Pieces of Hope

by Carter, Carolyn

  Taking me by the hand, she led me to a room three doors down from mine. Once we entered, the tiny girl crawled onto the bed, then lay back into the diminutive form that was already there. Beside the bed was a young woman. But even if I could have shouted at her, I doubt the woman would have heard me. Her grief filled every inch of the room. I struggled to breathe as I watched her—feeling the terrifying sensation that I could barely keep my head above water, and that I was somehow inexplicably drowning in the middle of a hospital room. Suddenly, I realized—the liquid wasn’t water, it was the woman’s tears.

  When the little girl’s eyes fluttered open, the woman came back to life. She forced a smile to her lips. “Did you sleep well, Amora?”

  “I did, Mommy. I had a good dream.” Her voice was soft, scarcely a whisper. “At first, I walked around the hospital and teased the nurses for a while.” Her mother tapped Amora on the nose and she smiled. “And then I met another girl . . .”

  The child in the bed resembled the one who had taken my hand, but this little girl had no hair, and her features were drawn and tight. When I looked more closely, though, I could still see the mischief in her large brown eyes.

  “Tell me about her,” the mother said, twining her plump arms around one of her daughter’s little sticks.

  Amora seemed to look right at me, but I knew that was impossible. She tilted her head a little, and bit her lip. “Well, she’s taller than you and she has pretty brown hair and brown eyes. Sparkly eyes, like Poppa.”

  “She sounds lovely.” She gave her daughter another tiny smile. “You’ve made a few friends since you’ve been here. Tell me her name.”

  To my surprise, Amora locked eyes with me. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  I pointed at myself in disbelief. “Um . . . Hope?”

  “Are you sure?” She giggled. “You made it sound like a question.”

  “No, I’m sure,” I said more steadily. “I’m just shocked that you can see me.” I sat down on the end of her bed, then glanced at her mother. “What about your mom? Can she see or hear me?”

  “No, only me. But she tries really hard.” Smiling first at her mother, then at me, Amora’s eyes lit up with a sudden mixture of joy and fear. “Oh, no! Is it time? Could it be? Are you . . . are you an Angel?”

  “My sister would tell you I’m anything but.” And I thought of a few choice words Claire would throw in. “Besides, I may not look like it, but I’m very much alive.” I pointed at the wall. “My body’s a couple doors down the hall.”

  “I see.” Amora nodded wisely as if she had heard this before. Then she explained to her mother what I’d said, and her mother suddenly relaxed. Somehow, I gathered the reason for their concern. They thought I was here to take Amora back to heaven with me.

  That’s when it came to me, though I didn’t know from where or why, and I hoped I wasn’t making it up just to make them feel better, but I remembered Ethan’s words and they gave me courage. Some things you just know.

  I attempted to caution myself, but blurted it out anyway.

  “Amora, I have a funny feeling you’re going to get well . . . soon. I don’t think the Angels are waiting for you. My funny feeling says you’re going to grow up, marry a dark-haired boy named”—I paused for an instant, and it popped into my head—“Oliver? And have two kids of your own someday.”

  She stared at me wide-eyed. I guessed it wasn’t every day a ghostly stranger told you such things about your life, especially prior to puberty.

  “Oliver?” She burst into a giggle. “His name is Juan Olivares, but everyone calls him Oliver. We’re in the same grade together, and he’s always thumping me on the back of my head, or tripping me when I walk down the hall. He’s not very nice to me.”

  “He likes you,” I said, smiling for the first time. “That’s what boys do when they like a girl. They’re weird like that.”

  In an excited whisper, she relayed the news to her mother, and I became more and more certain that my funny feeling was right. I hadn’t made it up. I was sure of it.

  “Amora, she must be a messenger!” her mother exclaimed, giant tears now rolling freely down her cheeks. “How do I explain? Words fail me . . .” Her mother looked to the end of the bed where I sat. Smiling through her tears, eyes darting back and forth as if she were attempting to see images in a dimly lit room, she slowly assembled her thoughts.

