River. Oh, one more thing—is there a night-light for the hall?”

I shake my head.

“Well,” he says, “how do you see when you get up at night?”

“We never have trouble. Gram says with all the stars God gave us, there's always light to find our way.”

“Hmmm. I think I'll buy one anyway.”

Gram would never spend money on something as senseless as a night-light. “By the way,” I ask, “are you afraid of storms?”

Dad shakes his head. “Not a bit. But what's that noise I'm hearing?”

“Oh, that's Sister Agatha. She moans whenever there's a storm coming.”

Dad's eyes pop open. “I didn't realize you have a nun living with you. I must say she has an extremely deep moan for a nun.”

By now I'm laughing hysterically. “No one else lives here. Sister Agatha's our house! Gram named her. And for some reason, you can count on Sister Agatha to moan whenever a storm's on its way.”

“Well, I hope Sister Agatha says her prayers and goes to sleep, or her moaning's going to keep me up all night.”