Pieces of Hope

by Carter, Carolyn

  “Yes, Katydid?”

  I couldn’t look her in the eye. “Was there a lot—” More lip gnawing. “I mean, did it—did it hurt much?

  It took no time for her to understand. She seized me in her arms. “Oh, honey, no! It’s a little fuzzy, I admit. But I do recall lingering a moment or two afterwards. I stood beside Daniel as he dialed 911 from our phone, still trying to help me . . . But, no, I don’t remember any pain.” More softly, she said, “And I really wish you didn’t, either.”

  I sat there for the longest time, unable to speak. But I no longer cried. I stared off at the swimming swans, up at the cloudless morning sky, then back at her face.

  I felt adrift. Untethered. But not in a bad way.

  “You’re right.” My voice sounded surprisingly calm. “It’s good that Daniel was there with you. It’s good that you weren’t alone.”

  “And neither were you.” She smiled at me as my insides turned to mush. “I never left you alone, Katydid. And I never will.”

  I thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, I get that.”

  “Good.” Mom squeezed me hard. “Then all is right with my world.”

  I looked back at the swans once as we walked toward the fairgrounds. They dazzled my eyes in my favorite color—a glistening golden emerald. The color of Ethan’s eyes. Mom hit it right on the mark. Our hands entwined, she smiled as we broke into a run.

  26 Ride of my Life

  The Ferris wheel was even more hypnotizing up close.

  Somehow impossible to look at or look away from . . . reminding me of a happy train wreck, if there was such a thing.

  “Are we going to ride it?” I asked. Squinting at its golden glow, I asked myself again why anyone would go to the trouble of building such an impressive ride, and then only put one car on it

  “You are,” Mom said with an air of mystery.

  “Aw, come on,” I begged. “I know you love Ferris wheels as much as I do. And both of us can fit on the seat, I know we can . . . unless you’ve recently packed on the pounds at the Station.”

  She laughed and patted her backside. “You know that I can eat my weight in cake.”

  “I know. I remember.” Sunday mornings. Me. Mom. Cake.

  “I’ll be right here,” she told me, taking her eyes off the wheel.

  I huffed as if it were torture, “Okay, you win. I’ll go first!” I ran up the wooden ramp, dropped onto the seat, yanked down the golden lap bar, and stretched my arms across the back of the seat. “Chicken!” I yelled at her.

  “Hang on tight, Katydid!” Mom called anxiously. “You’re in for the ride of your life!”

  “Don’t be silly, Mom. How fast could this thing possibly go?” But when the wheel lurched backwards a few feet, then stopped, I reached hurriedly for the bar. I wasn’t going to take any chances. Not any more, anyway.

  Mom backed up several paces as if the Ferris wheel were a rocket about to fly off into outer space. And as the wheel kicked in hard a second time, I caught a glimpse of Creesie, Charlotte, Rin, Gus, Mac, and Cat as they joined Mom at the end of the ramp. They stared in my direction, but none of them were smiling. I shrugged internally. Dead people’s moods, who knew?

  “Oh, and honey,” Mom yelled, hand beside her mouth, “Beware of the flash! It’s supposed to have quite the kick!”

  I laughed. “Whatever, Mom. You can’t scare me! It’s a Ferris wheel!”

  Beware of the Flash. The ancient script carved into the back of the golden seat. The message I’d tried to interpret. Well, whatever it meant, I beckoned with amusement, bring it on . . .

  But to ease my mother’s worry, I pressed my back against the seat and squeezed the bar harder. In response, the big wheel took off as if this were its Go switch.

  Suddenly, the wheel was spinning clockwise at a distressing rate of speed. There was no time to gaze idle-eyed at the scenery below—the Yamhill Fair, my forever friends, the golden spinning lights. No time to wave and laugh as it drifted lazily around. No, this wasn’t your everyday ride.

  Hang on tight, honey! You’re in for the ride of your life!

  Inexplicably, I was thrust backwards—not only physically, but mentally. It seemed that that I was growing younger, younger, younger. I had a mouthwatering desire to stick my thumb in my mouth. It was beyond bizarre, but in my present state of panic, I wasn’t about to open my eyes to see if I looked younger on the outside, too. Maybe the whole thing was only in my head?

