Call Me Hope

by Gretchen Olson

  “I’m sick and tired of these Oregon winters,” she’d said one morning as rain dribbled down the window. “Rain, rain, rain.” She snatched a piece of bread out of the toaster and mashed butter on it. “What I’d give for a spot of sun.” That’s when she’d bring up moving. Southern California, Arizona, New Mexico. Someplace, anyplace where the sky was blue and the sun shined hot.

  Well, she could have her sunny California and just leave me home. There’s no way I was moving from Mr. Hudson, Anita and Ruthie, or my closet. And that’s just where I headed when we got home from the dentist. I turned on the lamp, closed the door, picked up Turtle, and lay down. My entire body melted, my legs turning limp as noodles, my headache fading as my eyes wandered across the closet walls. Now they were covered with magazine pictures of sunflowers and waterfalls, seagulls flying above the ocean, a Christmas tree sparkling with white lights. There were the words to my favorite songs, my old star chart, my A+ Holocaust map, a newspaper picture of Gabriela Feliciano shooting a basket, and a quote from Anne Frank: “… I’ve found that there is always some beauty left — in nature, sun-shine, freedom, in yourself; these can all help you.”

  Curled up in my closet bed, I felt like a bear, hibernating in my dark, safe cave. I closed my eyes and inspected my teeth with my tongue. There were still a few bits of dried guck from Dr. McKillip’s impressions. He had me bite into this pile of gooey clay stuff, which was surely going to harden onto my teeth forever. But it was still nice being in his office. After Mom left for the waiting room, he got all chatty, talking about his plans to take his family to Disneyland for spring vacation. He asked if I’d ever been to Disneyland. I shook my head. He kept talking, like we were having this great conversation, with me grunting through gooey clay or nodding my head.

  When he walked me to the waiting room, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Your mouthpiece will be ready in a week.” He gave a quick squeeze. “Hang in there, Hope.”

  Now I blinked my eyes open and gazed up to the hems and cuffs, buttons and zippers of my hanging clothes. The view had changed. After Christmas, I’d gone through everything one more time, plus Tyler’s, and hauled another load to Next to New. Our clothes were selling well, so along with coupon credits and ironing for Anita, I’d bought two pairs of jeans, a sweater, another pair of boots so I could save my purple ones for Outdoor School, and a daisy necklace with matching earrings. And, last but not least, the yellow ski jacket — half-priced in the January Value-Days Sale.

  I glanced down the length of my bed to my book-case, a regular grocery store by now. Whenever I walked home from Next to New, I stopped at Safeway and bought a bag of oyster crackers, cereal bars, canned cheese, red licorice, or green olives. I even found a small electric coffeepot at Goodwill so I could heat water and make hot chocolate or chicken noodle soup.

  The bottom shelf was for my library. So far, Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl was my only book. We’d finished our Holocaust unit months ago, but we hadn’t finished the book. Mr. Hudson said we could borrow it if we wanted to read the second half. At first, I wanted to hurry up and get to the end, but now I was slowing down, figuring if I didn’t finish, the Nazis wouldn’t find the “Secret Annexe,” arrest everyone, and haul them off to concentration camps. Anne Frank wouldn’t die if I didn’t finish her story.

  I wrapped Turtle in my arms, nestled back into my pillow, and with the golden glow of lamplight falling softly on my eyes, I could see Dr. McKillip again, his hand on my shoulder. I could feel his gentle touch and hear his angel voice. I let the tears come. They pressed out the sides of my eyes, wandered into my hair and down to my ears, tickling as they turned cold. I wiped them away with Turtle’s foot.

  I wished I had a father like Dr. McKillip. If Mom moved to California, maybe I could move to Dr. McKillip’s office. I’d have plenty of toothbrushes and little sample toothpastes, plus a bed on that big dental lounge chair.

  CHAPTER 18

  Name It and Tame It

  Mrs. Nelson, our school counselor, stood in front of the classroom and slipped Paper Bag Patty over her hand. The puppet was freshly colored with crayon-yellow hair, black eyes, and a smiley red mouth. A big purple heart covered her brown chest.

