Something Like Hope

by Shawn Goodman

“She’s at the emergency room. They just want to make sure her baby’s okay. There was a lot of excitement today.”

  A lot of excitement? Is that what you call it? Excitement?

  But I say nothing because it’s all clear now. There’s payback for everything, and I just got mine. Mary got hers, too, except she wasn’t guilty of anything. They couldn’t hurt me anymore, so they tied this other girl to me … made me feel the slightest bit responsible for her and then they hurt her. I tried my best to stay clear of Mary, but in the end, it didn’t matter.

  I cover my face with my hands and lie there for the rest of the day. I try not to think about Mary and her baby. She’s got to be so scared. She won’t understand what’s happening or know what to do about it.

  50

  I return to my room high on Vicodin. My right eye is turning black and purple. One cheek is swollen, and the other has a rug burn that looks like raw meat. I run my fingers lightly over a puffy line on my chin; it has been closed up with stitches. I look at myself in the mirror and I look really bad.

  Later, at my desk at school, I find an illiterate letter from Tyreena:

  Yo, I ain’t sayin I be ur friend or nothin’, but that shit with Mary be fucked up! If u wanna get back at u know who, I help. Just give me them pills and I take care of the thing.

  I shred the letter. It seems like a good plan, but I can’t give her the pills. The nurses said they’re a narcotic and I can get a drug charge if I misuse them. Tyreena is looking at me, trying to get my attention. She mouths the words “You down?” I ignore her, knowing that this will earn me yet another enemy. Why not? Line ’em up.

  In my room later, still high on painkillers, I look out the window constantly, even though I know they’re gone. A floodlight shines bright on the empty nest. There’s nothing left but bits of straw and some scattered feathers. Nothing good or new can survive in this place. Not the geese. Not Mary’s baby. Not me.

  51

  Bad nightmares on the pills. In one dream my mother is having sex with a disgusting man. They’re on a bed in a cheap motel and the man is doing her from behind. My mother’s belly is huge because she’s pregnant and it looks really creepy because the rest of her body is skinny. The man is banging away at her and she’s laughing and talking dirty to him, but I can tell from the look on her face that she is not into it, she’s just thinking about the crack she’ll buy later.

  I can see all this happening like I’m watching it on a TV screen. The bare mattress is stained with sweat and semen. I want to leave the room, but I can’t because it occurs to me that the baby inside my mother is me. It’s me inside her, and this awful man is trying to get at me. He’s poking at me with his penis, and I see now that I’ve never been safe. Not even from the beginning. I never had a chance.

  52

  Delpopolo winces at the sight of my face. He says, “Who did this to you?”

  “Ms. Choi.”

  “I heard about Mary, but I didn’t know you were hurt as well. What happened?”

  Delpopolo looks upset, but not with me. It’s strange that he doesn’t have all the information. I wonder why. Nothing seems to make sense.

  “It’s a long story and I’m tired. I’ve messed things up so bad, Mr. D. There’s no way to fix it. It’s over.”

  “You have a plan to get back at her?”

  “Yeah. No. I mean, I did, but not anymore. I can think of a million reasons why that woman deserves to go down, but I just don’t feel like doing it myself. It’s like, I know I’m her enemy, but I don’t know if she’s mine.”

  He sits silent for a long time. Then he says, “I’ve got to make some phone calls, Shavonne. I’ll talk to you later and tell you what I’m doing. You should know that Mary’s going to be okay.”

  “The baby?”

  He pauses. “Rapid heart rate, so they’re going to monitor Mary at the hospital for a couple of days. Then she can come back.”

  It’s better than I expected, but it’s still not good. Delpopolo calls for a guard to come get me. Normally I would argue and try to find out his plan. But I am too depressed to even care. I’m going to go to my room and sleep until the guards wake me for dinner, which I probably will not eat.

  I don’t know how long I’ve been out, because it’s that heavy stuporous kind of sleep where your mind completely turns off. No dreams. No nothing. I wake slowly to Cyrus banging on my door. “Wake up, Shavonne,” he says. “I got something to tell you and you better listen up.”

  And for some strange reason, even though I’m depressed beyond caring, depressed beyond listening, I swing the door open. I sit on the edge of my bed and listen.

  “Back in that van with Cinda, you did good. You did real good. I needed some help and you came through big time.”

  I don’t know what to say, so I stay silent. He stands in the doorway, shifting nervously back and forth in his big scuffed work boots. He looks uneasy having this conversation, but he also looks determined, like he’s not leaving until he says what’s on his mind.

  “So if you ever need help, I’ll make sure and be there for you.”

  I try to get the energy to thank him, but no words come out.

  Just before leaving he turns and says, “Oh, in case you’re wondering, them goslings made it. They followed their parents downstream to a bigger pond where it’s safer. The feathers are just fluff from the nest. Probably raccoons nosing around in it hoping for an egg or two.”

  53

  Connie, my daughter’s foster mother, calls me today. I’m so low I don’t even have the energy to give her a hard time.

  “Hi, Shavonne. How are you doing?”

  “Not too good, Connie. How’s Jasmine? Can I talk to her?”

  “Jasmine’s fine. You can talk to her, but I thought we could talk first. Is that okay?”

  “Sure.” I don’t say anything else. If she’s got something on her agenda then she’s going to have to come out with it.

  “Shavonne, I know you think I’m trying to take your daughter away from you.” Long pause so that I can say this isn’t so. I let the pause hang till she gets the point.

  “Well, that’s not my plan, Shavonne. I just want to make sure she’s safe and happy. Don’t you want that too?”

  I hang up in anger and then remember I was supposed to talk to Jasmine. This will be another mark against me as a mother, hanging up on my weekly phone call. Fuck it. I give up.

  54

  Mr. Delpopolo sits behind his desk, smiling. In front of him is a package about the size of a book, wrapped in shiny red paper. “For you,” he says.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Okay, I’ll just give it to Kiki instead. She can trade it for five boxes of hair grease.”

  He’s still a wiseass, but I’m not in a joking mood. I work at the paper slowly, trying not to tear it because it’s so pretty. It’s been a long time since I got a present. Last year the Lion’s Club donated some gifts, but they weren’t wrapped. It was shampoo and soap and stuff like that. Nothing personal, like I hope this present will be.

  It’s actually three presents. The first is a beautiful handmade journal. It’s got a real leather cover, kind of plain but very classy. I run my fingers over the stitched design of a stick figure wearing a dress. It’s really cool and I love it. It’s so cool, I wouldn’t even know where to buy something like this. Also there’s a real fountain pen with extra ink cartridges. It’s just like Delpopolo’s. But the third present makes no sense to me. It’s a plain nine-by-twelve mailing envelope filled with papers. On the front it says my name.

  “What’s this?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “It looks like an envelope filled with paper. What’s going on, