Joy Argento - Carrie and Hope

by Joy Argento

  “Are we talking about posing in the nude?”

  “Actually we are talking about posing with a narrow sheet of cloth draped wrapped around you covering up your…” Carrie hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “…female parts. So, I guess the answer would be yes and no. You would need to be nude under the material, but it would cover your womanly parts, so to speak. I’m sorry, this is probably pretty weird, having a stranger ask you this.”

  “No, not at all. Strangers ask me to get nude all the time, and some are even willing to pay me for it.” Hope popped another pretzel in her mouth.

  “You’re just a smart-ass aren’t you?” Carrie grabbed a pretzel from the bowl.

  “Pretty much.” Hope grinned. “But, I will consider posing for you. How’s that.”

  “That would be great. Think about it and let me know.” Carrie found a slip of paper in her pocket and asked the bartender for a pen. She wrote her cell number down on the paper and slid it across the bar to Hope.

  Hope took the pen from Carrie’s hand and wrote her own phone number down on a napkin for Carrie.

  The bar began to fill up around them, but neither woman noticed as they continued to talk.

  Chapter 3

  Hope put the bottle of salad dressing on the table. She pulled out her chair and sat down across from her sister.

  Marcy’s short hair no longer matched Hope’s chestnut brown color. Hope liked Marcy’s natural hair color much better than the copper red color that now graced her head. Marcy’s eyes were every bit as brown as Hope’s, but lacked the flecks of gold. As usual she was dressed impeccably in a freshly ironed, peach colored cotton shirt and a black pleated skirt that hugged her small hips and butt perfectly. A thin black belt with a gold buckle and a peach silk scarf around her neck completed the look.

  Hope’s dining room was elegant but comfortable. An understated chandelier hung over the solid maple dining table surrounded by six matching chairs. Two matching chairs rested against the far wall, and a matching china cabinet stood at attention against the opposite wall.

  Hope took the large bowl of salad her sister offered her. Using the wooden salad tongs, she placed a generous amount of salad on her plate and poured blue cheese dressing over it.

  Marcy cut two slices of fresh Italian bread from the large loaf on the cutting board in front of her. She handed a slice to Hope.

  “Thank you.” Hope said without making eye contact. She broke off a piece of the bread and dragged it through the dressing. She kept her attention on her food until her sister spoke.

  “So, you aren’t going to tell me how it went at the grief group last night?” Marcy asked her.

  Hope kept her eyes focused on her plate of food. “It went fine,” she said between bites.

  “What aren’t you telling me? You did go, didn’t you? Hope, you promised me that you would go to the grief support group.” The sharp edge to her voice made Hope cringe.

  “Yes, Marcy.” She finally looked up at her sister. “I went,” she said a little too loud. She looked down at her food again. “I just didn’t stay.”

  Hope closed her eyes and rubbed them while she waited for her sister to respond. When her sister didn’t say anything, Hope looked back up at her. She knew that look of disappointment on her sister’s face. It was the same look that she often saw on her mother’s face. Hope wondered if it would be worth the effort to try to explain.

  “Marcy,” she started. “It just didn’t feel right. I went but it didn’t seem like I fit with the people there, it wasn’t where I needed to be.” She knew it sounded lame. She looked down at her salad. Suddenly she didn’t feel much like eating.

  “Hope,” Marcy had a way of saying her name and making sound like a reprimand. “You promised me that you would go. Did I need to make you promise me that you would stay?” Marcy put her fork down and folded her hands in front of her, waiting for an answer.

  Hope was determined not to let her big sister treat her like a child. She was thirty-seven years old, not six. She was damn well old enough to leave a group that she didn’t feel comfortable in. She took a deep breath before speaking. She looked directly at Marcy, meeting her sister’s brown eyes with her own. “Marcy, I know that you are trying to help me. I know that you think I need to share my grief with other people. But this type of group is really not what I need.” She closed her eyes for a moment to gain her composure. When she opened them again she saw the concern in Marcy’s eyes. “The night was not a total loss. I met a woman there, her name is Carrie, and we talked after we left the meeting. We talked for a long time. She seemed to understand what I am going through and she listened to me. I think just talking to her helped me. So, please don’t think that I am not getting help going through this.”

  “You are telling me that you spent the evening spilling your guts to a total stranger and now you feel better? Why couldn’t you stay in the group and get some real help? I care about you, Hope. I want you to heal so you can go on with your life,” she paused briefly. “You haven’t grieved at all and I just think that’s not normal. I don’t understand how talking to some woman that you don’t even know could make you feel better.”

  “But, I did feel a lot better after talking to her. Why do you object to my speaking about this to one stranger, but you want me to tell my story to a roomful of strangers? Isn’t that the point, to have someone I can share this with, that can share her story with me? And in the end we both feel better.” She shook her head in frustration.

  “Pass me the salad dressing,” Marcy said suddenly. Hope handed the bottle to her sister. She drowned her salad in the chunky ooze, and began cutting the lettuce into little pieces. She stabbed a chunk of lettuce and brought to her mouth. She held it there, but didn’t eat it as she looked at her sister. Several drips of dressing fell from her fork back onto her plate. Finally Marcy pushed the lettuce into her mouth and chewed slowly. Hope could almost hear the wheels turning in her sister’s head. Marcy swallowed, pointed her fork at Hope and said, “I’m not sure what to say to convince you that you are making a huge mistake. I think you need some help dealing with everything and I don’t think that meeting some stranger and having an in-depth discussion is going to do it. But I guess it could be worse. I guess you could have told me that you met a man at the meeting and decided to start dating already.”

  Hope laughed out loud. Her sister stared at her with stern eyes, a frown on her face. “That is something you definitely don’t have to worry about. I am no rush to start dating any men,” Hope said. She shook her head and laughed again.

  Marcy continued to stare.

  Hope took a bite of her food before she said, “Can we just call a truce here? I don’t want to fight with you. I know you are trying to help me. I know that. But I really don’t think that going to a support group is right for me. Let’s just sit here and play nice and enjoy lunch. Can we do that?” She raised her eyebrows and added, “Please?”

  Marcy let out a sound that was like a cross between a groan and a huff. She looked at Hope for several seconds longer. “Okay, I’ll drop it for now, but we are going to talk about this again. You need to move on with your life and your denying that there is a problem doesn’t make the problem go away. I know what I’m talking about Hope. You should be listening to me.”

  Hope knew that Marcy wouldn’t let it go completely and that at some point they would revisit the subject again. She hoped it wasn’t too soon. She would be better prepared next time. “All right. Let’s just drop it for the moment. Now let’s finish this nice healthy salad so we can get to the cream filled cupcakes I bought for dessert.”

  Chapter 4

  Sandra Martin rearranged the knick-knacks on the small table set up by her mother’s bed. Carrie watched her in silence. Her mother’s endless chatter was giving her a headache. She liked it much better when she was alone during her visits with her grandmother, but sometimes her mother showed up at the same time.

  “I brought more of these cute littl
e collie figurines, Mom,” Sandra said to the old woman lying in the bed. “I know when you wake up you are really going to love these.” She held one out in front her mother’s closed eyes and then held it up for Carrie to see. Carrie nodded. “I also took your car in for an oil change yesterday. I know that you are always …” Carrie tuned out her mother’s voice. The non-stop talking for the last half hour was beginning to give Carrie a headache.

  Sandra continued to talk as she ran her hand over her short black hair, no gray showing through, courtesy of Miss Clairol. Sandra Martin refused to show her age. She spent far too much money on magic creams and lotions to stay away the wrinkles, in Carrie’s opinion. Her grandmother had aged naturally and gracefully and beautifully, a much better way to grow old, Carrie thought.

