Something Like Hope (10 page)

Then Mona sat down on the edge of my bed and took my hands in hers again. She said, “Shavonne, I am a big black woman from South Carolina. Where I come from, there’s plenty of girls your age who make babies. Sometimes they married. Not often, but sometimes. And sometimes they been raped. And sometimes they been screwin’ with boys because they wants to.” It seemed like the more she talked to me, the heavier her accent became. I don’t know if it was from the medication I had been given, but it was kind of surreal. Mona’s words and voice hypnotized me. I felt warm and safe and happy.

Before I went into labor, she said, “Sugar, you listen careful to Mona now. Listen careful and remember these words. Young child, you are special because of what you been through … and also because of what you’re gonna do in your life. I see it in your face. You’re gonna have lots more troubles for sure, but I see that you’re gonna grow up to be a strong and righteous woman. Strong and righteous! And you got to remember that this child that’s gettin’ ready to meet you is part of you. To hell with all them men that call theyselves fathers. Sperm don’t mean shit! Every man’s got it. This one is
your
baby. God gave her to
you
. You hear me? God gave
you
this baby girl. Now try your best to take care of her. And if you cain’t take care of her, then find somebody good who will.”

The strangest part is that I didn’t know I was having a girl ahead of time. I didn’t think Mona knew either, but I guess she did. She probably had access to some records or tests. But sometimes I like to think that she just
knew
because of something deeper. Maybe something more spiritual. Like Mona is my protector. A large black woman who is strong and righteous, like she said I’d be, but also soft and gentle. I like to think that she is still out there somewhere and that I might see her again. I still have fantasies about this.

I imagine that I wait for her outside the hospital one day. She comes out after her shift, tired, heading for the subway. I come up behind her and call her name. When she turns, I say, “Hey, Mona, you remember me?” She sees me, smiles, then takes me in her arms and holds me so
tight that I can’t help but feel that everything will be okay. From this point on, it will be okay. At the end of the fantasy she says something like, “Girl, where you been? How many years gone by and I been waitin’ all along! Now let’s go home.”

       
I
’m brought to answer another call from Susan, the DSS worker. After some small talk she says I’ve got to appear in court just before my eighteenth birthday. It’s time to decide what to do with Jasmine. Guardianship, they call it.

I don’t have much to say to Susan. The silence makes her nervous, I can tell. She doesn’t want to end the conversation on a bad note and asks stupid questions.
How’s school? Is it getting cold up there?

I tell her I have to go.

This means I’ve got six months. Time is running out. I’ve got to fix things. I don’t have a plan yet, but I’ve decided to get real with Mr. D. Maybe he can help me. If anyone can, it will be someone like him—someone with sad eyes and a life that’s not all perfect and happy. Someone who might actually be able to understand. Not just
that, but he seems to know things, like how to quiet your mind when the same crazy thoughts run over and over. Or how to accept something that isn’t fair. I need to learn how to do these things. I’m going to try harder. It’s a promise to myself. And to Jasmine.

       
“Y
ou have a child, right?” Delpopolo asks, but it’s not really a question. “Will you tell me about her?”

“Sure, if you tell me about your kids, Mr. D.”

“Okay, I have a daughter. What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Jasmine. She’s twenty-three months old. I had her when I was almost sixteen. Yours?”

“Cynthia. She doesn’t live with me anymore. I’m divorced. Do you miss Jasmine?”

I am surprised that Mr. D is telling me this much about his family. When I was sick, he told me about his mother and the soup, but that’s all he’s said about his personal life.

“Yes. But I never even got to know her well. I’ve seen her during visits, and I have some pictures. Do you miss your daughter?”

“I do. I really do. She’s a terrific kid. Where’s Jasmine’s father?”

“I don’t know. He was a loser, but because he was older and had a nice car and flashy clothes, I thought … I don’t know what I thought. That maybe he cared about me.”

“But he didn’t?

“No. Not really. He didn’t even come to the hospital when she was born. Then he got arrested, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him since. What about Cynthia’s mother?”

“Gone away. To California.” Mr. D is quiet for a minute. Then he gathers himself with what looks like tremendous effort and continues. “Tell me what’s special about Jasmine.”

It’s the first time I’ve been asked this kind of question. It’s such a simple question, but I don’t know the answer. I can say stupid things like “she’s cute” or “she’s so sweet,” but those are clichés.

“I don’t know, Mr. D. I don’t know what’s special about her other than she’s pure and innocent and beautiful the way all babies are. But it’s so hard for me to think about her as a person, separate from me and my problems. It’s all a big knot of problems.”

Mr. D is quiet again, so I go on. “I’m not a good mother, Mr. D. It doesn’t matter how special Jasmine is because I can’t really appreciate her. If I did, we’d be together.”

“I can see how you’d think that, but it’s circular logic. It doesn’t float.”

“What do you mean, ‘doesn’t float’?”

“It doesn’t hold water. It’s no good.”

“Why?”

