Hope Girl

by Wendy Dunham

  “When did she start remembering?”

  Dad shakes his head. “She hasn’t. With her type of amnesia, the memories are still in her brain, but they’re buried so deep, she can’t access them.”

  “So the memories of us are still inside her?”

  Dad nods.

  “So when she sees us, she’ll remember.”

  “River,” Dad says almost harshly, “the problem is she has no interest in talking to or seeing us because to her we’re strangers.”

  “But you talked to her—you told her that you found me.”

  “No, I told her husband.” Dad explains, “The only way I’ve been able to keep in touch with her is through her husband, Michael. He knows the whole story. And fortunately he wants to help. He told your mother you’ve been found. But she doesn’t remember you or that you were stolen.”

  “But you’ll keep trying, right?”

  “I’ll check in with Michael from time to time. But, River,” he says, “don’t get your hopes up. Even if she remembers someday, she has a new life… she’s married and has children.”

  “I know,” I say. But inside I know different. I know she’ll remember me. And she’ll remember Dad too. When she does, she’ll want to be with us again.

  9

  Names

  Later, instead of spending the night at the Whippoorwills’, Dad and I sleep at Gram’s. By the time we pull in her driveway, the sky’s dark and eerie. Dad’s headlights shine in the backyard where the sheets still hang on the line. They flap up and down like the wings of birds hurrying for safety, while thunder rumbles in the distance.

  I push the car door open against the wind and shout, “I’ll grab the sheets. Just go in.”

  Dad yells back, “And the house key?”

  “You don’t need one. Gram and I never lock up.”

  Dad seems surprised. “Really?” he says, shouting above the wind. “Well, that needs to change.”

  Gram wouldn’t agree. She says if a burglar wants to get in, they’ll weasel their way in anyhow. Besides, I’m never scared. Plus Gram sleeps with a BB gun, and she’s not afraid to blast an ear off a burglar.

  While I fold the sheets at the kitchen table, I tell Dad, “The purple ones are mine. You’ll use the orange ones. They’re Gram’s.” Then I decide I need to set the rules straight. “There’s something you need to know about my sheets. I’m old enough to change them myself, so don’t do them for me. It only causes problems.” I’m not trying to be difficult. I just don’t want something bad to happen again.

  “Got it,” he says.

  After the sheet rules are clear, I give Dad the house tour, which ends in Gram’s bedroom. I make sure he sees her BB gun.

  “Thanks, River,” he says. “It’s late, so I think I’ll fix the bed and get some sleep.”

  “Good night, Dad.”

  “Night, River. Oh, one more thing—is there a night-light for the hall?”

  I shake my head.

  “Well,” he says, “how do you see when you get up at night?”

  “We never have trouble. Gram says with all the stars God gave us, there’s always light to find our way.”

  “Hmmm. I think I’ll buy one anyway.”

  Gram would never spend money on something as senseless as a night-light. “By the way,” I ask, “are you afraid of storms?”

  Dad shakes his head. “Not a bit. But what’s that noise I’m hearing?”

  “Oh, that’s Sister Agatha. She moans whenever there’s a storm coming.”

  Dad’s eyes pop open. “I didn’t realize you have a nun living with you. I must say she has an extremely deep moan for a nun.”

  By now I’m laughing hysterically. “No one else lives here. Sister Agatha’s our house! Gram named her. And for some reason, you can count on Sister Agatha to moan whenever a storm’s on its way.”

  “Well, I hope Sister Agatha says her prayers and goes to sleep, or her moaning’s going to keep me up all night.”

  Even with Sister Agatha moaning, I never have trouble falling asleep. But tonight my mind swirls faster than the wind outside my window. I think about Gram, wondering if she’ll come home. I wonder when Mom will remember. I worry about where we’ll live when Mom and Dad get married again.

  As the wind blows and the rain pounds against her, Sister Agatha’s moans grow louder. I hear the garbage can bang against something and roll down the driveway.

  All of a sudden I hear scratching and crying coming from the back door. I jump out of bed, run to the door, and bump right into someone holding a BB gun. “Dad?”

  “River?”

  “What are you doing with Gram’s BB gun?”

