Something Like Hope

by Shawn Goodman

  “How can parents take care of and protect their daughters when they’re using crack?” he asks.

  “They can’t,” I answer between sobs.

  “What happens to eleven- and twelve-year-old girls when their mothers are on crack and can’t protect them?”

  “They get raped.”

  In this way, he explains why what happened to me happened. He says, “Your problems—bad dreams, anger, spacing out—they don’t mean that there’s anything wrong with you as a person. They’re just what happens when someone lives through terrible things. They’re normal reactions to a really abnormal and awful childhood.” He keeps explaining and asking questions until it starts to make sense. Even hearing voices can be okay, as long as I know it’s just a part of me that is trying to protect me. It’s not necessarily crazy, he says. I’ve never had this kind of conversation before. I’ve thought things that were all wrong, and the other therapists just made it worse. They were more interested in the ugly details of who did what than in me as a person.

  I’m not saying that Delpopolo is helping me. Because I’m no less miserable than I was before I started seeing him. If anything, I’m worse, because I’ve been thinking of things I never let myself think about before. But I will say that some of it makes sense. In my head it’s starting to make sense. But in my heart … it’s still confusing, and it still hurts too much.

  26

  Cinda is now an expert on geese. She’s got a library book on North American waterfowl. Our library is mostly filled with out-of-print books that people have thrown away. There’s nothing fun to read, like horror stories or sexy romances, but if you want a book on the life of Ronald Reagan or North American waterfowl, you’re in business.

  Cinda watches the geese through our bedroom window. If you press your face against the glass (which leaves oily nose- and fingerprints), you can see the nest. It’s at the edge of the pond, a hundred feet away, close enough to count the eggs. Cinda says it’s called a clutch of eggs, in this case eight. She says if you’re patient enough, you can see the mother get off the nest every now and then to drink water and crap. Cinda uses these moments to count the eggs, just to make sure they’re all there.

  She reports to me every evening about her latest discoveries.

  “Shavonne, the male caught five fish today. He ate two and gave three to the female!” “Shavonne, from my math the eggs should hatch in less than two weeks!”

  In a way it’s cool because it gives us something new to talk about. The geese don’t have anything to do with this shitty place. They live here too, but they can fly away. Once the goslings hatch and grow, Cinda tells me, that’s just what they’ll do: fly away.

  27

  A new girl was admitted to the Center today. She’s fourteen years old, from the city. Her name is Mary and she’s mentally retarded. She has that fetal alcohol look, with the wide-spaced eyes and flattened nose. Her mouth hangs open and she talks with a lisp, though she doesn’t talk much that I can see. Mary tells us she doesn’t know why she’s here and didn’t do anything wrong. She says, “I want my stuffed bear, Jojo, but they won’t let me have him.”

  Lots of girls in here are slow. They cover it by fighting or talking up the gang shit. But it’s pretty obvious when someone is retarded. They can’t read or tell time. The judges lock these girls up just as quickly as they do ones like Tyreena and me. Usually their crimes are prostitution or running drugs for some guy. I feel sorry for them because it’s not their fault. But then again, I have enough to worry about. What the hell can I do for some retarded girl anyway?

  When I look at Mary, though, all my hardness goes out the window. Right off I see that she’s several months along. A skinny little thing with a big belly and swollen breasts. She has a woman’s body, but her face looks like a child’s. She wears this dumb smile like she trusts everyone and wants to be friends. If you could see that face, open and with the dumb fucking smile, it’s as if she’s been sent to this world as a test for all of us. God’s saying, “Treat this girl well and in her own way, she will look after you. She will be the test of goodness among you. Love her, and above all else, protect her. Because if she is harmed …” That’s what I’m afraid of, because this girl will be harmed here. I can sense it.