  “Remember first grade? Sitting in a circle on the floor, passing around Paper Bag Patty?” Mrs. Nelson’s own black eyes moved from face to face, her pink mouth serious.

  “Yeah,” said Noelle. “We crumpled her every time we said something that hurt her feelings.”

  “Like what?” said Mrs. Nelson, bobbing Patty’s head in time with her words.

  “Moron,” said Colin Davis.

  Mrs. Nelson grabbed Patty’s purple heart and squished it tight.

  “Pimple face,” said Annette.

  Again, Mrs. Nelson twisted and wrinkled the puppet’s body.

  “Loser,” “fatty,” “dork,” came the names, along with more crushes and creases.

  “Stupid,” I said, my own heart squeezing tight, sending a silent “sorry” to Patty.

  By now you couldn’t see any of the colors, just this brown wadded clump like a used lunch sack about to be tossed in the garbage.

  “Then we tried to smooth out the lines,” said Mrs. Nelson, “by saying nice things like ‘smart,’ ‘awesome,’ ‘cool.’” Mrs. Nelson’s fingers massaged Patty’s heart, head, and body, unable to completely erase the wrinkles. “What was left behind?”

  “Slime,” said Brody.

  “Right,” said Mrs. Nelson, removing Patty, setting her on Mr. Hudson’s desk. “Hurting words are slugs that slime our hearts. What else?”

  “Scars.” I felt my mouth move and heard the word as if it had helped itself out.

  Mrs. Nelson looked at me for a moment, then took a deep breath and placed her hands on her hips. “As sixth graders, you are ready to call hurting, sliming, scarring words what they really are.” She paused.

  Everyone got extra quiet and leaned forward, waiting to share the sixth-grade secret.

  “Abuse. It’s verbal abuse.”

  Now her right hand jabbed the air above our heads. “Verbal abuse is as damaging as physical abuse, or worse. It takes twenty-five to thirty positive comments to overcome the effects of one abusive comment. The scars from verbal abuse run just as deep, if not deeper, than physical scars.”

  With her strong words still hanging in the air, she assured us with softer words that it was important to properly name something. “When you name it, you tame it. It’s like putting a fence around a wild animal so you’re safe to learn about it.” Then she gave us words to help in abusive situations — I feel words, asking-for-a-change words.

  An hour later, I stood in front of Next to New, staring at my reflection against green shamrocks. I couldn’t think about St. Patrick’s Day, though, with Mrs. Nelson’s abuse word in my head. Why did she wait until sixth grade to tell us? Little kids should know that hurting words are not only slimy and scarring, but abusive. I’d always liked Mrs. Nelson, but now I felt a knot of anger in my stomach. She should have told me sooner.

  The knot tightened in my stomach as my mother’s own words crashed through my head: dumb shit, stupid as a stick, hopelessly lazy. I couldn’t believe she was doing something to me that had an official name, like chicken pox or the flu. I could just hear a doctor say, “You have a bad case of verbal abuse.”

  Now that it had a name it seemed more real, more serious, more important. Did that make me more important, too, in a weird sort of way? You know, like the kid who comes to school after a skiing accident, his leg in a cast, hobbling around with crutches. At first he’s famous, everyone feeling sorry for him and a little jealous of all his attention, his cool crutches, someone carrying his books and lunch tray. But after a while, it’s actually a bad thing because it probably still hurts and he can’t play basketball or get it wet.

  I shivered and opened the Next to New door, the bell jangling.

  “Hey, sweetie,” said Anita. “We’re pulling all the purple-tagged clot
hes.” She hauled an armload of winter jackets and sweaters to the 50% Off rack. “They’ve had their three months of glory,” she said, hanging them back up.

  “Think spring,” said Ruthie as she dropped unsold sales clothes into a huge laundry basket set on wheels. A man and woman from some church came every Saturday for the leftovers, sending them off to places you see on the news after floods and hurricanes and wars. I kept looking for those pink fuzzy slippers to show up on someone’s feet standing in desert sand. Sometimes I wondered if these people really wanted our clothes or if they just wore them for the TV cameras and National Geographic pictures.

  “I’m selling chocolate candy bars.” I held up plain milk chocolate and semisweet with almonds.