  Ride of your life. Ha! Had I known thirty seconds ago that Mom had meant that literally, I would have jumped screaming from the seat like my pants were on fire. I sensed that something big was about to happen. But thus far, there was only the whoosh of the wind in my ears and the brilliant lights of the fair flashing before my eyelids.

  With an abrupt jerk, the wheel stopped. Then it began spinning in the opposite direction—forward not backwards—as if it had gone back far enough and now needed to correct itself. My palms slick and sweaty on the metal bar, I squeezed harder as the wheel raced along at what felt like warp speed.

  That’s when the “something big” happened.

  It wasn’t anything like people say . . . “My life flashed before my eyes.” It wasn’t anything like that. There was no flashing. None. The words engraved on the seat were disturbingly funny now that I knew what they meant.

  Only three things actually happened.

  The blackness. So thick and dark that if I’d wiggled a finger in front of my face, I wouldn’t have seen it. But it was a sort of cave darkness—where I could tell there was a lot going on—lots of strange things stirring around, even if I couldn’t actually see them.

  Then the lights came back on, and all the things I suspected were going on in the earlier cave darkness, were more than I ever could have imagined.

  And finally, the very best part. Every forgotten memory from my eighteen years rolled past me like a movie! But I could taste them and smell them and hear them and feel them. I was happily, deliriously drowning in them—reliving rather than recalling them. And they were complete. Not scattered or sparse. Detailed.

  Every gajillion frames or so, the images would slow, and a single memory would impress itself upon me. Though I wasn’t the one doing the selecting, it was similar to the sensation of lingering over a favorite photo to fondly reminisce. But instead of just looking at the pictures, I’d find myself cast in the memory itself—taking on the role of me—at whatever age the memory had formed.

  Pause. Mom and Dad’s first kitchen. Our kitchen now. Why is the hideous yellow countertop taller than me? Standing/wobbling near counter. Legs must be made of some crazy rubbery substance that doesn’t allow me to stand without jiggling. A licorice-skinny girl with cottony-white hair is yanking candy from my hand. My tinny voice wails an earsplitting, “Nooooooo!”

  Then my mother’s voice. “Clarissa Faith, what have you done to your little sister? Remember our talk about sharing? Share with Katydid. That’s right, play nice.”

  Zoom ahead.

  Pause. Same happy yellow kitchen. Same ugly countertop. A slightly taller Claire is sharing a hot dog with me . . . one she has just dropped on the floor.

  “That’s right, Katydid. Eat it up. It tastes good, doesn’t it? Isn’t it nice to share?”

  Fast forward.

  Pause. Same kitchen. Newer countertop. Now at eye level. But Mommy is crying at the sink. Her apron is flowered. I tug, tug, tug on it to get her to look at me, but she won’t look down. “Look, Mommy, look!” She doesn’t look.

  I tumble out the back door, dig for a while beneath the painted flowerpot at the corner of the garage, find what I am searching for, then plow back into the kitchen. Much tugging later, Mommy wipes her wet face on her apron. She kneels down so that I can see her face and says, “What is it, Katydid? Mommy’s having a bad day.”

  I open my chubby little hand, exposing a shiny blue rock.

  “For you, Mommy. Don’t cry.”

  At the sight of my gift, she makes a funn
y choking nose and pulls me so tight into her that I have a hard time breathing. My face squishes into her apron, and I smell her wonderful Mommy smell. I feel how much she loves me. And I don’t care if I can breathe or not.

  “Oh, Katydid,” she says, rocking me a little. “If I ever, ever forget how much you love me, remind me . . .”

  Zoom forward again.

  Pause. Miss Allen’s kindergarten class. A boy is staring at me. He has hair the color of dark honey and long floppy curls that most girls would kill for. My sister would, anyway. “Hey, you!” he says as he climbs across the top of the desk. When he smiles, I see a tooth is missing. “Come sit by me. My name’s Bwody.”

  Pause. I am eight years old, on honor roll, and Claire hates me for it.

  Pause. I am twelve (going on a thousand), knobby-kneed, metal-mouthed, and hideous. Claire is a tall willow with perfect teeth, skin, and hair—and I hate her for it.

