Something Like Hope

by Shawn Goodman

  42

  Today Cinda calls. She says the hospital is great. “People are so nice here, Shavonne,” she says. “There’s this boy. We’ve got so much in common, Shavonne. He tried to kill himself too! You’d really like him, I know you would.” I play along. Why the hell not? Why shouldn’t these two people on the edge of insanity and suicide find comfort in each other?

  Cinda changes the subject. “Shavonne, what happened to the geese? Are they okay? You didn’t let anything happen to them, did you?”

  I nearly drop the phone, even though I knew she’d ask. What am I supposed to do: be honest with her and risk her having another breakdown? I lie and tell her the eggs haven’t hatched yet. I think she believes me, but she sounds worried.

  “They should have hatched by now. Promise me, Shavonne, that you’ll keep an eye on them and protect them. It’s up to you to make sure that they’re okay. I got to go. Love you. Bye!”

  She hangs up and is gone. For some reason, I don’t think I’ll ever hear from her again. And this makes me sad. I’m afraid for her because she’s so fragile. I’m afraid that the world just doesn’t accept fragile people like Cinda and Mary. It chews them up or squashes them into the ground.

  43

  My hair is beginning to fall out in clumps. My mind races all day and half the night. I try to go over all the things I’m supposed to do to get out of here, but mostly I cook up scenarios where everything goes bad.

  Tonight, though, I think about Cinda’s geese. Is there any chance that they’re alive? Maybe some of them made it. Or am I just being stupid and naive? Cyrus will know. Tomorrow I’ll ask him.

  Before drifting off, I think about Jasmine. Does she remember me? Does she think about me, or is the foster mother the only “mommy” she knows?

  Then I wonder about my mother. I try to picture her in a nice way, in a motherly way, but I can’t. Too much has happened. The memories start out with us taking a walk to a park or the basketball courts, but then she leaves me with somebody. Leaves me with strangers. “I’ll be back, baby. Don’t get in no trouble.” That’s what she’d say when she’d go off to get high. Did she ever love me? Or was I an afterthought, something to get rid of? I don’t think she liked me. Maybe I wasn’t likable. Probably I wasn’t.

  44

  At dawn, I get up and look across the bedroom toward the window. Prints of Cinda’s fingers and nose remain on the glass. Ghost prints. Smudged reminders of her. I’m tempted to look for the geese, just in case it was a mistake, like maybe they just hatched and are running around out there.

  But I decide that I won’t ask Cyrus about the geese because I can’t bear the answer. Not that I care so much about the actual birds. It’s more like I care about what they represent. Like the canaries or pigeons I read about that miners used to send down into the shafts. If the birds stayed alive, it meant the air was okay.

  I think the fate of Mary’s baby is tied to the fate of the hatchlings. Because if a bunch of fucking bird eggs can’t survive in this stinking place, then how will a baby? And if Mary’s baby doesn’t survive, then what chance do the rest of us girls have?

  It’s a messed-up way to think, I know. But I can’t stop. I look again toward the window and imagine that, below, coyotes and foxes are feasting on eggs and feathers. A shiver runs through me because of what might be out there. Plus it’s so damn cold. It makes me think that nothing can survive for long here.

  I am becoming superstitious. I look for signs in everything. Hawks, crows, and foxes are all death signs. Mary’s big belly should be a sign of birth, life, or beauty, but it’s not. Instead it’s a sign of disaster. Birth defects, stillbirth, foster care. Where are the good signs? Where is something beautiful? I really need something beautiful right now.

  45

  It’s the three-to-eleven shift and Ms. Choi is glaring at me. She came in messed-up-looking, like she hadn’t slept or showered, bags under her eyes, shirt untucked. Whenever she bends over or reaches for something, the shirt rides up, showing the tattoo on the small of her back. It says Tony in dark green letters. She’s got stretch marks on the fat around her waist. I now know that Tony is the name of the guard she’s been screwing. Tony Kowalski. Some name.