  “These last two months, I was told our fight was lost. Even the doctors had given up.” Her voice broke as the pain came rushing back. “But I refused . . . ‘Bring me hope,’ I begged. ‘Send me hope.’ And now, I can’t believe it—how did—My prayers have been answered! You came! You’re here. Hope, Hope, Hope!”

  I wanted to tell her it was only a name, and a middle one at that, but she looked so deliriously happy. She was practically jumping up and down; all we needed was for June to come in and spoil the fun. A nurse entered the room then, slightly startled by this dark-haired woman shouting words into the air. She lifted a sign lying on a side table, and with a look of frustration, left the room, calling for a nurse named Gloria. I glanced at its message: SPEAKS SPANISH ONLY, TRANSLATOR REQUIRED.

  Confused, I looked at Amora. Though I’d squeaked by with two years of useless high school French, I didn’t speak a lick of Spanish. “That can’t be true,” I said. “You do speak English, right?”

  “I can, but Mommy can’t. So when it’s just me and her, I usually don’t.” A secret smile lit up her face. “It must be one of your gifts. They have them, you know . . . Àngel de la guarda.”

  “Guardian Angel? Yeah, right. I’m pretty sure that job requires you to be dead first. And trust me, I’m not.” I returned Amora’s startling smile and slid off the bed, amazed that I could understand another language. Had we been speaking Spanish the entire time, and I hadn’t noticed? Was that possible? Although I wasn’t dead—and this was a good thing—maybe Amora was partially right. Maybe I did have a new talent in this bodiless form.

  Just then, an elevator appeared inside her room. Carved with ornate figures, the gnarled wood doors seemed to be hundreds, if not thousands of years old. When I looked more closely, I saw that the carvings were of ancient people marching in row after row.

  Unable to hide my excitement, I asked, “Can you see the elevator?” Amora shook her head. I searched for a button, feeling along the outer edges where one would normally be. No sooner had I reached up to scratch my head than I knew just what to do.

  “Are you leaving?” Amora asked. As I looked over my shoulder, her smile faded.

  “I’ll be back,” I told her. “Do me a favor, will you? Do you know Ethan?” Her grin returned, and she nodded. Unexpected warmth flooded my cheeks. “Tell him I’ll see him soon. Give him my love,” I teased. Amora’s eyes went wide. “Oh, and be sweet to Oliver. Give him a thump on the back of his head. He’d probably like that.”

  I could still hear her giggling as I tugged through the doors. To my surprise, they were several feet thick. Once I made my way through, I looked straight down a narrow, yellow corridor that seemed to go on forever. Every few feet or so, I spied doors without handles. But beyond them, in the far, far distance, something held me captive. A light—brighter than the sunniest day I’d ever seen, brighter than flashes of summer lightning—beckoned me on.

  5 Worlds’ Traveler

  Those first few steps were surreal, to say the least. It was like I was zooming down one of those walking conveyors at the airport—only screamingly faster. With the end of the long corridor swiftly approaching, and my feet an incomprehensible blur, I knew that I had covered a great distance in a short span of time. Eventually, the light at the end of the tunnel became so blindingly intense that I had to cover my eyes to keep going.

  When the brightness dimmed, I dropped my hands and saw that I was standing in the middle of a well-kept street that had an old-timey look about it. It was glowing in the glorious shades of sunrise, or possibly sunset, and although I looked in every direction, I couldn�
��t find the sun. Numerous storefronts painted in cheerful colors lined both sides of the yellow-bricked street, but only one appeared open for business. It was located a few doors to my right. A hand-painted sign with a watery blue background that looked like it was in constant motion (much like the sky itself) hung above the entrance.

  Liberty Station and Café, it read.

  Large windows enveloped the front of the building. I pressed my face against the glass and peeked inside. The room was massive on the inside, ten times larger than it had seemed from the outside, and it was crowded with people. Polished wooden benches like those from an old train depot filled up most of the large, square room. In the left corner, a long line of customers stood in front of a sparkling ticket booth. To its right, behind an almost invisible wall of glass, a shiny, flat-nosed bus awaited passengers.

  My stomach growled as I inhaled the delicious scents of cinnamon and sugar and chocolate—and I remembered the café. I stepped inside the revolving door—pausing to admire its perfectly polished brass and glass—but before I could push it forward, it revolved on its own, granting me easy entrance.