  “Hide under your bed,” Dad whispers. “Someone’s breaking in!”

  I try keeping a straight face. “Burglars don’t scratch and cry when they break in.”

  “Then just keep a safe distance.” Dad puts his ear against the door, when the scratching starts again. Then we hear a tiny cry, like the kind a kitten makes.

  “Open the door,” I shout. “It’s a kitten.”

  Dad blocks me with his arm. “We can’t be sure. It could be a rabid fox, a raccoon, or even a possum.”

  Then clear as a bell, we hear meow, meow.

  “Come on, Dad! Open the door!”

  “Okay, okay, but stay back.” He cracks open the door, takes a peek, and screams, “It’s not a kitten! It’s a rat!”

  “Rats don’t meow.” I push my way past Dad and open the door, when a drenched, mud-covered kitten walks in (and to be honest, it does look a lot like a rat).

  “Don’t touch it!” Dad shouts. “It’s probably flea infested.”

  “It just needs a bath.”

  “I’m sure your grandmother wouldn’t approve of a rat-cat bathing in her tub.”

  “Gram wouldn’t mind. She’d let me wash it in the kitchen sink. One time she bathed a rat in her sink, so don’t worry.” I pick up the wet, muddy kitten and set it in the sink full of warm water. I squirt dish soap on its fur and rub it around. It meows like it were saying thank you. “Dad, can you please warm some milk?”

  “That’s not a good idea, River. If you feed it, Rat-Cat will never leave.”

  “Stop it, Dad. This kitten needs a real name.”

  “That’s not a good idea either. Once you name it, you’ll get attached.”

  It’s too late to worry about that. Now, its name has to mean something special, which gets me thinking about my own name. But I keep focused on naming the kitten and peek between its legs—I need to know if it’s a boy or girl (sometimes it’s hard to tell with a kitten).

  As I rinse off the dirty soap, I can’t believe my eyes. “Look! It’s pure white!”

  Dad hurries to the sink. “Well, look at that.”

  I wrap the kitten snug in a towel. “Dad, can you tell if it’s a boy or girl?”

  Dad lifts the towel, peeks under its tail, and shouts, “It’s a girl!” Then he runs to the bathroom and returns with Gram’s blow dryer. “She needs to be dry and warm.” As he fluffs her fur with his fingers, she transforms into a fluffy white ball of fur—exactly like the July kitten on my calendar.

  After she finishes the milk, I wrap her in a blanket and sit with her on the couch.

  “Dad, can I ask a question?”

  He sits on Gram’s chair. “Go ahead.”

  “Why did you and Mom name me River?”

  Dad leans forward. “Let’s see, about two months before you were born, your mother and I went on a picnic along the Meadowlark River. As we sat on the bank eating, we dreamed of the day you’d be born. We could hardly wait. Your nursery was ready, and we had every baby item you could imagine. The one thing we didn’t have was your name.” He reaches over and rubs the kitten behind her ears. “Anyway, your mom liked three names—Morgan, Hannah, and Zoey. Then together we chose Zoey because it means ‘life.’ We knew you were a gift of life.”

  “Why did she only pick girl names? Did the doctor say you’d have a girl?”<
br />
  “No. Back then ultrasounds were fairly new in the United States. And since your mom’s pregnancy was going well, we chose not to have one. Somehow your mother knew. And any time I’d suggest a boy’s name, she’d tell me to stop. She’d pat her belly and say, ‘There’s a sweet baby girl in here. You’ll see.’ ”

  “How did she know?”

  Dad shrugs his shoulders. “Some things can’t be explained. Anyway, on our picnic we began talking about the river and how incredible it was.”

  “Incredible like what?” I ask.

  “Well, a river’s full of life—there’s fish, waterfowl, beavers, insects, amphibians, reptiles, and the list could go on and on. And a river’s helpful—it provides people, animals, and plants with water. It flows, moves, changes, and never stays the same. There’s a beginning and an end. It even has a goal and moves toward its destination despite unknown twists and turns along the way. And it brings joy to others—think about how many people enjoy fishing, canoeing, or floating on an inner tube and drifting down a river. So as your mother and I talked about the qualities of a river, she looks at me and says, ‘That’s it! That’s her name!’ At first I didn’t catch on, but then she said, ‘Let’s name her River. She’ll be full of life and helpful to others. She’ll change and grow and move forward no matter what comes her way. She’ll bring joy to those around her.’ ” Dad smiles. “So from that moment, you’ve been River.”