  “Hope Elliot, you are a tease!” Anita shook her head.

  Ruthie rolled her eyes. “Thanks a lot. You show up just when my stomach starts growling.” She looked at Anita. “Are we going to be good?”

  “What’s it for?” asked Anita, like she needed an important cause in order to cheat on her diet.

  “Outdoor School.” I waved the white-and-goldwrapped candy in the air. “Super delicious.”

  Anita shook her head. “Ruthie. We’ve lost eleven pounds between the two of us and Monday is weigh-in. I’ve got carrots and apple slices in the back room.”

  “Are they chocolate-covered?” Ruthie looked like she was in pain.

  “How about I leave one for each of you?” I said. “And if you lose another pound by Monday night, you can pay me for them.”

  “What if we don’t?” asked Ruthie.

  “Pay me?”

  “No — lose the weight?”

  “I know,” said Anita, “I’ll buy the candy bars and you eat them, you skinny little thing.” She eyed me up and down.

  “I can’t.”

  “You can’t eat chocolate?” Now Ruthie looked horrified, like I was missing my daily vitamins.

  I shrugged. “Dr. McKillip says it might add to my headaches.”

  Dr. McKillip had bought two candy bars when I’d picked up my mouth guard. “Hold it under warm water to soften it before you put it on. You don’t want to break this expensive little number.” He nodded toward the bathroom. “Try it before you leave.”

  I stood at the sink, hot water pouring over the clear plastic mold. Was this how people with dentures felt? Holding their fake teeth in their hands, scrubbing them clean, popping them back in place? Freaky.

  I turned off the water, shook the horseshoe-shaped impression, then pushed it up, over my top teeth. It was smooth and thick, forcing my upper lip out, like a monkey.

  I returned to the reception room. “I hhink iss okay.”

  The receptionist smiled while I drooled on the floor.

  “You probably don’t want to talk on the phone to your boyfriend with that in your mouth,” Dr. McKillip said, smiling.

  I quickly pulled the guard from my mouth and packed it back in its red container.

  He handed me a piece of paper as I walked out the door. “Some headache tips,” he said, and raised his hand, waving good-bye.

  Now, watching Anita and Ruthie pulling, hanging, and rearranging clothes, I wished I was trying to lose weight rather than shake a headache. I wished I went to their weekly weigh-in meetings (they called it their support group). I wished I had someone to talk to, like Ruthie telling Anita she needed a chocolate fix. “Don’t eat it,” Anita would say. “Throw it away. Go for a walk, sweetie, or drink a glass of water.” I wished there was a support group for verbal abuse. I’d go. Even by myself.

  CHAPTER 19

  Birthday Wishes

  From one year to the next I’ve never known what to expect for my birthday. Some years Mom has made a big fuss with balloons and streamers and my favorite chocolate-fudge cake and a special present like my clock radio. Other years she’s given me ten dollars and told me to buy myself a present. When I turned nine, she didn’t say a word. My birthday went right on by like a car driving straight through a red light. A few weeks later Tyler asked, “Don’t you have a birthday sometime around now?”

  Last year Annette and Noelle came over to watch movies and spend the night. I was carrying a huge bowl of popcorn and a plastic bottle of Coke into the living room when I tripped on the rug. Buttered popcorn and fizzing Coke splattered across the floor and furniture.

  Annette and Noelle started laughing, but I just stared at the brown spotted ceiling, sick with dread. Before I could pick up the first piece of popcorn, Mom burst into the room. Annette and Noelle stopped laughing.

  “You clumsy idiot,” said Mom. “Get this cleaned up right now.” She looked at Annette and Noelle. “You two call your parents. The party’s over.”

  “But, Mom,” I started, heat sweeping my body, burning my ears.

  “SHUT UP! And do what you’re told!”

  With last year’s birthday still a nightmare and just a week until my twelfth birthday, I tried to figure out Mom’s mood.

  “I’m really going to feel older when I’m twelve,” I hinted.

  “Uh-huh.” Mom kept reading the morning paper.

  “I’m eleven and I’ll be twelve on the thirteenth.”

  “So?” She glanced up.

