Call Me Hope

by Gretchen Olson

  No answer.

  “Admit you’re lost.”

  “Hi, tree, I’m lost,” said Shawna.

  I looked at the pines, their tops glowing warm in the morning sunlight.

  “You can talk to the trees all you want,” said Frog, “but be sure to hug one.”

  “And kiss it?” said Ellie Hoyt.

  “Yuck,” said Jenny.

  “Hug a tree means to stay put,” said Frog, pulling things out of his backpack. “Don’t wander around trying to find your way out. Searchers will start looking where you were seen last.”

  Across the table Frog had lined up a pocketknife, a film canister housing waterproof matches, a plastic garbage bag, a whistle, a mirror, granola bars, and a water bottle. After explaining why we needed them in a survival kit, he gave us each our own whistle, then led us into the woods. We picked our tree to hug and Ellie really did kiss hers. Then we gathered leaves, grass, moss, pine needles, and dead fern fronds. Frog pulled the plastic garbage bag and pocketknife out of his backpack. “Let’s say Hope is lost.” I almost fell over at the sound of my name. I swallowed and my eyes zeroed in on Frog.

  He motioned me to his side.

  “Kiss a tree,” said Ellie.

  I moved to Frog’s side, feeling honored to be lost.

  Frog opened the pocketknife and cut a hole in the bottom of the garbage bag. “In you go,” he said, and I slipped inside the bag, my head popping out the hole.

  Everyone applauded. I bowed.

  “Now, let’s make sure Hope stays warm for her long night in the woods.” He motioned for me to lie down on the ground and began filling my bag with our forest gatherings. “Hope needs a little insulation.” I groaned. With great fun, everyone crammed pine needles and leaves and other dead things into my bag.

  “The Abominable Snowman,” Jenny announced.

  “Snowwoman,” said Shawna.

  “I feel like a stuffed turtle,” I moaned.

  “Everyone — kneel down around Hope,” instructed Frog, holding his camera.

  Ellie whipped her fingers behind my head. “We’re lost, come find us,” called Jessica. But I didn’t feel lost at all — I felt unbelievably found.

  Shawna blew her whistle.

  “Say ‘we’re hungry,’” answered Frog.

  “We’re hungry,” came the chorus, and the camera clicked.

  CHAPTER 31

  What Is the Tie That Binds Us?

  One day melted into the next, a blur of campfires and counselor skits, soggy French toast and sticky s’mores, table lashing, knot tying, banana boats, and map and compass games.

  We learned that Newberry Volcano covers five hundred square miles and the five-mile-wide crater contains two lakes and a lava flow of black glass called obsidian. Hiking up Lava Butte, we followed a twisting path cut into steep lava flows. (My purple boots were awesome.) At the top we could see the snow-covered Cascade Mountains stretching south toward California and north into Washington.

  We learned to tell the difference between heatstroke and sunstroke; between ponderosa and lodgepole pines; and between skunk, coyote, and whitetail deer tracks. At Wizard Falls Fish Hatchery, a volunteer named Art showed us how nearly four million eggs hatch each year and become releasable fingerlings. We learned that feeding a tankful of fingerlings is way more exciting than sprinkling your goldfish bowl with those dried, pale-colored flakes. When you toss these specially made fish-guts nuggets into the concrete holding tanks, thousands of calm fish go crazy, thrashing in every direction, breaking the surface, churning the water like a giant blender. Afterward, we hit the restrooms, furiously scrubbing our stinky hands, before touching our lunch.

  Other important things we learned: Peter was a sleep-walker and Noelle knew how to rappel because her uncle climbed mountains. Colin Davis recognized edible plants because his mother and grandmother had been Camp Fire girls. And Justin Thayer could really wiggle his tail. That’s because he was always leaving his stuff around and had to sing the “Squirrelly” song to get it back. “Squirrelly, squirrelly, shake your bushy tail,” we’d sing to him as he stood in front of the lunch line with other forgetful campers, turning and shaking their rears.

  I learned that someone, not to be named, wet his/her sleeping bag, and that someone else, not to be named, was so homesick he/she threw up.

  One night at campfire I learned that Brody could sing. We were sitting next to each other on this big log and the song we were singing wasn’t a shouting one, so I could hear his voice.

