The Hope Store

by Dwight Okita

  I nod my head in appreciation. "It's very creative, Jada. But I must be honest. I'm a little concerned…"

  "Don't you like them, Luke? I haven't been this creative in years. I'm positively prolific!" she says.

  "Maybe we should look into the hope extraction after all," I suggest.

  "You said I should wait and see how things go."

  "Things are more serious than I thought."

  "Really?" she says as if that's the last thing she thought I'd say. "But if you let me keep my new hope a while longer, I can be your new Ambassador of Optimism. I can go to cancer wards and grant last wishes to dying children..."

  I survey her home. There's not a square inch that is not uncovered, no place for me to even sit down. "Jada, where do you sleep?"

  She laughs. "Sleep? Who has time to sleep with all this work I have to do?"

  "Let me help you clear some space on your bed," I say, carefully lifting some dioramas to a shelf already crammed with stuff. I study Jada's face, her flickering eyes, her twitchy body language. "Just think about the hope extraction, Jada. Sleep on it," I say.

  But in my mind I'm whispering, "Oh my god. What have we done to this poor woman?"

  QUANDARY

  "I'm through watching test patterns on TV.

  I want to dance on the dining room table

  like everyone else."

  -- from the poem "Letters I Never Wrote"

  -- DECEMBER --

  JADA

  30. WIDE AWAKE

  I go to bed tonight, sipping a hot cup of apple cider so there is warmth flowing through my body. I picture the cider flowing down my throat and arriving at my stomach. My belly feels warm. I turn on the wave machine and am serenaded by ocean waves. For a change, sleep comes easily to me.

  In the middle of the night, I look at the clock: it’s 3 a.m. When I roll over, I’m startled to see someone lying in bed next to me, looking right at me. It’s a woman. Huh? Am I dreaming? Then the woman sits bolt upright in bed. She’s me! She’s my mirror image.

  “Hi, I’m from your parallel universe. You can just call me Jada2,” says the woman.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I must have slipped through a membrane or something. Stranger things have happened.”

  I'm scared. I've never had an intruder in my house. “I’m going to call the police. I have a gun,” I lie.

  She laughs. “Everyone’s got a gun these days. You think that makes you special? Please, this is Chicago. The Wild MidWest. And the police? Parallel universes are out of their jurisdiction, I assure you.” She laughs. “We don’t even have donuts where I come from.”

  I study her face. She’s a pretty, black woman. She definitely has my eyes. I’d recognize those windows of the soul anywhere. Her manner is alert but guarded. And she’s wearing the same blue-green pajamas I’m wearing.

  “Are you really from my parallel universe?” I ask, more fascinated than frightened.

  “I’m sorry for dropping in like this. I'll be on my way.” She closes her eyes and puts her hands together as if praying.

  “Wait, what’s it like…over there?”

  She smiles. “In your parallel world, you finally get your hope levels together. In your parallel world, the love you take is equal to the love you make. In your parallel world, there are no side effects whatsoever.”

  I smile back. “Do you think I’d like it there?”

  “Well, I like it. And I’m you.”

  I think for a minute. Something doesn’t make sense. “Wait a minute. You said there are no side effects in your world. But aren’t you a side effect from my installation?”

  “Gotta run, sweetie. If you make it to the other side, let’s do coffee.” The woman turns into a cloud of silver confetti and blows away.

  I look at the clock again: it’s 2 a.m. How is it possible it’s earlier now? I close my eyelids. When I open them, I am in high school taking drivers ed. It’s the last time I was behind the wheel of a car.

  “Make sure you can tell the difference between the brake and the gas pedal," says my instructor. I turn to see his face. It’s Blair Matters. “Don’t look at me. Keep your eyes on the road or you’re going to get us both killed.”

  “Aren’t you Blair Matters?” I say.

  “What’s it to ya?” he snaps.

  “But I didn’t know you in high school.”

  “Since when do dreams make sense?” he says.

