Something Like Hope (19 page)

       
T
here’s a lot I don’t know about or understand. Like saying goodbye. The first person to come by my bedroom is Ms. Stokes. I’m still sullen and shut-down, afraid of what lies ahead of me. This is new for me, because I’ve always been afraid of the past. I never even bothered thinking about the future.

Ms. Stokes pretends everything is normal. She says, “Happy birthday, Shavonne. You can go ahead and be depressed or rude or any way you like. But I’ve got my girl stuff here and I’m not leaving until I do your hair and your nails. So move over.”

She opens up her kit and gives me a total pedicure, or what I think a total pedicure is, never having had one before. I’m embarrassed by the attention until she says, “Look, Shavonne. This is a small thing. Just one small thing I can do for you out of respect. Because you tried to protect that poor pregnant girl when things got out of
hand. And you protected Cinda, too, when no one else ever did.”

As she braids my hair she tells me I’m going to grow up to be a strong woman. She says that my life is a book with only a few finished chapters. And even though they have been bad, I can work hard to write the next ones and make them better. It sounds nice, and I appreciate her spending this time with me and telling me something hopeful, even though I don’t really believe it.

But before she says goodbye and leaves my life forever, Ms. Stokes hands me a small color photo of a light-skinned newborn baby with wisps of curly brown hair and impossibly chubby cheeks. “Your grandson?” I ask.

“No. Guess again.” She’s smiling, like she knows I’ll figure out the answer and it will please me. And as I do figure it out, I smile too. A big broad happy smile, the first in a long time.

“For real? Mary’s baby? Ramón? He’s healthy?”

“Yes.” Just one word, but she says it so proud. Like it’s proof of something. What can it prove? That there is still reason to hope? That good things are possible? For Mary? For me? Before I can think about it, Ms. Stokes gives me a quick hug and says goodbye. “Take care of yourself, Shavonne. Be a strong woman.” She leaves me standing in my small bedroom, clutching the picture and feeling so many things: happiness, sadness, fear, regret, and yes, the beginnings of something like hope.

       
I
’m now on a Greyhound bus headed to a shelter/independent living program in the city. The bus is packed. I scan the aisles and find one empty seat. It’s next to a large black woman, who motions for me to take it. I walk down the aisle and feel everyone’s eyes on me. I’m wearing new clothes Ms. Williams purchased for me at Old Navy.

They’re nice clothes, and I feel special today only because of them. The down jacket is white with pink faux fur around the hood. And the jeans must look good on me, because some boys turn their heads as I walk past them. But mostly I feel nothing as the bus cruises away. And that’s okay, because I think I can deal with nothing.

The big woman next to me changes seats so I can look out the window. I try to object, but she puts up a big fleshy arm and says, “Girl, I seen almost everything there is to see out them windows. Now you sit there and look while
I take myself a nap.” I like her voice because it reminds me of someone, but I can’t remember who. Everything seems so distant.

Trees line the roads in different stages of readiness for spring. I see the buds starting to break open with the faintest hint of green. I try to relate to this slow awakening, but I can’t. It’s like looking at a beautiful wilderness scene in a book and saying, “Oh, that’s nice.”

I wish I knew the trees by their names. Back at the Center Cyrus taught us about the trees on campus. He used to point and call out, “Hemlock, ladies, and over there, maple, pin oak. Those two are walnut. And there, shagbark hickory. You see that one? That’s American iron-wood. Also called hornbeam and musclewood, because the bark looks like it’s got muscles.”

I don’t know why I’m thinking about Cyrus. Maybe because of the trees. Or maybe because he helped me in the cafeteria when no one else could. But I think it’s because he too seemed out of place and trapped. Maybe he will quit and go work on a farm somewhere. It could be a farm with a horse to plow the fields the old-fashioned way. And one day he’ll be out there in the fields when the sun sets and lights everything on fire with orange and gold, and his shadow will stretch out forever. That’s a nice thought and I’m trying to hang on to it, but it’s already fading.

The Greyhound is passing houses now. Nice houses, big fancy things, but I don’t know their names. Could be Victorian or something else. It occurs to me that I don’t
know much about the world outside of the Center and my old neighborhood. How will I manage? How will I find my way?

In my lap, fingers are working to break open the seal of an envelope. The fingers are beautiful, slender, and smooth, with nut-brown skin. The nails, gently curved and lacquered, are not long but appear well cared for. Are they mine? They can’t be the old woman’s, because her skin is a very dark black. Plus her fingers are short and chubby. They must be my fingers. But I can’t really feel them. I don’t know what’s happening. I am drifting into some other place like a daydream, but I’m also reading the pages, which are spread on my lap. And now there’s a picture, one of those small rectangular school pictures.