“Because. It always leads back to the starting place. You’re here because you’re a bad person, because only bad people get sent here. It’s circular and doesn’t prove anything.”

“It makes sense to me.”

“Listen, do you ever have fantasies or daydreams about you and your daughter together?”

“No.”

“Really?”

“I’m not lying and I’m not playing any games with you, Mr. D. I just don’t think about it.”

“Why?” He asks this question in the mildest and most curious way. It’s like he really wants to know and isn’t leading me toward some point where he’ll say, “You see? That’s because …” There’s no bullshit moral or lesson. He just wants to know why.

“Because … I won’t let myself. I want to, but there’s no point.”

“Why won’t you let yourself have fantasies about being with your daughter?” Again with the “why’s.”

“Because if I can’t do my job as a mother and actually be with her, then I don’t deserve to have the fantasies. And there’s a part of me that thinks I can’t really handle it. Giving Jasmine to me would be like giving an alcoholic a drink and saying, ‘Hold it, but don’t taste.’ ”

“Okay. You won’t let yourself think about your daughter because you’re too afraid of the feelings that come with it. You’re afraid they’ll destroy you.” I just look at him and say nothing. He continues.

“To get out of here and get back your daughter, Shavonne, you have to
feel
. You have to experience all the emotions that people have, not just anger and fear.”

“You think all I feel is anger and fear?” I feel both of those emotions right now. Sweat trickles down my armpits and soaks my bra. I listen for the voice in my head to tell me to leave. But I also keep that voice at bay, because this might be my last chance.
Is it my last chance?
The voice hears this and screams at me.

“Look at him, Vonne! Is
he
strong? Can he protect you? He’s getting paid, for Christ’s sake! He gets a fucking check to say this shit to you.” The voice is mean, driving home the points like sharp blows. “It’s his
job!
You get it? It’s his fucking job. He don’t care about you. I’m the only one who cares about you, right Vonne?”

This is why Mr. D asked permission to talk so straight. He must have known I’d react this way. It’s like I found this door where the voice lives and I want to shut that door for good, and I think Mr. D is trying to help me.

He says softly, “Shavonne, are you still here with me right now? I need you to stay here with me and talk this through.”

He looks at me with concern. I’m quiet, but I’ve still got his question in my mind. I wait to hear the voice. It is gone. Slowly, carefully, I calm down, and it’s like I’m floating back into my body that is talking to Mr. D.

“Okay, so I’m angry and scared. Lots of people are angry and scared. You mean to tell me that you’re never angry and scared?”

“Yeah, I get angry and scared. But I have other feelings too. And I don’t try to avoid them. Listen, Shavonne, it’s not okay to be angry and scared all the time. You’ve got to see that.”

“Or else?” I know Mr. D doesn’t want to hear this from me, but I think of that voice locked in a room, the doorknob starting to turn. I picture it as an old brass knob, dented in a couple of places, cold and slippery in my hand. It turns with a slow and steady force that will soon overpower me.

“There’s no ‘or else.’ You either choose one way or the other. And the choice sets you in a certain direction.”

I close my eyes and try to focus on breathing. My balled fists tingle. Mr. D waves a hand in front of my face and says gently, “Shavonne, talk to me. I’m sitting right across from you. It’s just you and me in this room.”

For better or worse, I tell Mr. D about the voice and the door. I am fearful of the standard talk about medication, atypical antipsychotics, and whatever diagnosis he thinks is right for me. I could take a script for Zyprexa, which makes you gain weight, or Risperdal, which makes you lactate. It even does that to boys.

“You know, you did a good thing just now. Talking to the voice and telling it that you have things under control is a big step—that’s exactly what you should do.”

“You don’t think I’m crazy?”

“No.”

“Do you hear voices?”

“No, but I talk to myself sometimes. Listen, what does that voice usually tell you to do?”

“Run away, hit somebody, curse someone out.”

“How are all those things similar?”

“Look, I don’t know. Why don’t you just tell me? I don’t mean to be rude, but I just can’t think anymore.” I feel exhausted. Wrung out.

“They’re all ways that kids protect themselves. When you feel threatened or in danger, does the voice protect you?”

“Yeah, I guess. So what? You talk about it almost like it’s a good thing. It doesn’t feel like a good thing. It feels crazy.”

“It’s good up to a point, if it works. But that’s what we’re getting at here. It no longer works. Being angry and scared, trying to squash all the other emotions, it just doesn’t work for you anymore. You agree?”

I look down at my chewed-up fingernails. I agree. It makes sense. It explains a lot, but still … what am I supposed to do? Stop being Shavonne? How? This is the only way I know how to be. I feel so confused. I tell Mr. D that I’ve got a new emotion: confusion. Anger, fear, and confusion. Is this progress?

Back in my room, I stay up late waiting for the voice to say bad things about me. It will call me a liar and a stupid bitch. It will say, “You’re so weak, Vonne. You shouldn’t have done that, Vonne. You broke the rule, Vonne. No one can know about me.”

But the voice doesn’t come.