  Pause. I am fourteen and I have just experienced love at first sight! I think I heard Angels sing when he entered the room. Either that or I am hallucinating.

  “Hey, you’re Hope Valenti, right?” His eyes are gray and blue. It makes me think of thunder, and his hair reminds me of dirty sand.

  I lick my teeth. They feel straight and shiny. “You’re that new boy, aren’t you? The one from California?”

  He nods, looks me right in the eye. And I am zapped!

  “I’m Daniel Hartlein.” He smiles back. “And this is going to sound way crazy, but I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

  Pause. I am fifteen. I am nauseous. I am scared, frightened, and terrified that I’m about to lose my wonderful mother to cancer. I pray, “Not now, God . . . Not now . . . Please don’t take my mother now.”

  The memories fly up to the present moment.

  Again, the wheel jerks to a sudden soundless stop, rotates one quarter of a turn to the right and—now twisted sideways on its base—spins wildly backwards once again. My eyes are squinched tight, and my hands are numb from holding on so hard, but all I can see is that same cave blackness for a while—some scurryings and other things that I can’t see clearly in the darkness—and then the lights are on again. Only this time I’m not watching the images from my own eyes, but rather, I am a spectator . . . as if I’m watching someone else’s life, or perhaps another life . . .

  I see a basketball hoop decorated with crepe paper, old-fashioned posters bearing the image of a pointy-nosed, white-haired man in a flag-colored suit who beckons: Uncle Sam Wants You! The lights are dim in the long rectangular gym and I am vaguely aware that there is a band onstage at one end, and in front of them, what seems to be the entire town swaying between the hoops on the crowded wooden floor.

  But I am mesmerized by only one face. I focus in on him. He has angular features, strong and honest. His hair is darkish blonde. And he looks wildly happy.

  “Lucy King . . .” he says to the pale-haired girl. He drops to one knee and I notice the drab green of his uniform. He smiles at her as if she is the girl of his dreams. Then he takes her hand, turns it over, and gently kisses her palm.

  She looks back at him in adoration. Her eyes are wet.

  “Marry me, Lu. Make me a happy man or I swear I’ll never love again . . .”

  FULL STOP. Jerk. Rotate slowly back to center.

  Stop. Click. Spin wildly forward.

  There is darkness for a brief while, and then I am me again—staring out of my own eyes, watching the pictures again. But these can’t be my memories. They don’t feel the same. Some part of me knows these things have not yet happened. The images are slightly transparent . . . new . . . as if the threads holding them together could easily come apart . . . or possibly never come together . . .

  I see the back of a man’s head. His hair is dark and messy, and the angle at which he holds it—confident and straight—is a dead giveaway. I would know him anywhere. His arms are full of something. I catch a glimpse of several tangled coat sleeves.

  “Boys!” Ethan shouts as if he is rounding up cattle. “We can’t keep Mommy waiting. Remember—Finley’s having puppies!”

  Three little staggering heads appear. My heart drops to my feet.

  FULL STOP.

  Slight shift to the left. Just a bend in the road, I think, another path.

  Click. Spin wildly forward.

  Lights spread out before me and I am suddenly high in the clouds—

  No, a building in the clouds. Never have I seen a sight so beautiful. This is what I would imagine heaven to look like. My heart is pounding with happiness.

  His eyes are sky today. “You were right. Paris really is for newlyweds.”

  I feel his arms tighten around me.

  “We’ll paint a beautiful life together,” he whispers. “I know we will.”

  Then, just as quickly as it began, the wheel stops spinning and the darkness—still and quiet—overtakes me. I hear a loud grinding noise as the huge wheel settles into its original position, and a softer click as the lap bar indulgently releases itself.

  I couldn’t open my eyes for a full minute. The detailed images, though no longer rolling behind my eyelids, left an indelible mark upon me—lingering like perfume in the air, languishing on my skin.

  When at last the tears leaked through, I opened my eyes. The golden lights seemed dim, less enchanting. Hovering at the end of the ramp, I saw their faces—all seven of them—waiting nervously for my reaction. With a burst of sudden energy, I leaped from the seat, bolted down the ramp, and flung myself into the arms of my forever family.

