Something Like Hope (7 page)

But it doesn’t work out that way for me. The judge remembers me and orders twelve more months, and gives me a lecture about taking responsibility. Then it’s back to the Center for a strip search. After any trips or visits you have to go in this empty room and take off your clothes. Then they make you stand with your hands against the wall. I won’t go into the details, but they check in all the places.

No matter how many times you go through it, it’s still humiliating. If you have any self-esteem or dignity, you lose it. You don’t want to talk to anyone, even people you like. And from that point on, you see the guard who searched you as a pervert, even though it’s always a woman and she usually dislikes it as much as you do.

       
M
s. Choi is back at work today after her pass days. Samantha is real quiet even though Ms. Choi ignores her. But after breakfast, Ms. Choi says casually to the other guard, Ms. Haley, that she’s going to meet with Samantha to “process” the incident in the cafeteria. She says it loud enough for all of us to hear. I think,
Oh, shit. Here it comes again. Why can’t she just leave this poor girl alone?

Choi says, “Now, Ms. Haley, you
know
I’m gonna have me a talk with girlfriend about that bullcrap the other day.” She gives a dirty look over her shoulder at Samantha and smiles like it’s a game and she’s having fun. Ms. Haley nods in agreement.

“Oh, me and Samantha gonna have us a good sit-down talk, ’cause Ms. Choi don’t tolerate no bullcrap like that. There ain’t gonna be no more of that.”

Choi turns her chair to get our attention. “You see,
girls, you got to give respect in order to get it back. And don’t none of y’all know nothin’ about respect, otherwise y’all wouldn’t be in this place. What you gotta do is learn the basics that your parents didn’t never teach you, like please and thank you and no ma’am.…”

It goes on like this until Samantha starts to crack. She’s scared about having this “talk” with Ms. Choi. I know just how she feels. When you get taken down real bad, the last thing you want to do is face the guard who did it. You want to avoid them for a couple of weeks, not even look at them if you don’t have to.

Samantha starts rocking in her chair. She makes a moaning noise and puts her head in her hands. I cringe from the awful sound and want to scream or hit someone. I don’t understand why this happens to me. Why do I go off my fucking rocker every time some other girl does? I might even want to hit Samantha. Or one of the guards. I’m not sure.

Choi walks over to Samantha and says in her gentle voice, “Come on now, Samantha, honey. Come on and let’s talk. It’ll be okay.” Samantha gets up and follows Ms. Choi into the staff office. I listen for signs of trouble, but all I hear is Ms. Choi. She’s using her teaching voice now, the one that is loud but compassionate, righteous but not at all condemning. This is the voice she uses to draw you back to her after breaking you down. She only uses it when you’re exhausted and can’t fight anymore. You give in because you’re so damn tired, and you can’t take any more pain.

I know Samantha will give in. It isn’t her fault. She’s just a skinny kid who’s scared and can’t read or write or remember her times tables. She can’t see through Choi and her simple mind-fuck. All she sees is the sudden kindness, a blessing totally unrelated to the earlier abuse.

And that’s good for Samantha, because it means she’s just dumb enough to stop fighting and get out of here. She’ll start following the rules. She’ll leave the Center, go home to her grandma, quit school, get pregnant, and sign up for Social Security disability benefits. Happily ever after, right? I wish I could do the same. I wish I could go back to a loving grandma and live happily ever after.

       
“I
want you to write a list of all the things you feel guilty about or ashamed of,” Delpopolo tells me.

“Why?”

“For now, it’s my job to worry about why. Your job is to write honestly.”

“Can I call you Mr. D? Because Delpopolo is too damn long.” Changing the subject. The assignment scares me and I’m just stalling.

“Sure. If it’s easier.”

“What if it’s easier for me to call you an old bastard or something?” I’m pushing it now, desperate to avoid the rest of the session. I’m hoping he’ll kick me out, even though I don’t really want that.

“Well, then I insist you change it to
Mr
. Old Bastard, okay? Listen, Shavonne. You’ve been doing a good job here. I know this is difficult.”

“You have no idea.”