  Things aren’t looking good for me on this shift. The two guards are Choi and Ms. Williams. It’s Ms. Williams’s first shift back since the sandwich incident. She ignores me for a while, then calls me into the staff office. She’s jumpy and nervous, like just the sight of me makes her upset.

  “You sit there and listen and don’t say a word. Don’t you dare try to apologize ’cause I don’t want it. If you understand me, you can nod.”

  Her voice cracks at this last part. I nod. I am ashamed. I hate myself and that makes me angry, but this talk is not really for me. It’s for her, so she can get back to her work and put it behind her. This is fair. More than fair. So I look down at my feet to make it easier for Ms. Williams to talk. She starts to get her rhythm. Her voice becomes stronger.

  “I know you got problems, Shavonne, but I don’t give a damn no more. You’re on your own. You wanna hate people who got nothin’ to do with the reasons you’re messed up? Go ahead. But keep your fuckin’ hands off me and the people I work with. You do whatever the hell you want when you leave the Center. But while you’re here, stay out of my way and don’t ask me for nothin’. If I tell you to do somethin’, all I want to hear from you is ‘Yes, Ms. Williams.’ ”

  She stops talking and I say, “Yes, Ms. Williams.” I move toward the door with my head down.

  “Sit down, girl! I ain’t through yet.” In a panicked tone now, eyes watery, losing control. “Shavonne, I helped deliver your baby! I was there, remember? I was there when she came into this world and took her first breath. And I was there when the nurses took her away from you and it looked like your soul broke in two. Remember? And I cried with you, Shavonne, and I prayed for you every day. Did you know that? Every day I said a prayer for you and your baby.”

  She pauses and looks out the window. I can’t tell if she’s still crying. I make a decision: if she hits me, I’m not going to fight back. I’m not going to press charges, either. I will give up control, like Delpopolo says.

  “I never expected nothin’ in return ’cause I thought it was my responsibility as a woman to the next generation of women. But you gave me somethin’ back, Shavonne. You gave me a black eye, a concussion, and two loose teeth. That’s what I got for bein’ there for you. So fuck you! You hurt people and don’t even care. What kind of person does that? A psycho. A person with no feelings. A taker. Go. Get out of here!”

  I stagger out of the office like I’ve been beaten with something heavy. Everything Ms. Williams said is true. If she hurt me, then it was with truth. She was there for me when I really needed somebody. I had never even asked for her help. She just knew. In my worst moment, when they took my baby, she was there. Not my mother. Not my father. It had only been Ms. Williams.

  Am I a taker? Do I have no feelings? What does sorry feel like, anyway? What’s it supposed to feel like? I don’t know. I know when I’m supposed to feel sorry. Then it gets twisted up inside of me and I think, I’m supposed to be sorry? Well, fuck that! Fuck you if you think I’m going to feel sorry for you.

  On the unit, everyone is looking at me. Most of the girls like Ms. Williams. She shares her books, braids our hair, and rents cool movies for us to watch. The girls liked the distraction of the fight, too, but now they are righteous and outraged, thinking about all the nice things Ms. Williams does for them. They glare and suck their teeth. If there were a pile of stones nearby I’d get blasted. I’d be covered with welts in a heartbeat.

  But there’s a different kind of punishment waiting for me in the form of Ms. Choi. I clear my head of this business with Ms. Williams, because I need to pay attention. I need to stay on my toes.

  46

  “What about your father, Shavonne?” Delpopolo is grim.

  “What about him?” I’ve learned Delpopolo�
�s trick of answering a question with a question.

  “Is he alive?”

  “No. And I don’t want to talk about him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t think about him. So why should I talk about him? Just because you want me to?”

  “Did he hurt you?”

  “He wasn’t around enough to hurt me. He was never around. Never. Not ever.”

  I wait for the next question, but Mr. D sits there like a stone, looking at me, hands in his lap. I get the idea. He wants me to talk about how it all makes me feel. Shrink bullshit. I go mute and we sit, each refusing to speak. It is uncomfortable. I want to stop playing games. I am tired of games, even my own.

  After a few minutes I talk. I just don’t give a shit anymore. He wants me to talk, I’ll talk.