  “In a cavern, in a canyon, excavating for a mine, dwelt a miner, ‘forty-niner, and his daughter, Clementine.”

  It was nice hearing someone sing in tune, except I couldn’t get the words out of my head the next day. And guess where we went? The Lava River Cave — down into this pitch-black cavern with small flashlights swinging around our necks, feeling like miners searching for gold. Counselors held big lantern flashlights and we started out in groups with lots of room between the cold, wet walls and drippy ceiling.

  “Ohhh, wow, look at that,” said Shawna, shining her light on a sparkling silver wall.

  “It’s bacteria from soil that’s filtered down through the cave ceiling,” said Feliz, moving her flashlight around the wall. “And a chemical reaction to your light causes the sparkle.”

  Gradually we found ourselves squishing closer together and lowering our heads, then going single file.

  “We’re near the end,” came the warning. Mr. Hudson had explained how the cave gets so small at the very end that you have to crawl. If you want to touch the very, very end of the cave, you have to lie down on your back and push yourself feet first through this narrow opening, point your toes, and stretch your hardest. I already felt a little clammy and queasy, and I’d bumped my head twice on the hard ceiling, but my gut told me I had to do it.

  When it was my turn, Mr. Hudson helped me get into position. “Okay, Hope, finish it.”

  With my arms kinda shaky, I managed to push forward. Come on, come on, wall, hit my toes. It seemed like forever, but then I felt the nudge on my left foot. One more push and my right foot touched. “Got it!” Everyone hooted and hollered and something bright and tingly rushed from my head to the tips of my purple boots. But as I inched myself back out, something very different and strange gripped my gut, something like hunger, but not a food kind of hunger. I suddenly wanted my mother there. I wanted her to be proud of me.

  Back at camp it was my day for a shower. Four days without one and I had to stink, but all I could smell was smoke and I liked that smell. I stood in the stream of hot water pouring off my head and down my back. This was our last night. I’d tried to put it out of my mind all day. One last campfire, one last round of skits. I hoped Mr. Hudson would do another one. He was hilarious in the makeup skit, where he was a woman wearing this wig and big shirt, and someone else, hidden behind him, slipped their arms into the shirtsleeves and tried putting makeup on him. Since the hidden person couldn’t see, lipstick ended up on Mr. Hudson’s nose and eye shadow on his chin and mascara on his forehead. When they were finished, Mr. Hudson looked in a little mirror. “Oh my,” he said in this high squeaky voice, “how lovely!”

  Walking back to my tent from the shower room, I felt incredibly clean, smelling of apple shampoo and peach conditioner. I passed the tie-dye trees — limbs covered with soaking-wet orange, green, and purple T-shirts, drying ahead of the nighttime frost. The parent volunteers were making our last dinner. Litter patrol was wandering between tents, and wood gatherers were hauling the last load of dead twigs and rotten sticks to the fire ring. I paused in front of my tent, removed my shoes on the little piece of muddy carpet, stepped past the sun-bleached gray flap, into the heavy odors of flannel sleeping bags and smoky clothes, sweaty socks, and damp towels. Jenny’s aloe vera gel had oozed onto the tent floor and her banana-scented sunscreen gagged the air, but I already missed it.

  At campfire that night, Brody’s tent put on a skit called J.C. Penney. “Where’d you get
your hat?” their counselor asked Peter. “J.C. Penney.” “Where’d you get your shirt?” Peter asked Trask. “J.C. Penney.” “Where’d you get your shorts?” Trask asked Seth Jacobs. “J.C. Penney.” In walked Brody wearing only a towel. “I’m J.C. Penney,” he announced.

  “You go, Brode!” someone shouted.

  The parent volunteers sang a song they’d made up about all the counselors. Then Eagle Eye gave out camper awards for the most adventurous, the best fire builder, the fastest shower taker, the loudest singer. My name was called for best spelunker — that’s a cave explorer. I got a ribbon and a hug.

  “This is our twenty-third Outdoor School,” said Mr. Hudson, when he’d finished the awards, “and I have to say one of the very best. You were great campers, eager to learn and willing to help. The weather cooperated, except for that one afternoon rainstorm.” We laughed, remembering the surprise “shower” we gave Mr. Hudson as he climbed off the bus from the Metolius Head-waters trip.