  I blink my eyelids again and when I open them, I’m sitting in a Mini-Cooper at a Shell gas station. But this doesn’t feel like a dream. It feels real. It’s night time. The motor is running. How did I get here? Blair is nowhere to be seen. Am I sleep-walking? Sleep-driving? A car behind me starts honking. What am I doing driving a car? I haven’t had a license since high school. I climb out of the car, begging the other driver for patience. Then I make a mad dash and eventually flag down a cab. I make it home. I lock the door behind me.

  I look at my bed. Once again, I see someone under the covers.

  “Back so soon,” says Jada2.

  I reach for my cell and dial Luke. I look at the clock: it’s 1 a.m. The phone rings and rings.

  “Hello,” says a groggy Luke Nagano.

  “Luke, I’m so sorry to call so late. But it’s an emergency.” I tell him what’s been happening. That weird shit like this has been happening all week and I don’t think I can take it anymore. I’m ready to try the hope extraction. He says to meet him at The Hope Store right now. Kazu will help with the procedure.

  Luke once told me according to Japanese legend, when you can't sleep at night it's because you're awake in someone else's dream. That would explain a lot.

  Otis drives me to the store. When we get there, Luke and Kazu greet us.

  “I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” says Kazu. He embraces me.

  Together the four of us walk down the dark corridor toward the Installation Suite. When we arrive Kazu says, “So the hope extraction is a way to un-do the hope installation. It should remove the side effects, but will also remove the good effects. It returns you to your pre-installation hope level. It’s a way to re-boot. The dopamine will slowly leave your receptors.”

  "My hope juice," I say. I look at Otis to see his reaction. He nods with great concern.

  “I don’t mind some minor side effects, but these side effects are huge. I can't live like this, Kazu,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

  Kazu moves to a control panel and pushes some levers.

  Luke guides me to take a seat under the equipment. “Do you have any questions before the extraction begins? Once we start, we can't stop. There's no going back,” Luke says.

  “Well, of course I have a million questions but now is not the time for questions. Now is the time for action."

  Luke smiles. “Just take some deep breaths, Jada. Here we go.” He nods to Kazu.

  Kazu pulls a red lever forward slowly.

  Just as before, a beam of light encircles my head like a luminous blue lampshade.

  The light radiates a cool temperature in the room. As I look outward at the suite, everything shimmers in the blue light as if underwater.

  Suddenly there is a sharp pain in my head and I wince. I reach up with one hand to rub my head.

  Everyone notices. “Are you okay, Jada?” Kazu asks.

  I massage my forehead with the tips of my fingers.

  “It’s best not to touch your head during the extraction. If you’re feeling any discomfort, it should pass very soon,” says Kazu.

  The pain subsides and I lower my hand.

  And now silver dots of confetti magically rise up. They float upward in graceful, slow motion.

  It looks like it's snowing in reverse.

  On the far wall, I watch in a mirror as the confetti seems to pass through a membrane in my head till it all disappears. The room returns to normal.

  “How are you feeling?” says Luke?

  “I’m fine. Just a little…woozy.”

  “Just sit t
ight for a while,” he says. “I’ll get you some water. You did great.”

  Kazu runs an fMRI on me to check my levels and sure enough I have reverted to this walnut shell of a brain with a glimmer of yellow light along one hemisphere. This makes me very sad, but I say nothing. I don't want to appear ungrateful for all the work Kazu has done.

  “Oh,” says Kazu, “we should remind you that next week, CNN is hosting a town hall meeting on hope. You’re welcome to attend, but we also understand if you’d rather not. The most important thing now is for you to regain your equilibrium.

  There’s always the chance that the brain might naturally re-hardwire itself, but this is all new territory. To tell you the honest truth, Jada -- 95% of any scientific discovery is pure science. But that last 5%? It’s a mystery. It’s magic. I use my Buddhist chanting for that last 5% that I can't figure out with my college-educated mind. That's where a leap of faith comes in handy."

  And it isn’t until Kazu lays it out like this that I really know what he means. Science doesn’t know everything. There are things that happen in the world that are magic, that even science can’t explain…or explain away. That's a good thing and a bad thing too.