  She stands looking straight at me, smiling, with her hands on her belly. It’s the most innocent smile I’ve ever seen. I look away and then storm off. This girl, this Mary, is bad news. You just wait and see. She’s not smart enough to protect herself, and some girl, like Coffee or China, or one of the guards, is going to use her up. And I have to either watch it all play out or get involved. Like I’m going to get involved in this Mary’s shit. Fuck that. Next time she flashes me that smile I’m going to knock it off her damn face.

  But at bedtime, I find myself thinking about her and her baby. I say a silent prayer for her even though I stopped believing in God a long time ago. I never pray for myself because it doesn’t do any good, but maybe it can work if you do it for someone else.

  28

  This is my next assignment: to write about a woman I’ve felt safe with.

  It’s June 7, 2002. I’m at the hospital in the maternity ward. I’m almost sixteen years old and it’s my first year in lockup. They tried to send me to a group home where I could have the baby and then learn how to be a mother, but I was too messed up. I didn’t follow the rules and eventually tried to run away.

  After the cops picked me up (pretty hard for a pregnant runaway to stay on the down-low; maybe I should have thought of that before I ran), they took me to the Center. I stayed there until it was time to deliver. Then, when my water broke during lunch (pizza squares and Tater Tots), they took me in shackles to the local hospital. Once I was there, the shackles came off and everybody treated me differently.

  Ms. Williams stayed with me the whole time. Even though it took twenty hours and she has children of her own to look after.

  I was assigned to this big fat nurse who was also a midwife. She was the only black nurse in the whole hospital, and I think she took a special interest in me. She said some really beautiful things to me that I will never forget. Her name was Mona.

  When Mona met me, she took my own bony hands in her large soft ones and said, “Child, if I’m gonna help you have this baby, then we need to git a few things straight. First off, I know where you come from. You come from that prison for kids. And that means that you done something wrong or somebody done something wrong to you. And here you are, still a child yourself, yet gettin’ ready to have your own child.”

  I wanted to interrupt, but I found that I couldn’t speak. She rubbed my hands so gently, talking in this gospel-like voice, singsongy and sweet. I just listened like a little girl at story time. Those hands of hers must have been magic.

  Mona said, “Child, I done wrong too and, you know what? Don’t nobody care. Least of all God. And if God don’t care ’bout that, then why should any smaller peoples care? Certainly don’t nobody here at this hospital care what you done. You just another woman ready to bring a new person into this world. And sugar, that’s the most beautiful thing ever! You’ll see. And when you do, I’ll be right here with you.” She said this last part like she knew it to be true. Like she could see the end of the story and she knew it was a good story with a happy ending. Like she was amused at my distress because she knew it would all work out.

  Mona was very busy with her nurse’s duties. She bustled about the delivery room and talked constantly. She gossiped about famous people like Martin Lawrence and Denzel Washington. She said she wanted to have them both as lovers: the first to make her feel good with laughter, the second to make her feel good “any damn way he wants to!” She talked about the food she cooked at home and how maybe I could come over for a holiday dinner with my baby after I got out of the Center. She said the white nurses and doctors gave her grief because she got too close to the patients. At this she huffed and said, “Shoooot, girl, you cain’t get any closer to a person than when you hel
p bring they baby into the world! Got your hands up in they business, that’s how close you git! It don’t make no sense not to get to know them and let them know you.”

  Then Mona sat down on the edge of my bed and took my hands in hers again. She said, “Shavonne, I am a big black woman from South Carolina. Where I come from, there’s plenty of girls your age who make babies. Sometimes they married. Not often, but sometimes. And sometimes they been raped. And sometimes they been screwin’ with boys because they wants to.” It seemed like the more she talked to me, the heavier her accent became. I don’t know if it was from the medication I had been given, but it was kind of surreal. Mona’s words and voice hypnotized me. I felt warm and safe and happy.