“No. I don’t, and I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

Strange. I
have
held that against people. But the others have always lied about it—said they understood when I knew and
they
knew that they didn’t really understand. Couldn’t understand. I look hard at Mr. D and wonder if the stuff Ms. Choi said about him is true. It probably is, because he looks pathetic as far as men go. He’s at least seventy pounds overweight and is bald except for a few strands combed over the top of his head. But there’s something undeniably kind and good about him too. Like he won’t hurt you because he can’t—because it’s just not in him.

And maybe that’s why he let his wife take his kid and all the money—because he just didn’t have it in him to fight her. Tyreena always says people mistake kindness for weakness. Maybe she’s right.

“Do you think people mistake kindness for weakness?” I ask.

After some thought he says, “Yes. Some do.”

He takes his tinted glasses off and looks past me, no longer responding to my question. He’s lost in the thousand-mile stare, focused on some vague point on the far wall. And when his eyes refocus and meet mine, I see that they are the plainest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. No—they are simply eyes that you don’t want to look at for very long because they are sad. Unbelievably sad, like they’ve soaked up more sadness than they can hold and it’s all
threatening to spill out at any moment in a flood of hot salty tears.

I look hard at the man behind the glasses and come close to tears myself. But I don’t cry for anyone, least of all paid shrinks. Even so, it is a moment of understanding that only two truly miserable people can share. And I am grateful for it, brief as it is.

       
I
’ve been thinking about my last session with Mr. D. I am really afraid to face him again, because I know that something happened between us—some kind of understanding. It was no therapist trick, either. It was an honest moment. You know, where two people stop pretending for a second and let each other see who they really are. I haven’t ever experienced that before and it’s weird. Not weird in a sexual way, but just weird, like I don’t know what to do now. Am I supposed to trust him? Be honest with him? And what if he pretends that nothing happened, that it’s business as usual: him asking me questions and me trying to evade them? I don’t think I can handle that.

But I learn that Delpopolo does not pretend.

“Shavonne, I’m sorry about what happened last session,” he says.

“Why? Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I’m afraid I did. I broke the rules.”

“What rules?”

“My rules. About letting my feelings interfere. My problems. You shouldn’t have to deal with that, and I’m sorry.”

I am stunned. Silent. I honestly don’t know what to say. He’s sorry for showing his feelings?

“It’s all right, Mr. D. Really. It’s okay, and I accept your apology even though I don’t think it’s necessary.”

“Thank you, Shavonne.”

And we sit in silence for several minutes. It is a comfortable silence, without any tension or anger or pressure to speak. And in that silence, I can feel something growing between us. Friendship? Understanding? I don’t know. Whatever it is … I think it’s nice.

       
I
’m working on my writing assignment, but I’m going to shred the list when I’m done. The words jump off the page and scream at me. “Hey, you!” they say. “You’re garbage. You’re worthless. You beat up Ms. Williams after she was nice to you. You called your mother a crack whore and hung up on her when she phoned you from rehab, trying to apologize. You …” And that’s where it stops. I can’t even write the last thing on the list. Because if I write it, then it becomes real. And I’ve been trying for so long to make it not be real.

I don’t know if Mr. D has any experience with this stuff. I don’t think he knows that there are some things that are beyond forgiveness. And there are some of us who can’t be redeemed. No second chances.

I’m crying now and I can’t stop. I feel so bad. I think I want to die. I
do
want to die. But I can’t even think straight enough to put together a plan. Why hasn’t Delpopolo
talked to me yet? What the fuck is he waiting for? This is all his fault because of his stupid assignment. You’re not supposed to think about this stuff. You’re supposed to let the past be the past. You’re only supposed to worry about what’s going on at the moment. That’s how you take care of yourself. That’s what they tell us in our groups.

I think I need serious medication. I hate meds, but I hurt so badly that I can’t stand it anymore. I’m hoping for fires and earthquakes and more terrorist attacks. I’m praying to die in my sleep and disappear into the cold fog that floats in over the pond some nights. I’ll become fog and change into a million particles of water and stop being me. I don’t want to be me anymore.