  I sit for a while taking it in. “I love my name,” I tell Dad. “I would have liked Zoey too, but that seems like the perfect name for a kitten.”

  “I think you’re right. Now you and Zoey had better get to bed.”

  10

  Caskets and Wedding Dresses

  Somehow Zoey knows it’s morning. She meows, licks my nose, and pats her soft paw on my eyelids until I’m up. I get dressed and braid my hair. Zoey follows me to the kitchen.

  The smell of coffee makes me think I’ll see Gram in the kitchen. But I don’t. Dad’s sitting in her spot, drinking her coffee, and reading her paper. How is it possible to feel happy, sad, worried, and excited all at the same time? I’m happy I finally have my dad. I’m sad because my mom doesn’t remember me, but I’m excited because I know she will. I’m happy about Zoey. But I miss Gram. Nothing feels right without her.

  “Morning, River,” Dad says, turning the page of the paper. “It feels good reading The Birdsong Times again. Years ago I took photographs for it.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “And for a while, your mother wrote a column for it called ‘Thoughts from the Garden Bench.’ She loved writing inspirational thoughts on gardening.”

  “Did you save her columns?”

  Dad pours another cup of coffee. “I’m sure they’re somewhere. When I go back to Kentucky, I’ll look.”

  My heart sinks. “But I thought you were moving here.”

  Dad sets the paper down. “I am. I just need to go back and wrap things up. I have to sell my house and stop into work to say goodbye to everyone.”

  For the first time, I realize my life isn’t the only one that’s changing. “Will that be hard for you?”

  He takes another sip of coffee. “Change is part of life, River, and sometimes it’s difficult. But this change is good. After so many years of life without you, I feel like my life has finally started.”

  Zoey meows by the door. Dad says, “You’d better let her out. She probably has to go to the bathroom.”

  I squeeze my hands together. “But what if she runs away?”

  “Trust me, River. You’ve fed her and shown her love. She’ll be back.”

  After breakfast Dad wants us to bring Zoey to the Whippoorwills’ so they can meet her. But I know the real reason. He wants to tell Uncle Henry and Aunt Elizabeth what he thinks I don’t know—that Dr. Wing’s going to turn off Gram’s machines.

  At the Whippoorwills’, I pass Zoey around so everyone can hold her.

  Uncle Henry rubs Zoey under her chin. “Nathan,” he says, “would you keep an eye on the little ones while River comes to the kitchen?”

  Nathan answers, “Sure.” Then he hugs me as if he knows whatever’s going to happen in the kitchen won’t be good. He grabs the bucket of Lincoln Logs and leads the little Whippoorwills to the porch.

  I hold Zoey tight as I follow Uncle Henry to the kitchen.

  I sit between Aunt Elizabeth and Dad. “River,” Dad says, “I need to tell you what Dr. Wing said and thought it best if Henry and Elizabeth were with us.” He takes a deep breath. “Your grandmother’s not doing well. Dr. Wing said that without the machines, there’s basically no chance she’d survive. He suggests we make arrangements for a funeral. If there’s no change by tomorrow, he’ll turn the machines off.”

  I look at Dad and say, “Even though Dr. Wing thinks Gram won’t survive without the machines, he doesn’t know for sure, right?”

  Dad looks at Uncle Henry and then at me. “That’s correct. But in all likelihood, River, she won’t. So given what we know, we need to make arrangements.” Dad fiddles with the salt and pepper shakers on the table. “Henry and I are going to the funeral home now to purchase a casket. Would you like to go?”

  Aunt Elizabeth takes my hand and says, “Then afterward, you and I can buy a dress for her. I’m sure you want her to look pretty when she’s laid out. And one last thing, Pastor Henry and I own a plot in the cemetery right next to Billy. We’d be honored to have her rest beside him.”

  I clench my hands under the table and shout, “You don’t know Gram! When those machines are turned off, she’s not going to die. But even if she did, she won’t need a new dress! A long time ago, she made me promise that if she dies, she’d be buried with her wedding dress on.”