  “I expect you’ll all return home tomorrow a little bit changed. How?” He shook his head. “I can’t answer that, but for the better I’m quite sure.” He looked up at the sky. “Before you go to bed tonight, I’d like you to make a wish for a camper next year — that he or she will have the same wonderful experience you had this week.”

  We formed our nightly friendship circle, crossing arms and holding hands, stretching wide around the campfire. “What is the tie that binds us,” Eagle Eye began and we joined in, “friends of the long, long years? Just this — we have shared the weather, we have slumbered side by side, and friends who have camped together shall never again divide.” We sang taps, gave each other’s hands a sharp squeeze (the boys always gave torturous clamps, but we girls refused to utter a single peep), then walked to our tents for the last time. I searched the Central Oregon night sky, found the brightest yellow star, and made a wish for a future camper. I added a P.S., a wish for myself, that I’d come back again someday — as a counselor.

  CHAPTER 32

  A New Beginning

  The next morning, after blueberry pancakes and hot chocolate, we rolled our sleeping bags, swept our tents, and broke them down and packed them up. After stuffing the U-Haul and cleaning the bathrooms one last time, we posed for pictures: all-camp, tent groups, combinations of new camp friends, shots of the counselors in a giant, teetering pyramid, and the parent volunteers standing in front of the U-Haul. Jenny, Ellie, and I got Frog to hug a tree with us. Feliz took four pictures. We autographed each other’s journals, T-shirts, and jeans. Then we piled into the buses, shouting out the windows to the parents and waving to anyone who’d wave back. The buses crawled out the rutted campground road and crossed the Deschutes.

  I leaned my head against the window frame. Good-bye river. Good-bye meadow and campfire, good-bye frozen milk and burned marshmallows. Good-bye. My chest ached and my shoulders suddenly felt very heavy. I closed my eyes.

  The bus stopped. My neck was bent in half, my chin pressed against my chest. Slowly I untangled my body and looked around. Most everyone was asleep, leaning on their neighbor’s shoulder, or with their head back, mouth opened. Hats were tilted, hair uncombed. Legs and arms slopped into the aisle. Wood cookies dangled every which way.

  Almost home, I thought. My jaw tightened and my teeth ground together. I’d forgotten to wear my night guard at camp, but my headache had disappeared. Was it coming back? Please, no, not the headache. We’d problem-solved all week, but they were fun problems like starting a one-match fire or marking a trail. The thought of bad problems to solve sent pangs of panic through my body. I was wide awake now, staring at the outskirts of Eola Hills, wishing we could turn around, go back, begin the week over.

  Moans and groans filled the bus as we stopped again. I peered at the bank temperature-clock. 78 degrees. 4:56. I hadn’t seen a wristwatch or clock in five days, which was fine since I’d given up on numbers. But these were pretty good ones. Great, in fact. I kissed my fingers, touched the window, and wished it was a good sign.

  We turned the corner and drove two more blocks to the school, all the while my body tensing, my breath waiting, my eyes alert. Cars and pickups filled the parking lot. Parents chatted in small groups while younger brothers and sisters played on the swings and slides. I searched the parking lot with half of me hoping and half fearing. Then I spotted Mom’s car and my heart jumped. I hadn’t been forgotten.

  When the bus stopped in front of the covered play area, no one moved. “Come on, campers, we’re home,” said Miss Lindquist. Slowly we gathered our backpacks and extra blankets, hats and crumpled sack lunches. I fell in line, watching as parents greeted their sons and daughters with wide smiles and strong hugs. My throat tightened and my ears warmed. I stepped off the bus and someone moved out of the crowd.

  “How are you, sweetie?” It was my mother’s voice, but I barely heard. All I could do was stare at the blue-and-white-checkered dress.

  With questions spinning like a roulette wheel, one finally settled on my lips. “Why are you wearing that dress?”

  “Well,” Mom said, “you came home for the very first time with me in this dress, and now you’ve come home again.”

  This had to be a dream.

