Something Like Hope (17 page)

Delpopolo doesn’t even nod or say “Uh-huh” or “Go on” like he usually does. He doesn’t interrupt.

“I do my best to sing a lullaby—’Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.’ Only I change the words around to say ‘Hush, little baby, don’t you worry, momma’s gonna be back in a hurry.’ I know
she’s not coming back, though. I sing mostly for myself because I’m cold and hungry and scared. I know the baby will wake up soon wanting something to eat and there’s nothing in the house. No food or milk.”

Delpopolo takes off his tinted glasses and I see his eyes. They’re not mean or kind or anything. He’s looking at me without any judgment, which is good because I think I’d die if he got even the slightest bit upset or worried. I realize that I’ve become supersensitive to other people’s emotions. I’m always looking to see how they feel about me, like I can only see myself through others’ eyes.

I notice that my heart is racing and my legs are shaking back and forth in the chair. I stop talking and feel so scared, like I’ve already said too much and damned myself forever. I won’t finish the story. I say to Delpopolo in a real low voice, “Please … Mr D, I don’t know what kind of life you’ve had, but …”

And then he gets mad. For the first time, the big shrink shows his real self and says, “That’s right. You don’t know what kind of life I’ve had. I agree with you on that.”

In a flash I am filled with rage.

“Oh yeah? What kind of troubles have you had, Mr. D? Bad marriage? Child-support payments? Stuck in this hellhole with the rest of us? Well, at least you get to leave at night. At least you have choices. You can find a new wife and have a new family. You can walk out of here any day of the week.”

His nostrils flare and an ugly vein pulses in his forehead. He jumps out of his chair, pointing his finger at me.

“You don’t know who I am, Shavonne. Just because you overheard something or made some good guesses doesn’t mean that you know me. Because a person isn’t just the sum of their fuck-ups and their shame. I’m more than that, and so are you. That’s what I’ve been trying to teach you all these months. Now tell me the damn story.”

       
I
just want him to leave me alone, to let me off the hook. It makes me want to curl up in a ball and die. Why is this fat prick pushing me around? The anger rises again and blankets the fear for another brief moment. I call up even more anger.

“Fuck you, Delpopolo,” I say. “I’m through.” I stand up to leave, ready to blow right out of there. But then Delpopolo changes his tone. He doesn’t yell, but his voice gets stronger, like he’s ready for an argument.

He says, “Fuck you too. You act so damn tough, but you can’t even do this one thing. If you’re so damn tough, then sit down and finish the story.”

I scream, “Yeah, well, you don’t know what kind of life
I’ve
had! You have no fucking idea, Mr. D. If you did, you wouldn’t be asking me to go on!”

His voice is calm now. Kind, almost. “It’s now or never, Shavonne. You
can
do this. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t
believe you could. If you quit now,” he says, “you’re on your own.”

It’s a threat that goes right through me like a bullet made of ice. It chills me with fear. I know what he says is true: this is my last chance. I need to tell this one last secret or it will probably destroy me. I try to bring back the hate and put it all on him, even though I know he hasn’t ever done anything to me. It’s confusing, and the stress is so intense that I feel like my nose will bleed. It’s not logical, but I see now that it’s him who raped me when I was eleven. It’s him who took me away from school in a cop car to a foster home where I was molested again. It’s him who burned my arms with matches for crying too much. It’s him who threw me on the hard floor and busted my teeth. It’s him I hate, and I tell him so. “I hate you,” I scream. “You motherfucker, I hate you! Do you hear me, Delpopolo? I hate you!”

He sits back and says, “Continue, please.” Just like that. Like this was his plan: to get me angry and screaming. It’s crazy, but I do as he says. I sit back in my chair. I don’t curse at him anymore or try to escape. Instead, I finish the story.

“I dropped the baby,” I say flatly. The words coming out slow and heavy, like each syllable is a sack of cement dropping off a building.
Thump
. “I was supposed to watch him, but he started crying and squirming out of my arms and I accidentally dropped him. He fell and knocked over the pot so all that boiling water dumped on him. I didn’t mean to drop him, but that doesn’t matter. All that
matters is, because of me, my baby brother got his skin scalded off his legs. He went to the hospital and I got sent to foster care. I stopped talking to other people. I heard voices. They sent me to a psychiatric hospital for a long time.”