  Before I went into labor, she said, “Sugar, you listen careful to Mona now. Listen careful and remember these words. Young child, you are special because of what you been through … and also because of what you’re gonna do in your life. I see it in your face. You’re gonna have lots more troubles for sure, but I see that you’re gonna grow up to be a strong and righteous woman. Strong and righteous! And you got to remember that this child that’s gettin’ ready to meet you is part of you. To hell with all them men that call theyselves fathers. Sperm don’t mean shit! Every man’s got it. This one is your baby. God gave her to you. You hear me? God gave you this baby girl. Now try your best to take care of her. And if you cain’t take care of her, then find somebody good who will.”

  The strangest part is that I didn’t know I was having a girl ahead of time. I didn’t think Mona knew either, but I guess she did. She probably had access to some records or tests. But sometimes I like to think that she just knew because of something deeper. Maybe something more spiritual. Like Mona is my protector. A large black woman who is strong and righteous, like she said I’d be, but also soft and gentle. I like to think that she is still out there somewhere and that I might see her again. I still have fantasies about this.

  I imagine that I wait for her outside the hospital one day. She comes out after her shift, tired, heading for the subway. I come up behind her and call her name. When she turns, I say, “Hey, Mona, you remember me?” She sees me, smiles, then takes me in her arms and holds me so tight that I can’t help but feel that everything will be okay. From this point on, it will be okay. At the end of the fantasy she says something like, “Girl, where you been? How many years gone by and I been waitin’ all along! Now let’s go home.”

  29

  I’m brought to answer another call from Susan, the DSS worker. After some small talk she says I’ve got to appear in court just before my eighteenth birthday. It’s time to decide what to do with Jasmine. Guardianship, they call it.

  I don’t have much to say to Susan. The silence makes her nervous, I can tell. She doesn’t want to end the conversation on a bad note and asks stupid questions. How’s school? Is it getting cold up there?

  I tell her I have to go.

  This means I’ve got six months. Time is running out. I’ve got to fix things. I don’t have a plan yet, but I’ve decided to get real with Mr. D. Maybe he can help me. If anyone can, it will be someone like him—someone with sad eyes and a life that’s not all perfect and happy. Someone who might actually be able to understand. Not just that, but he seems to know things, like how to quiet your mind when the same crazy thoughts run over and over. Or how to accept something that isn’t fair. I need to learn how to do these things. I’m going to try harder. It’s a promise to myself. And to Jasmine.

  30

  “You have a child, right?” Delpopolo asks, but it’s not really a question. “Will you tell me about her?”

  “Sure, if you tell me about your kids, Mr. D.”

  “Okay, I have a daughter. What’s your daughter’s name?”

  “Jasmine. She’s twenty-three months old. I had her when I was almost sixteen. Yours?”

  “Cynthia. She doesn’t live with me anymore. I’m divorced. Do you miss Jasmine?”

  I am surprised that Mr. D is telling me this much about his family. When I was sick, he told me about his mother and the soup, but that’s all he’s said about his personal life.

  “Yes. But I never even got to know her well. I’ve seen her during visits, and I have some pictures. Do you miss your daughter?”

  “I do. I really do. She’s a terrific kid. Where’s Jasmine’s father?”

  “I don’t know. He was a loser, but because he was older and had a nice car and flashy clothes, I thought … I don’t know what I thought. That maybe he cared about me.”

  “But he didn’t?

  “No. Not really. He didn’t even come to the hospital when she was born. Then he got arrested, and I haven’t seen him or heard from him since. What about Cynthia’s mother?”

  “Gone away. To California.” Mr. D is quiet for a minute. Then he gathers himself with what looks like tremendous effort and continues. “Tell me what’s special about Jasmine.”

  It’s the first time I’ve been asked this kind of question. It’s such a simple question, but I don’t know the answer. I can say stupid things like “she’s cute” or “she’s so sweet,” but those are clichés.

  “I don’t know, Mr. D. I don’t know what’s special about her other than she’s pure and innocent and beautiful the way all babies are. But it’s so hard for me to think about her as a person, separate from me and my problems. It’s all a big knot of problems.”