  “He was in jail when I was born. Drugs, I think. Other stuff too, I’m sure. But nobody tells me.”

  Delpopolo nods and plays with his fountain pen. It’s a nice one: real silver with delicate filigree. He offers it to me and I take it. I’ve never held one before, and the ink flows out smoothly as I sketch how I think my father would look if he were alive. The eyes come out hard and mean-looking, which doesn’t fit with my memory. I keep talking. The words spill out and I listen to them as though they belong to someone else.

  “He used to write me letters from prison. They were nice letters too. He called me Princess and Sweet Pea. It made me feel good at the time, because I was living in a foster home. I had this fantasy that my daddy would come and rescue me. Every night I imagined him kicking the living shit out of my foster mother’s boyfriend. Then he’d take me away and we’d live happily ever after.”

  “Didn’t happen?”

  “No. He got sick in prison and died before he ever got paroled. Liver disease or something. He never rescued me.”

  I scratch out the picture of my father and move on to a profile of Mary with her bulging belly. I’m talking easily now. I am telling my story, the story of how I came to be this way: a messed-up, ungrateful person. A taker. A person without feelings. I tell Delpopolo this is how I feel.

  Delpopolo says, “It’s not so. You’re numb, and that’s different from having no feelings. Kids your age only go numb because they have to—when that’s the only thing that makes sense.

  “When a life becomes unlivable,” he says, “you have to go numb.”

  “Then how do I get better? How do I change?”

  “By talking and feeling. And thinking. You’re doing a fine job of that right now. Please, go on.”

  But I’ve run out of words, and images. I give him back his fountain pen.

  47

  Ms. Choi glares at me with evil crazy eyes. She’s made a half-assed attempt to put herself together, but the effect is grotesque: lipstick and mascara applied in thick uneven strokes. Maybe her hand is unsteady from drinking or not sleeping. I don’t know. But she’s staring at me, smiling. It’s a predator’s smile, like a hyena’s. I saw a hyena at the zoo once. It had gone insane. Its pen was too small and it paced endlessly. Ms. Choi isn’t doing anything like that. She sits perfectly still, but the grin is the same as the crazy hyena’s.

  She points to a desk chair in front of her and says, “Sit.” I do as I’m told. Ms. Choi stands up, maybe expecting some kind of fight. She turns to the rest of the girls and addresses them.

  “All of yous turn in and mind your own business. You all gonna get sore necks rubberneckin’ like that!”

  The girls roll their eyes and open their paperbacks from library class. They disappear into their romances, horror books, street stories. Ms. Choi leans over and whispers, “I got your number, Shavonne. You can expect it any day now. It’s a fact.”

  48

  Meal call is serious. Everybody is hungry and so we don’t fuck around. Instead of teasing each other and complaining, we line up and wait to move. When the cue comes over the radio “Unit cleared to move to cafeteria,” a guard says, “Go on, move!” and we all start walking.

  In the Center, you always have a specific place in line. I’m number eleven, so I fall in behind number ten, Kiki. Mary is number twelve, so she stands behind me. Only, today, Ms. Choi puts her hand on Mary’s shoulder and says, “You’re going to be number fifteen today, dear.”

  Number fifteen, Edna, is a chubby girl with a wild Afro that sticks straight up in the air. Edna is strange. She talks so fast that no one can understand her. She moves near Mary and starts dancing in place, snapping her fingers, waiting for Mary to move.

  None of this is unusual. Guards switch us around all the time if we’re arguing or talking. Edna knows this and is simply entertaining herself while waiting. She doesn’t see or notice the scared look on Mary’s face, but I do. I know that she is having trouble doing the math of the switch, subtracting twelve from fifteen, then counting off by that number from her present position. So she just stands there, immobile, looking like a statue of a fourteen-year-old pregnant retarded girl who is confused and scared.

  Ms. Choi is staring at me. I see now what’s going on, how she’s working on Mary, my new roommate, thinking it will get to me. I twitch, trying to keep the rage inside me, but Choi breathes in my anxiety like a snake tasting the air. She’s set this whole thing up perfectly. It’s her disgusting masterpiece.