I finish speaking, maybe forever. Because this time, I am broken. Completely. Saying the words, telling the story, it doesn’t heal me like I hoped. Instead, it shatters me, and my whole body shakes. There are no tears. Just violent shaking, like I am freezing to death. I am so cold, and I can’t stop shaking.

A low sickening moan escapes me. It rises in pitch slowly, changing to some kind of primitive scream. Finally, it explodes out of me in a raw shriek that heaves and wracks my body like I’m having convulsions. Something awful and ugly and diseased is trying to leave my body and it wants to kill me on the way out. It’s like labor, only the end is death instead of birth. My face runs with mucus and hot tears. I am so broken, all I can do is take the convulsions and hope that it will all end.

Please, God, make this end. I can’t take it anymore
.

       
A
hand reaching out to me. I can’t see it well because my eyes are blurry from crying. It’s got to be Delpopolo’s; the part of me that is still able to think figures that I am in his office, and he’s the only other person present. The hand reaches across the expanse of the desk and gently takes my hand. It happens so slowly. In slow motion. Even though it’s just a couple feet of desktop, it takes such a long time, so long for someone to reach me.

Delpopolo’s large soft hand closes around my own, which feels small and childlike. A flicker of memory: I am six years old, playing a game with Marcus. I hide his tiny hand in mine and say, “Where’s your hand, baby? Where did your hand go?” Peals of laughter from Marcus as I uncover and show him his tiny beautiful little fingers, which he wiggles to show that they have been returned to him. The power of a hand held inside another, like nesting dolls or stacked shells.

I realize that, aside from violent takedowns and having my hair braided by Cinda, no one has touched me since I’ve been locked up. How strange to go through life without touch. In its own way it is like going without water for years. Impossible, I know, but there it is.

Delpopolo has taken off his tinted glasses and I can see he is crying. Is he crying for his own miserable life or for mine? Doesn’t matter. Like a drowning person, I grab for him, because at the moment, he is all that stands between me and madness or self-destruction. There is still the desk between us, so I grab what is available: his fat hand. I bury my face in it and cry like I’ve never cried before. Tears pour out of my eyes and run into his outstretched hand. Like he can absorb the pain and the grief by catching my tears. Or maybe just share it for a moment and then let it go. I don’t care, just so long as there is that touch.

We stay like that for a long time. He brings out his other hand and I take that one too, clasping both of his wrists and burrowing my face into his palms. He says over and over, “It’s all right, Shavonne. It wasn’t your fault. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be just fine.”

I grab his wrists tighter and bury my face deeper into his palms. I gasp for air between sobs and say, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I don’t know if I’m apologizing to Marcus for what I did, or to Mr. D. And still, Delpopolo keeps saying those words: “It’s all right, Shavonne. It wasn’t your fault. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be just fine. It wasn’t your fault.”

       
N
othing. I have no real thoughts or feelings. I pass the days by staring out the window or pretending to read a book. Choi got fined five hundred dollars and was given a five-day suspension for fucking up my face and hurting Mary. Tyreena, Kiki, and the other girls are celebrating, singing that shit from
The Wizard of Oz
about the wicked witch being dead, but I don’t care. I see now that Choi has nothing to do with my problems. She isn’t anybody to me; she’s just a distraction, like so many other things I’ve wasted my time on.

My eighteenth birthday is three days away, but I refuse to talk to my law guardian or Susan, the DSS worker. I won’t talk to Connie or Jasmine, either. I can’t deal with problems that are too big. The only thing in my head close to a plan is not to have a plan. I will go into court and say
nothing. I will nod to the judge. I will let the whole thing play out without help from me. The judge will give me a new assault charge, for Ms. Williams, or not. He will send me to adult prison, or not. I will be released on my eighteenth birthday, or not. None of it matters, really.

       
M
s. Choi is back from her suspension. She says she’s got something planned for me on account of how I cost her five hundred cash plus a week of pay.

“Eye for an eye, little girl. You messed up my life, now I’m gonna mess up yours. And in the end, it’s your word against mine. You think anyone’s gonna believe your lyin’ ass?”

One look at the other guards tells me they’re in on it. Or they’ll cover for her. Same difference. She calls our movement on the radio and leads me to the cafeteria for work duty. Only, the cafeteria is dark; no one is there.

She turns on the lights and points to a prep table with a bunch of vegetables: heads of lettuce, greenish tomatoes, and a cucumber. She unlocks the knife drawer and gets a small paring knife, puts it on the table with the veggies. The thin blade of the knife gleams under the fluorescent lighting.