  “So that’s a good sign — three numbers in sequence.”

  “And your point?”

  This wasn’t working. But then I remembered the phone call last night from Grandma. I should have known better. Never ask for anything the morning after Grandma calls. Just forget it. The calls came every few months, with Mom trying to be polite to her own mother, but always turning loud and angry with huge sighs and finally shouting, “Don’t tell me how I should raise my kids!” and hanging up hard.

  I couldn’t give up, though, on the birthday business. “This is a really special year since it’s my last at the elementary school, so I thought we could do something extra special, you know, maybe a day at the beach, or Night Lights at the Portland Zoo, or paintballing, or —”

  “Hope, in case you’ve forgotten, and I tell you this every year, your birthday comes at our busiest time at work. I don’t have the energy to plan a party.”

  “I’ll plan it.”

  “Not after last year’s disaster.”

  I stood there wondering if I was dismissed, but then she reached for her wallet and slapped twenty-five dollars on the table. “Spend this however you want. Take a friend to a movie and out for pizza. Or buy something. Or save it. Whatever.”

  Twenty-five dollars. At first I wasn’t all that excited about the money. Somehow it felt more like a punishment than a present. Go figure.

  But, then, a few days later, I found myself thinking what I could do with it. First I thought of the usual stuff. Then my twenty-five dollars stretched with my imagination: I saw the Humane Society animal ads and I felt a furry soft kitten sleeping next to me. I passed the Eola Hills Travel Agency and was jumping waves in Hawaii. I dreamed of going to a concert, flying in an airplane, a day at Disneyland.

  I woke on my birthday still not sure what I was going to do. But I was excited it was Saturday and I still had my twenty-five dollars, even though I’d spent it a million times already in my head.

  “Happy birthday, Hope,” said Mom, sitting at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette, ads spread across the opened newspaper. “I think Lydia and I are going to hit some of the spring sales today.”

  I stopped. Her words circled in my ears, faster and louder, spinning and echoing, now snatching chunks of stored conversations: in case you’ve forgotten… I tell you… every year… our busiest time at work… don’t have the energy to plan a party.

  “What about work?” I mumbled.

  “Work’s fine.” Mom squashed her cigarette in a jar lid and began cutting coupons. “We’re caught up for now.”

  I slogged through quicksand to the refrigerator. It’s okay, my brain tried to reason with me. It’s your birth

  day and you’re twelve. You can do anything you want today. Forget her. It’s your birthday an
d you’re okay. Give yourself one hundred points for DISAPPOINTED.

  After choking down a bowl of cereal, I took a shower, checked out my bare reflection in the full-length mirror (nothing new or different), and put on a skirt, sweater, and my purple hiking boots. As soon as Mom was gone, I crammed my birthday money plus some Next to New earnings into my jacket pocket and walked out the door.

  The air was cool and the pavement damp after a night rain, but there were splotches of blue between white and gray clouds. I sucked in the moist air, washing my insides. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but my feet turned to town and started walking. The day was mine. All mine.

  I stood in front of the Quail Run Bakery, studying row upon row of sprinkle doughnuts, maple bars, blueberry muffins, the fan above the door spreading frosting and coffee smells. In a flash I was walking down the street again, the first taste of a warm, magically sweet cinnamon roll in my mouth.

  I passed outdoor coffee drinkers, paper readers, dog walkers, two little girls in ballet tights, a guy parking his motorcycle. The sun was shining warmer now as I studied French beaches, Alaskan cruises, and Mexican ruins taped to the window at Eola Hills Travel Agency. I decided to do all three… someday. A little boy and his mom were standing in front of the Hallmark store, giving away kittens. I held a black-and-white fur ball up to my face and closed my eyes as it licked my cheek. I wish. Instead, I found in Hallmark a fuzzy brown-striped stuffed kitten with a pink tongue. Six dollars and it was mine.

  By lunchtime, I’d wandered through antique and clothes shops, Tyler’s used-to-be-favorite Cowboy Country, shoe stores, and an outdoor garden display with birdbaths and fountains and even a waterfall spilling down into a pond. I sat on a metal bench by the pond and watched huge goldfish wiggle-waggle around each other.