  I took one step inside the station and stumbled sideways. Emotions hung in the air like candied clouds, leaving my head dizzy and my skin tingly. After steadying myself, I ambled toward a wide, arched doorway, where a bright neon sign marked the entrance to the café. The sugary scent was a lot stronger in here. My mouth watered, and I licked my lips.

  A notice at the door told me to seat myself, but I hesitated. I couldn’t believe how enormous it was, nor had I ever seen a restaurant so glowingly spotless. The décor was straight out of another decade—red upholstered booths, yellow walls, black and white checkered floors. Music glided around the room from an old jukebox in the corner. It was a love song from the forties, a tune by Billie Holiday. I hadn’t the faintest idea how I knew this, but in my mind it sounded so familiar.

  I was still standing awkwardly in the doorway when I glanced to a booth near the windows and spotted a girl about my age with a huge grin spread over her face. Although she didn’t utter a sound, I swore I heard her yell excitedly, “Over here! Come sit by me!”

  I slid into the booth across from her. She had a round, cheerful face. Her beautiful skin was darker than Brody’s, almost a velvety black. She wore an old-fashioned wrap-style dress, and her onyx hair waved neatly down to her chin. Beneath a smooth swirl of bangs, she stared at me with large brown eyes, the most compelling eyes I’d ever seen.

  “Hey,” I muttered nervously. “Thanks for the seat.”

  “I have to admit. Of the myriad of things I thought you’d say, ‘thanks for the seat’ wasn’t one of them.” Her voice was softly pleasant. “It’s official. I’m not half as smart as I think I am . . .” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Hope Valenti.”

  My mouth fell open. “Do I know you?”

  “I’m Creesie Brown.” She extended a warm hand across the table, the smile never leaving her face. “But there’ll be eons of time for catching up later.” The word eons stuck in my head. Had she meant that literally? “The important thing is you made it. From here, it took only a second or two, less than the blink of an eye, but I suspect it feels like a very long day to you.”

  She glanced at a clock on the wall, and my eyes followed along. It had numbers, but no hands. Across its stark white face was written: It’s later than you think.

  “Ever heard that old expression . . . time flies? Clever, isn’t it? You were probably taught that someone in the living realm came up with it, but that simply isn’t the case. Nearly every one of life’s seemingly useless sayings were first uttered here.” She tapped a short finger on the tablecloth. “They started off as reminders, things to pay attention to, but then they spread, well, elsewhere and—Oh, my goodness!—I’m babbling, aren’t I? Please forgive me, I’m a little new at this.” She cast a swift glance upward, so brief I almost missed it, then flashed another megawatt smile. “Anyhoo, now that you’re safely here, maybe your mother will finally stop pestering me.”

  Astonished, I gushed, “You—You know my mother? How is she? Tell me!”

  “She’s fine, my dear. Just fine.” Creesie patted my hands from across the table.

  I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something slightly off about Creesie. While it was true that she looked like a teenager, it wasn’t like one that I’d ever seen. In some vague way, she seemed not outdated or old-fashioned, but just plain old. I’d nearly wrapped my brain around this idea when—as if she’d plucked the words right out of my head—Creesie lifted a hand to stop me.

  “Before we get into all that,” she said sweetly, “do you mind if we order first? I’m beyond famished. And judging by the sound of it, I’d wager you are, too.”

  Embarrassed, I clutched at my stomach. She’d heard that?

  She dropped her chin, tilted her head slightly, and assessed me with her big brown eyes. “You’ll love the food here. Most folks say it’s quite heavenly.”

  I looked up then. Although she wasn’t there the second before, a brunette waitress with a name tag that read Cat stood beside our table. She wore a pink uniform and a pair of matching pink glasses that came to a point at the edge of her eyebrows.

  “Cute, aren’t they?” she asked, smacking her gum. “I don’t need them for seeing, but I have the hardest time letting go of things I love . . . Know what I mean?” Cat blew a large pink bubble that vanished just before it popped. Then, without my asking, though I had been wondering it, she said, “Name’s short for Catherine, like yours. But, that’s right, you go by Hope. How could I ever forget?”