  Aunt Elizabeth’s eyes get big as the moon. “Her wedding dress still fits?”

  I shake my head. “No, she’d never fit in it. She said she wants to be buried with it on—not in it. She said to drape it over the top of her and secure it with a rubber band.”

  For some reason Aunt Elizabeth looks like she’s trying not to laugh. “Well, I’m sure we’ll figure out something.”

  “River,” says Uncle Henry, “I owe you an apology. I should have never said we wouldn’t lose hope—especially in a situation like this. We need to be realistic.”

  Dad puts his arm around me. “You don’t have to go to the funeral parlor. Henry and I can choose a casket.”

  Aunt Elizabeth squeezes my shoulder. “You’re welcome to stay here,” she says.

  “Then I’ll stay. But can I at least see Gram? She has to meet Zoey.”

  Dad rubs my head. “When Henry and I get back, I’ll take you. But Zoey can’t go.”

  They leave to buy a casket.

  Later that afternoon, Dad takes me to see Gram. As we take the elevator to the fourth floor, Dad turns to me and says, “Aren’t you hot? Why would you wear a jacket on a day like this?”

  I can’t look him in the eyes, but I answer. “Truthfully, Dad, I’m not hot” (and that is the truth because I’m not—technically I’m sweating). But today, even though it’s one of the hottest days of summer, I need my jacket.

  When we reach the nurses’ station, Rosa’s writing in a chart. Dad leans on the counter and smiles at her. She smiles back. Then she apologizes for yesterday—about how she wouldn’t let us see Gram and how she hoped Dad didn’t think she was rude. Since I’m guessing the conversation could go on for a while, I decide this is my chance to slip past the two of them and into Gram’s room.

  Gram looks the same as yesterday—attached to wires, tubes, and machines, and her eyes are still closed. The heart machine beeps, and the breathing machine makes an airy sound, matching the motion of her chest. The second hand on the clock ticks loudly, reminding me I have little time.

  I unzip my jacket, then from the inside pocket, I lift Zoey out. She meows quietly. I glance over my shoulder, making sure I’m still alone, and set Zoey on Gram’s pillow by her face.

  Zoey sniffs Gram,
licks her cheek, then reaches up to pat Gram on the nose. All of a sudden, Gram’s heart machine beeps faster. “I knew you were in there, Gram!” I whisper. “And I knew you’d like Zoey.”

  Zoey nuzzles Gram’s neck, curls into a little ball, and purrs. Gram’s heart machine returns to normal.

  I hear Dad and Rosa coming, and so I grab Gram’s sheet and pull it over the top of Zoey, covering her completely.

  “You’re clever,” says Rosa. “You slipped right past the nurses’ station without me seeing you.” She adjusts Gram’s breathing machine, then turns to me. “I’m very sorry, River. Your grandmother’s shown no improvement.”

  “I’m not worried. Gram’s always full of surprises.”

  Rosa touches the heart machine, then puts her ear close to it. “That’s strange,” she says. “It sounds different… almost like a purr. I’ll call maintenance and have it checked.” Then she leans close to the breathing machine and listens. “Or maybe it’s this one? I can’t tell where that purr is coming from.” Rosa turns her head, itches her nose, and sneezes.

  “Bless you,” says Dad.

  She sneezes again.

  “Bless you again. I hope you’re not getting sick.”

  Rosa pulls a tissue from her pocket. “This feels more like allergies, but I’m allergic only to cats, which doesn’t make sense.” Rosa sneezes three more times. “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to take my medicine.”

  I’ve got to find a way to get Zoey out of here, and I need to think fast. But before I do, Zoey meows. I turn toward Dad. “That sure sounded like a cat, didn’t it?”

  He looks shocked. “River, please tell me that wasn’t Zoey.”

  I drop my head. “Sorry, Dad.”

  I lift Gram’s sheet and slip Zoey back into my pocket.

  “River, why on earth would you bring Zoey when I said not to?”

  I try swallowing the lump of guilt in my throat. “Gram needed to see her. You should have been here, Dad. When Zoey licked Gram’s face, her heart machine beeped faster.”