  JADA

  31. PRE-HEATED

  I do my volunteer shift at the animal shelter, but my heart isn't in it. Ever since the hope extraction, it's like a veil has come down over me. I go back to the few routines I have in search of something familiar, something comforting.

  Later I'm off to Sheila's house to babysit Willis and Angie. Sheila and hubby are off for a little "them time."

  Willis, Angie and I are in the kitchen making sugar cookies. Or to be more precise: I am making sugar cookies, Angie is stirring the batter but spilling batter too, and Willis attempts to lick the spoon when I'm not looking. The oven is pre-heating. I picture the molecules in the oven speeding up their vibrations. I like the sigh of a gas oven, the warmth filling the kitchen. It reminds me of something else, something thrilling and troubling -- but I can't remember what it is.

  "When I grow up, Aunt Jada, can I be a princess? I'd live in my own castle, but you can visit sometime."

  I crack a few eggs on the Formica counter and drop the gooey contents into the batter.

  I'm about to say something inappropriate. I can just feel it. In spite of all my heartfelt promises to my sister. I can't help myself.

  "Angie, you know how I usually say you can be whatever you want to be? No matter how impossible it may seem?" She nods and stirs.

  "That's not really true."

  "Were you telling a fib?"

  "Something like that. See, the truth is the chance of you becoming a princess is less than 1%. You have to be born into a racket like that. Plus, you're black, which doesn't help at all." I scan the recipe book for the next step. Add 2 cups of sugar. Stir vigorously. Stir as if your life depended on it.

  "I just want to grow up and be happy," says my niece, a tear forming in the corner of one eye. She wipes it away.

  "Ha! Good luck with that. You've got better chances of becoming a princess. You think my grown-up friends are happy? The happiest time of your life, Angie, is right now when you're small and have no responsibilities. The older you get, the harder it gets." I feel this irresistible urge to extinguish the tiny flame of hope that burns inside this small human.

  I fill the measuring cup with sugar. I grind the sugar into the batter with a wooden spoon.

  Willis chimes in. "You shouldn't say stuff like that to her. Or she'll never want to grow up," he says. Then he adds, "My mother says you're sick. Upstairs." He points to his head. "Is that true?

  "Probably. I have my good days and my bad days."

  "How did you get sick?" Willis asks me. And it's such a simple question, but there is no simple answer.

  Angie takes over stirring the batter in the bowl.

  "I'm not sure I can really explain it."

  "I think Mommy's sick too, Aunt Jada," says Willis.

  "Why do you say that, sweetie?"

  "Because she cries a lot and she always tells Daddy, You make me sick. Why does Daddy want to make Mommy sick?" Angie has lost all interest in sugar cookies, has forgotten what has brought the three of them into the kitchen in the first place. She wanders out of the kitchen to who knows where.

  "Let's just focus on baking our treats. How about that?" I tell Willis. I start spooning little mounds of dough onto the baking sheet, mashing them flat. Spooning and mashing. Spooning and mashing.

  "Do you think my parents are happy?" asks Willis. I spoon and mash, uncertain what to say.

  Willis sits down on a chair. "It doesn't matter. Everything is stupid and when you grow up -- it gets stupider."

  I give the boy my full attention. "Willis, I'm just a mixed-up girl. Always have been, always will be. Ignore everything I said. Soon we'll have warm cookies with milk and everything will be better."

  "Whatever," he says, not even looking at me. I grip the baking sheet and slide it into the oven. When the oven door slams shut, Angie wanders back into the kitchen.

  "The cookies will be done in about fifteen minutes," I say. "You know this little talk we had tonight? Let's pretend it never happened, okay? It'll be our little secret." The children look at me with blank expressions like unfinished dolls at a toy factory.

  "Why don't you kids watch TV? I'll let you know when they're ready." The kids don't have to be told twice to go watch TV. What has gotten into me? Such a heavy conversation. Could it be side effects from the hope extraction? The smell of freshly baking cookies wafts through the kitchen and erases any trace of sadness. Life is simple again.