  I gaped at her in astonishment. Did everyone here know me?

  “What can I get you?” She didn’t hand out menus, so I guessed it was strictly the basics. Shielding one side of her mouth with a pink-nailed hand, Cat confided, “Creesie’s got quite the sweet tooth. Most folks at the Station do. But just between us girls, I don’t know where she puts it.”

  Creesie laughed pleasantly. “Cat, you know as well as I do that sugar’s good for the soul. Why else would we eat so much of it?” Cat gave a half-shrug. “And there’s no need to butter me up, you know you’ll always be my favorite waitress.”

  My eyes flicked around. From what I could see, in this bustling café, Cat was also the only waitress. Good thing they had a limited menu.

  “Just bring us a snack for now,” Creesie told her. Cat didn’t remove the pen from behind her ear, nor the ordering pad from her apron’s pocket. Instead, she blew another disappearing pink bubble. “Hope and I have important matters to discuss.”

  Important? What could Creesie and I possibly have to—

  “How about a frozen Snickers and a cup of very sweet coffee?” Creesie decided.

  Cat bobbed her head as if this were an excellent choice, something along the lines of filet mignon, then turned to me. When I didn’t respond, she said, “Anything you want, Hope. Anything at all. Your imagination’s the only limitation . . .”

  I faltered; words refused to form in my brain. It was beginning to dawn on me that nothing and no one in this place was anywhere close to normal. And though I was trying desperately not to panic, my heart wasn’t cooperating very well.

  Seeming to sense my distress, Cat came to my rescue. “How about a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? Crunchy, with grape jelly. No crusts. Wheat bread, right?” I nodded, jaw open. It was the way Mom used to make them. Cat and Creesie shared a chuckle, and then Cat disappeared through a set of double doors at the far end of the café. Seconds later, I looked down and saw two sparkling white plates that held our requests. Next to mine was a large glass of frosty cold milk. Just what I’d wanted.

  While I gulped down the sandwich—mostly to keep my mouth closed—I studied the place intently. Nearly everyone seemed to have arrived for a costume party, my new companion included. Their attire wasn’t unusually fancy, but they spanned more decades than I could count. Several boys about my age—seated at an adjacent booth
and donning tall hats and three-piece suits, possibly from the early 1900’s—were engaged in a lively conversation in rapid-fire French, and I understood every word they were saying. Even so, given my recent introduction to Spanish, this wasn’t such a surprise.

  The biggest one was yet to come.

  It had taken me several minutes to notice, but then again, hadn’t I had one heck of a morning? Or maybe, since it applied to everyone in the place, it was easier to miss. But either way, once I finally focused, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I blinked a couple of times to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating, and still my mind couldn’t process it.

  It was like gazing into the faces of Angels while staring directly into the sun. Two things I probably wasn’t supposed to do for very long for fear of going blind. But I didn’t have the strength to turn away, nor did I wish to. And since I’d never been in the presence of such unearthly beauty, staring at them open-mouthed seemed perfectly appropriate.

  Oh, and they were all so young! The oldest person couldn’t have been more than thirty, and most were in their teens or younger. I suspected they were bodiless, like me—whatever that meant—but I didn’t get a feeling of tragedy or sadness coming from them. Quite the opposite. Everyone seemed very happy to be here, much the way I felt before a long-awaited trip.

  “It takes your new eyes a while to adjust,” Creesie said, drawing my focus back to her. She looked off into the distance, starry-eyed. “Who would have guessed such beauty existed in the world? Truth is it was always there, we just couldn’t see it until now.” She popped the last bite of Snickers into her mouth, then paused to lick her fingers. “Human eyes aren’t accustomed to seeing beyond the physical. Looking into one’s soul takes a bit of practice, you see.”

  I gazed openly at her, and, after a few seconds, Creesie began to shimmer in the same way that I’d seen Angels depicted in paintings. Her features were exquisite, but it was her eyes that cast a spell around me. Kindness and compassion drifted out of them and into mine. “Souls,” she said. “You’re seeing the beauty of our souls. It can be mind-boggling for new arrivals, but you’ll adjust fairly quickly.”