A voice penetrates the trance. “That your boyfriend?” It’s the woman sitting next to me. She has awakened from her nap and is trying to start a conversation.

“What? Excuse me?”

“I said, is that your boyfriend? He sure is handsome.”

“Um, no. It’s not my boyfriend.”

“Well, then who is it? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t mind. It’s my brother.”

“What’s your brother’s name?”

I think the name in my head but I can’t say it.
Marcus. My brother’s name is Marcus
. The woman is looking at me with concern because tears are coming, streaming down my cheeks in hot rivers. Tears that are equal parts salt and fear, water and sorrow. I see now what tears are made of,
at least my own. And I understand why I haven’t been able to get better. Because I am made of equal parts fear and sorrow.

And this makes me cry even harder, for all of it. All of it. Mary and her pregnant belly. Cinda and her burned-down house. Samantha’s birthday cake. Cyrus and those fucking geese. All those people whose lives I passed through: Ms. Williams. Mr. Delpopolo. Jasmine. Mona, who held my hands and talked softly to me that day at the hospital. I have passed through all their lives and they are gone. Have I gone too?

The woman next to me touches my upper arm. “Lord have mercy! What have we here?” She’s looking at me with sympathy. She sets down her purse and pulls me to her. She’s soft but strong and I am not able to resist. I am grateful that I am, at long last, not able to resist.

“Let it all loose, girl! Whatever it is, let it
loose
. Let it come on out and we’ll take a look and see what it is!” She looks up at the other passengers, who are staring at us, and shouts, “Ain’t you never seen nobody feelin’ sad? Shoot. Nosy sonsabitches!”

Eventually she sets me back against my own seat and pulls some tissues out of her purse. She talks softly to me for the rest of the trip, telling me that it’s always been a hard world for a woman, no matter if she’s young and pretty or fat and old. She tells me that it’s going to be okay.

“How do you know?” I ask. I hear the desperation in my voice, as though the rest of my life hinges on the
answer to this one question. It’s a child’s question, really. How do you know that everything’s going to be okay? How do you know that the world isn’t going to crush me?

“Because, child, I know at least one person loves you.” She pulls out the small rectangular picture from between our two seats and returns it to me. Could it be true?

I cry again, but this time it’s out of hope. I am hoping that this big kind woman knows what she’s talking about, and I think she does. I think I can trust her. And I think I already do trust Ms. Williams, and Connie, and Cyrus, and Mona, and Mr. Delpopolo. It’s a good list.

       
T
he bus pulls into the station with a whoosh of air from the brakes and suspension. I am afraid to get out but all the passengers are gone. The driver is waiting patiently for me, probably because he’s afraid I’ll start crying again.

Down the steps and into the rain. There are people everywhere. Some are shaking hands or giving hugs. But none of these people mean anything to me. I am alone.

Then, through all the anonymous faces, there is one that I know. Well, I don’t know it, but I recognize it. It is familiar. A boy, thirteen years old, wearing a backpack and a rain jacket. Waving. Walking over to me. Smiling but frightened. Frightened that maybe I will not recognize him. Frightened that I will not accept him. Or is that what I’m feeling?

“Shavonne?”

“Marcus?”

We stand there smiling at each other. Then Marcus throws his arms around me awkwardly. He squeezes me half to death and I try to hug him back but I can’t get my arms around his backpack. I can tell he is crying and doesn’t want me to see. I try to look at his face, but he is still hugging me tightly and won’t let go. I am crying, too, and the tears are mixing with raindrops. They taste lightly salted.

“I missed you, Shavonne. I’ve missed you so much.”

“Me too, Marcus. Me too.”

“But everything is all messed up because …”

Marcus starts to tell me why things are messed up, but I cut him off. “It’s okay, Marcus. I’ve got a plan.” I put my arm around his narrow shoulders and we start walking away. I don’t even know where we’re going. Marcus leans into me like he trusts my weight to hold him up. Like he trusts me. It feels strange and powerful and scary, all at the same time.

“We’re going to be okay,” I tell Marcus. I say it again and again to reassure him. I say it just to hear the words. And it’s like someone else is saying it, telling
me
. “We’re going to be okay,” I say once again. It sounds good because, for the first time, the words are believable, like they might be true. Could they be true? I think so. For a moment I think they might be magic words, like they hold some special healing power if only I can say them enough times. I want to tell Marcus about this, but I am afraid it will sound silly and become untrue. Which is crazy, really,
because it’s not about the words at all. It’s about forgiveness. Or maybe it’s about faith. Or maybe I don’t even know, which is okay too. Because all that matters is that I am with my brother, and we are walking together toward something new.

Shawn Goodman
based
Something Like Hope
on his experiences working as a psychologist in a girls’ juvenile justice facility. He lives in upstate New York with his wife and daughters.