  She takes a few steps back. Her eyes stay fixed on me because she’s not taking any chances. A couple of guards, big boys with thumbs looped in their thick black leather belts, lurk down the hallway. They’ve got Choi’s back.

  “Mary, honey.” She is being oh so sweet! “What’s the problem? You have to change places in line with Edna so we can all go to dinner. Now move!”

  Mary starts moving, then stops. She looks over at me for help, but I look away. All she has to do to break the spell is talk. She can say “I don’t know where to go,” or “I don’t know how to subtract and then add,” or “I’m confused.” She can move back in line and slide in where number fourteen, Jovanna, and number sixteen, Christie, have already made space.

  But the spell is strong and she continues to stand there. Choi’s plan is a clever one. In a girl like Mary, confusion and embarrassment get manufactured into defiance. And defiance is all the fuel Ms. Choi needs to take this further.

  “All right, Mary.” The tone is different. There’s an edge to it. No longer is it sugary sweet. “You’re holdin’ us up! Why? ’Cause you won’t follow simple instructions. We’ll just have to move you, then.”

  Choi nods to Ms. Swain, a short dumpy-looking white woman with a puckered face and bleached hair. Female guards are supposed to do the restraining whenever possible—too many lawsuits with the men. That’s why Choi motions for Swain instead of one of the big boys, who I see moving closer. They’re free to jump in if the women have any trouble.

  Swain moves to grab one of Mary’s arms. But as soon as she touches Mary, the spell breaks and the girl screams, “Don’t touch me! Don’t you touch me! Leave me alone!”

  She’s screaming and crying and completely out of control. It looks like her nightmares, only she’s awake. She covers her face with her hands; her T-shirt rides up, showing her ripe belly. It’s pathetic and we all know it. These guards are committing a terrible sin and they’re making us all watch. No, it’s worse than pathetic, because they’re making us play a part.

  The other girls are starting to get anxious. Some blame Mary and mutter things like “Dang, she mad stupid. Why don’t she just do what she say and move?” Others side with Mary and say, “Jesus! Just leave her alone!” At this point, Choi pulls me out of line and turns me around to face the wall.

  “You just stand there, girl! Don’t look behind and don’t say nothin’.” I look at the wall and try hard to control my breathing. The spot on my upper arm where she touched me is burning. I want to smash her skull so badly, but I know she’s counting on that. That’s her plan: to get me pissed enough to attack. And she’s just standing there, waiting, daring me to do it.

  I try hard to pict
ure my daughter’s face smiling at me, but I can’t. All I see is the face of Connie saying, “That’s okay, Shavonne. Jasmine is fine with me. We love each other, right, Jasmine? She wants to stay with me, so you go ahead and beat this woman’s ass. She deserves it. It’s okay.”

  Now I can’t see anything but the wall. I can hear Mary, though, cursing and struggling. What’s happening? There are a couple of dull thuds. Are they really taking down a pregnant retarded girl?

  “Mary!” I scream. I start to turn my head to see what’s happening. The other girls are agitated too. Some are breathing quickly; others are crying and getting angry themselves. That’s how it is: fear, helplessness, and rage all mix together until the whole thing blows, until the hearts and souls of these girls break apart into tiny pieces.

  My body turns to follow my head. I get a glimpse of a pile of people on the floor. I see Mary, Swain, and the big boys. But where’s Choi? I move closer to the struggling screaming mess of bodies on the floor. I can’t see Mary. I hear her muffled screams, but I can’t find her. Something heavy hits me in the back of my head and I black out.

  49

  In room confinement again, my head is pounding. Two nurses are there and they tell me I’ve got a concussion. “You need to take it easy, young lady.”

  The nurses are from a temp agency. The Center can’t get any nurses to stay, so they hire whoever’s available short-term. This means there’s a steady stream of new nurses who really don’t know us kids or even how things are supposed to be done. Which in a way means they’re nice.

  “Where’s Mary?” I try to sit up but my head explodes with pain.

  Rather than answer me, the two nurses give each other a look. It’s not a good look, and the older one only answers when I try to get up again.