  We walked in silence to the soccer field where the U-Haul had parked. I didn’t know what to say next, and I was afraid I’d break the spell.

  We found all my stuff, and while Mom held Tyler’s sleeping bag, I gave a final good-bye hug to Gabriela.

  “I’ve been really busy while you were gone,” said Mom as we headed for the car. “I went through all my clothes and took a bunch of things into Next to New. Anita thought I could make some good money. Tyler’s baseball team is in the playoffs. There’s a game tomorrow in Gaston. Maybe you’d like to go.”

  We stowed my things on the backseat and Mom asked about Outdoor School. I started slowly, but before I knew it I was rattling on about the crazy counselors and banana boats, river walks, compass hikes, and my award. I explained Mr. Hudson’s makeup skit and we both started laughing.

  “And when I’m in high school I’m going to be a counselor and I think my name will be —”

  “What are you thinking, Hope?” Mom interrupted. “A counselor? Responsible for all those children?” Her voice pounced on the words. “You haven’t even started babysitting. You won’t possibly be able to —”

  Wham! My mouth slammed shut, my words rear-ending each other. My head fell back against the seat and I closed my eyes. Don’t go there, Mom. Please, don’t do it. Stop. STOP. I can’t handle it. Not now, not after this week. My heart beat so hard it hurt. I know happiness and I won’t trade it in. No, I won’t. I choose to be strong and free. I believe in roses. I believe in hope.

  At the next streetlight I’m getting out and running back to the school. Gabriela will still be there for me and she’ll take me home with her. Forever.

  “Hope. Hope.” The car had stopped. We were parked along the sidewalk. I could jump out right now, grab my bag off the backseat, and —

  “Hope.” Mom’s hand was on my knee. With her other hand she was offering me a Kleenex. I took the Kleenex and slowly wiped the tears from my cheek.

  Mom moved closer and put her arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Hope. I didn’t mean that. I — I’m —” She closed her eyes and I could feel her arm trembling through my T-shirt. “I’m taking Mrs. Nelson’s parenting class.” She laid her hand on top of mine. “I’ve already gone twice this week.”

  Her hand was warm and her bare arm felt soft on my neck. I didn’t know what to say, and it seemed she was trying to come up with something else.

  “I love that dress.” She pointed out the window. We were parked in front of Next to New. The mannequin in the display wore an airy chiffon dress covered with pale green, pink, and lavender flowers splashed together like a painting. The V-neck was lined with a floaty ruffle that went down the front, then scalloped along the hem.

  “We’re having a Southern Plantation party at work next
Friday and we’re supposed to dress accordingly.”

  I strained to see inside the store but couldn’t get past the dreamy dress and backdrop.

  “Any chance you can work here before Friday so I can get it half off?”

  I stared at the dress and words spun in my head. Parenting class. Twice a week. Work. Next to New. Dress. Parenting class. My jaw relaxed and somehow the words came out. “I think so.”

  When we drove into the garage Mom turned off the car, but I couldn’t move. My body that had hiked and climbed and crawled and sang and shouted had quit on me.

  “Come on, let’s get you inside before you fall asleep.” Mom got out of the car and opened the kitchen door. I followed, banging my bag through the door, dropping it on the floor next to the table.

  “I mixed a pitcher of lemonade,” Mom said. She moved to the refrigerator and I about fainted. There, on the refrigerator door, was purple paper with Mom’s out-lined hand, her name signed and dated. She’d taken the pledge! I tried to imagine it: Mom standing in a classroom with other parents, raising her hand, and saying, “I will not use my hands or my words for hurting myself or others.”

  I fell into a chair, laid my head on my folded arms, and smiled. Maybe I’d sleep here tonight.

  Ice clinked in the glass as Mom set it in front of me. She sat down across the table. “I watered your rose-bush while you were gone.”

  “Thank you.” Please, God, let this be for real. Please.

  “We should plant it, don’t you think? Maybe by the front door? Or do you like the back door better?”

  Panic. If I planted my rosebush, then I’d have to dig it up if I needed to leave in a hurry.

  “Hope?”

  I settled my chin in my hands and looked at her. She was pretty in the blue and white dress. And I hadn’t noticed until now she’d cut her hair. Not a lot, but I could tell.