  Carrie absently rubbed the back of her neck trying to release the tension that was building. Her mind wandered to the previous evening and meeting Hope. Her idea about joining a support group was misguided, but it turned out well if it meant she made a new friend.

  “…so what do you think about that, Carrie?” The sound of her name brought her out of her thoughts.

  “What did you say, Mom?” she asked.

  “I swear that I get about as much of a response out of you that I get out of your grandmother here.” She didn’t try to hide her annoyance. “I asked you what you thought of this blanket.” She held up the corner of the blanket covering the bed. It was a standard tan, cotton weave blanket used by the nursing home.

  “Do you think your grandmother likes this one, or should I bring her one from her house?”

  Carrie sighed. “Which would you like better?” she asked her mother.

  “I like the one from her house better and I think she would like it better, too. I am going to stop over there tomorrow and get one for her. How about that green one that she has over the back of the couch? Don’t you think that would be good? Or should I get her the one that’s on her bed?”

  Carrie nodded absently and picked up an old People magazine from the table by the bed.

  “Well, which one do you think would be better?” Her mother wasn’t going to stop talking to her until she answered.

  “The one from the couch would be fine.”

  “All righty then. I’ll pick it up on my way home so I can wash it before I bring it here. I think it’ll really cheer this room up.”

  Carrie thumbed through the magazine and looked for an interesting article to read to her grandmother. She knew her mother would be leaving soon. She never stayed long and she never stopped moving the whole time she was there. Carrie wanted alone time with her grandmother so she would just wait her mother out. She didn’t have too wait long.

  “I have to get going,” her mother said, offering no explanation.

  Sandra gave Carrie a hug and kissed her mother on the cheek. “Bye, mother. I’ll see you in a few days. Try to get some rest now.” She patted the old woman’s hand. “Bye Carrie,” she said with a wave as she walked out the door.

  “Bye, Mom,” Carrie said, but her mother was already gone.

  Carrie leaned in towards her grandmother. “Okay, Gram, we’re alone now. I hope mom didn’t make you too crazy. Wish I could say the same about me. I know she means well. I guess she is just having her own problems handling all this. I think you’ve got the easy part, Gram, ‘cause, it’s really hard for the rest of us. Anyway, I wanted to tell you about that support group I went to. I have to tell you that I couldn’t stay at it. It wasn’t a good idea to go there. It just wasn’t what I needed, at least not right now. But I did manage to meet a new friend. You would like her. Her name is Hope and she was very nice. I really liked talking to her, and I think talking to her helped me. So the evening wasn’t a total waste.”

  Carrie leaned back in her chair and smoothed out the magazine in her lap. She let out a long sigh, and once again looked for an article to read to her grandmother. Nothing caught her eye so she put the magazine aside. She ran her hands over her jeans.

  “Gram, I don’t know what is wrong with me today. I guess I’m just feeling a little lonely. I’ve felt lonely plenty of times before, but I could always call you when I was feeing this way, and just hearing your voice would always make me feel better. I miss that.”

  Carrie got up and walked to the window. She looked out at the dull September day. It was a total contrast from the warm and sunny past several days. The feelings of loneliness crept in on the rainy days.

  Her thoughts once again went to the woman she had met the evening before. Carrie was sure that they would become real friends. It had been a long time since she met someone that she felt she clicked with, especially so soon. Carrie had friends, but she was picky about whom she spent her time with. She didn’t have any desire to hang out with people just to have something to do. Between work, art, and now her regular visits with her grandmother, she had plenty to keep her busy.

  There was something almost familiar about Hope, but Carrie was certain they had never met before. Maybe we met in another life. Carrie laughed to herself. She wasn’t sure she believed such things. There was something definitely different about Hope that set her apart from her other friends. Whatever it was, it drew Carrie’s attention.