  Mr. D is quiet again, so I go on. “I’m not a good mother, Mr. D. It doesn’t matter how special Jasmine is because I can’t really appreciate her. If I did, we’d be together.”

  “I can see how you’d think that, but it’s circular logic. It doesn’t float.”

  “What do you mean, ‘doesn’t float’?”

  “It doesn’t hold water. It’s no good.”

  “Why?”

  “Because. It always leads back to the starting place. You’re here because you’re a bad person, because only bad people get sent here. It’s circular and doesn’t prove anything.”

  “It makes sense to me.”

  “Listen, do you ever have fantasies or daydreams about you and your daughter together?”

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m not lying and I’m not playing any games with you, Mr. D. I just don’t think about it.”

  “Why?” He asks this question in the mildest and most curious way. It’s like he really wants to know and isn’t leading me toward some point where he’ll say, “You see? That’s because …” There’s no bullshit moral or lesson. He just wants to know why.

  “Because … I won’t let myself. I want to, but there’s no point.”

  “Why won’t you let yourself have fantasies about being with your daughter?” Again with the “why’s.”

  “Because if I can’t do my job as a mother and actually be with her, then I don’t deserve to have the fantasies. And there’s a part of me that thinks I can’t really handle it. Giving Jasmine to me would be like giving an alcoholic a drink and saying, ‘Hold it, but don’t taste.’ ”

  “Okay. You won’t let yourself think about your daughter because you’re too afraid of the feelings that come with it. You’re afraid they’ll destroy you.” I just look at him and say nothing. He continues.

  “To get out of here and get back your daughter, Shavonne, you have to feel. You have to experience all the emotions that people have, not just anger and fear.”

  “You think all I feel is anger and fear?” I feel both of those emotions right now. Sweat trickles down my armpits and soaks my bra. I listen for the voice in my head to tell me to leave. But I also keep that voice at bay, because this might be my last chance. Is it my last chance? The voice hears this and screams at me.

  “Look at him, Vonne! Is he strong? Can he protect you? He’s getting paid, for Christ’s sake! He gets a fucking check to say this shit to you.” The voice is mean, driving home the points like sharp blows. “It’s his job! You get it? It’s his fucking job. He don’t care about you. I�
�m the only one who cares about you, right Vonne?”

  This is why Mr. D asked permission to talk so straight. He must have known I’d react this way. It’s like I found this door where the voice lives and I want to shut that door for good, and I think Mr. D is trying to help me.

  He says softly, “Shavonne, are you still here with me right now? I need you to stay here with me and talk this through.”

  He looks at me with concern. I’m quiet, but I’ve still got his question in my mind. I wait to hear the voice. It is gone. Slowly, carefully, I calm down, and it’s like I’m floating back into my body that is talking to Mr. D.

  “Okay, so I’m angry and scared. Lots of people are angry and scared. You mean to tell me that you’re never angry and scared?”

  “Yeah, I get angry and scared. But I have other feelings too. And I don’t try to avoid them. Listen, Shavonne, it’s not okay to be angry and scared all the time. You’ve got to see that.”

  “Or else?” I know Mr. D doesn’t want to hear this from me, but I think of that voice locked in a room, the doorknob starting to turn. I picture it as an old brass knob, dented in a couple of places, cold and slippery in my hand. It turns with a slow and steady force that will soon overpower me.

  “There’s no ‘or else.’ You either choose one way or the other. And the choice sets you in a certain direction.”

  I close my eyes and try to focus on breathing. My balled fists tingle. Mr. D waves a hand in front of my face and says gently, “Shavonne, talk to me. I’m sitting right across from you. It’s just you and me in this room.”

  For better or worse, I tell Mr. D about the voice and the door. I am fearful of the standard talk about medication, atypical antipsychotics, and whatever diagnosis he thinks is right for me. I could take a script for Zyprexa, which makes you gain weight, or Risperdal, which makes you lactate. It even does that to boys.