  Mac affectionately patted my head. Cat kissed my cheeks. Arms and more arms were around me. There was a guffaw, followed by some nervous giggling as they shuffled around each other, everyone talking at once. Rin, hidden behind two blue fluffs of cotton candy, handed one to me. “Sugar,” she said sagely, “is good for the soul.”

  I tore off a chunk, letting it melt on my tongue. Sure enough, it eased the shaking in my bones.

  They were all looking at me, waiting for something.

  “Everything’s going to be all right now,” I told them, my tongue finding a puff of blue sugar that had landed on my chin. “Really, it will.”

  “Of course it’s going to be all right, doll,” Mac said with an easy smile. “I tried to tell you that. You were just too stubborn to listen.”

  “I tried to tell her that,” Cat interrupted. “The rest of you just indulged her. I told you, Vivienne, when she was just a baby . . . ‘Spoil her now. Pay later.’”

  Mom gave her a loving look. “Oh, Cat, don’t go telling me that. David used to say you spoiled her more than I did. You insisted on rocking Hope even when she was fast asleep.”

  Cat gave her a disgruntled look as if that was beside the point.

  “Wait a second . . . McAllister, right?” I was peering from Cat to Mac, Mac to Cat, when I nearly heard a clunk in my head. “Isn’t there a picture of you on our mantle? Are you? You’re Gigi’s parents, aren’t you? My great grandparents?” The hair was grayer, the faces plumper, the skin looser. But the old guy on Mom and Dad’s mantle had a twinkle in his eye and a gap between his teeth. And the old woman had that same steely-eyed look about her, one Claire often had.

  They died when I was two. Until today and my wild Ferris wheel ride, I’d never known much about them.

  “You’re slow as molasses, kid.” Mac grinned. “Slower . . . I’ve seen snails quicker than you.”

  I poked him playfully in the chest. “You don’t exactly look the same, you know—and it’s not like I expected my great-grandparents to pop back from the dead. Things like that just don’t happen every day.”

  “Maybe not in your world,” Cat reminded me.

  Then it hit me. “I was named after you!”

  “Yes, and you dislike it so much that you use your middle name,” Cat said frostily. Name’s short for Catherine—like yours. But you go by Hope. How could I ever forget?

  “I meant no offense. It’s a lovely name,” I told her.
“It just never sounded like me. Oh!” I blurted. “Thanks for rocking me all those extra times when I was little . . . I can remember them now, you know.”

  “Yes, well . . .” She cleared her throat and looked away. The thin sheet of ice that covered her melted quickly, and as Cat glanced back, I saw the tears in her eyes.

  Mom filled in a few more gaps. “It may be a little confusing, honey, or maybe it’s just me.” She laughed. “You know how bad I am with numbers. But Mac used to know Finley.” Mom, Mac and Cat exchanged an eyeball look; I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I remembered that Daniel used to be Finley.

  “You mean from their other lifetime?” I asked.

  “No, that’s the confusing part,” she explained. “Cat and Mac were born in the twenties. In the forties, they’d just graduated high school. While Mac was away at college studying to be an engineer, he met Finley—who preferred to skip class, daydream, and paint. But despite all that, the two of them became fast friends.”

  Surprise rocked my body. Whoa. I thought of Shakespeare and tangled webs and multi-dimensional ten-thousand piece puzzles. Mac and Daniel used to be friends? I stood there for a moment, taking it all in, devouring more blue fluffs of sugar to see if it helped slide the pieces into place. It seemed to be working. So I shoveled more in.

  Mac chuckled. “For once, she’s speechless.”

  “It’s a nice trait,” Cat added, flashing me a teasing grin.

  Just behind Rin and Charlotte, on the Grizzly bear bench, there was a dark hint of glistening skin surrounded by boxes of sugary substances. Gus and Creesie had retreated there; I could hear them laughing as he told the punch line—“That’s too good a pig to eat all at once.”

  “Time to fill in the last pieces of the puzzle,” I muttered, taking Mom’s hand as I walked to the bench. The others, already knowing what I planned to ask her (my fingers felt that gentle tugging), went back to talking amongst themselves. “Hey, Creesie . . .”

  Creesie beamed at me. She had her hand halfway to her mouth, powdered sugar on her fingers, and a funnel cake in her lap. “I’m the missing link, aren’t I? You want to know where I fit in to this story.”