  Sheila and hubby arrive. Delicious cookie smells fill the air. I take the pan out and put it on the stove.

  I leave, not even bothering to take a cookie with me.

  At home, I'm just settling in to watch a movie on Netflix when the phone rings. I let it ring a few times as I grab hold of the remote and sip a frosty glass of Diet Dr. Pepper.

  "Hey Sheila," I say.

  "Don't 'hey Sheila' me," she says.

  "Is something wrong?"

  "What in the world have you been talking to my children about? What crazy ideas are you putting into their heads now?"

  "Wow, they couldn't keep that secret for more than half an hour. That's a world record."

  "Jada, I thought --" Sheila says.

  "Look, there is nothing I said to those kids that, in my heart of hearts, I don't believe to be true. They were asking me big life questions. Was I supposed to lie?"

  "If the questions are that big, let them talk to their Mommy and Daddy. You're not their Momma. You're barely my sister!"

  "Excuse me?"

  "I didn't mean that," says Sheila, though she knows no amount of back peddling will save her.

  "Is that what you really feel?"

  "It's just that...well, with you being depressed for so much of --"

  "I'm not depressed. I'm hope-challenged."

  "Same difference."

  "No. No, it's not."

  "Jada, you haven't always been fully present for me. Not even for yourself. And now that you got this fancy new hope installed, and all the reporters want to talk to you...you're even less present."

  "So I'm not supposed to have a little hope and glamor in my life? Is that it?"

  "You know I want you to be happy."

  We both pause for a moment. On the phone, all that can be heard are cartoons in the background. Angie is entertaining herself as the theme song for "Dora, the Explorer" plays in the distance.

  Sheila and I are explorers too. Explorers in a lonely galaxy with no maps to guide us.

  "I'm sorry, Sheila. I don't know how I got into that conversation, but once I was there, it was hard to get out." I say, wishing I had a cookie about now. "I recently had a hope extraction. Maybe it has something to do with that."

  "When are you going to stop blaming everything on this hocus-pocus and start taking some responsibility?" Sheila collects her thoughts. "Look, I've go
t to get to bed soon. We're coming up on a new year, Jada. Time to start the year right. I love you, but you can't talk to the kids like you talked to them tonight. Kids are like sponges, they absorb whatever you pour into them. Let them be kids for a while."

  "Last time I checked, they were still kids."

  "You know what I mean." Sheila is getting frustrated. "If we can't agree on this, I won't be able to let you babysit them anymore. Is that what you want?"

  "It doesn't seem to matter much what I want, Sheila," I say. "You're going to do what you want to do anyway. You always do." And I hang up.

  My hope levels are stalled, for now, so I switch gears to Plan B. It's time to do more research on what I call my "Exit Strategy." Truth is, I didn't really expect much from The Hope Store. I expected to be disappointed which I was. A self-fulfilling prophecy. I must make preparations, research alternatives.

  So I am getting my affairs in order, as they say. I've typed up a sheet of all my computer passwords – for my laptop, utility bills, bank accounts, credit cards, websites, etc. I have prepared a last will and testament. I'll leave most things to Otis and Sheila. Sheila will be the executor of my will and have medical power of attorney. In my living will, I've made it crystal clear that no heroic measures are to be taken to sustain my life. If only heroic measures had been taken to LIVE my life, I think to myself. I want to be cremated and to have my ashes scattered. No funeral, no memorial, no obituary.

  I just want to disappear.

  What to do with my diaries? Destroy them? Put them all in a box and have a bonfire? Or leave them to be read like tea leaves scattered in a porcelain cup? I decide to destroy them. Why hurt people from the grave? I suffered once by living this life. Why make anyone suffer a second time by reading about it?

  I continue to explore the various ways I can end my life. I have created a chart to help me compare and contrast different exit strategies based on various criteria: effectiveness, pain, messiness, costliness, popularity. For instance, hanging is inexpensive but painful and clearly not as foolproof as the data indicated. Pills are very popular, but can be costly and can result in coma or brain damage.