  *****

  Carrie walked through the front door of her house. She passed through the living room and went into the kitchen. She threw the mail on the table before opening the refrigerator and peering in. I need to go grocery shopping, Carrie thought. She checked the date on the packaged lunchmeat before deciding to make a sandwich for dinner. She grabbed the mustard before shutting the door with her hip, and set to work making her supper. Carrie usually had a refrigerator full of leftovers to choose from, but tonight it was slim pickings.

  She settled down on the sofa with her sandwich and a bottle of beer and turned on the television with the remote. She watched the national news as she ate. She turned the television off as soon as an entertainment gossip show started. Before her accident, her grandmother would have been glued to the television set. She loved to keep track of the celebrity news.

  Carrie took her plate and empty beer bottle to the kitchen and went to her bedroom to change her clothes. She emerged wearing an old tee shirt and a pair of well-worn jeans and continued on into her art room. She pushed the play button on the CD player. The room filled with the soft sounds of female voices, singing a variety of songs from the last three decades.

  The converted spare bedroom was filled with drawing tables, a large easel, and various art supplies. An old wooden table sat along one wall. Carrie felt like she found a treasure when she spotted it at the local flea market two years ago. She ran her hand over the stressed wood, loving every scratch, dent and imperfection. This was truly a table with character and a history.

  Carrie twisted the knob on a hooded lamp. A circle of light appeared and illuminated the still life set-up that Carrie had arranged the day before. She made a few small adjustments to the apples that sat on the old wooden cutting board and moved the paring knife so the blade caught the gleam of the light. She stood back and examined her arrangement. Satisfied, she donned her painting apron and sat down on the stool in front of her easel. She stared at the still life set-up from this angle before bringing her attention to the blank canvas in front of her. She searched through her plastic bin of oil paints until she found the two colors she sought. She opened the tube of the burnt sienna and squeezed a dollop of paint onto her palette, and used odorless paint thinner to reduce the paint to a watery consistency. Carrie chose a wide brush and dipped it into the reddish brown mixture. She dragged the brush across the white canvas, leaving a streak of color in its tracks. She continued working until the color filled the whole canvas, and then added more brush strokes in alternating directions.

  Carrie added burnt umber to her pallet and mixed the darker paint into the thin mixture. She switched to a smaller brush and loosely applied the darker paint to select areas, and used an old rag to remove paint from other areas. Slowly the rough und
er painting of the still life began to emerge as her brush danced over the canvas.

  It took only minutes for Carrie to get into the rhythm of painting and let her mind and body relax. Random thoughts came and went, most unnoticed. When an image of Hope waltzed into Carrie’s mind, she noticed it. Her paint brushed stilled as she let the image fill her thoughts. I should call her, Carrie thought. She thoroughly enjoyed talking to her two nights ago and believed they could become friends. She also wanted to pursue the idea of using Hope as a model for her figure paintings. Carrie thought she was a beautiful woman, and beauty often inspired her artistic ideas, whether it was the simple beauty of a fresh apple or the intricate beauty of a woman.

  Almost two hour later, Carrie squinted at the canvas in front of her. Satisfied with the values and basic forms before her, she stretched her arms into the air above her head and twisted her back from side to side to work out the kinks that settled in while she painted.

  Once her brushes were cleaned and put away, Carrie turned off the music and lights and left the room. She lived alone, but closed the door anyway, as if protecting her art sanctuary from the rest of the house and the rest of the world.

  Carrie checked the time on the grandfather clock in the corner of her living room as she passed through to her bedroom. It was nine o’clock. Not too late to make a phone call. Carrie picked up the napkin with Hope’s phone number from her nightstand.

  She punched in the numbers on her cell phone and sat down on the edge of the bed. It rang several times and Carrie was sure it was going to go to voice mail when she heard a breathless Hope say, “Hello?”

  “Hey,” Carrie said. “It’s Carrie, from the other night. I didn’t catch you at a bad time did I?”

  “Not at all, I was just reading. I forgot my cell phone upstairs and had to run to get it.”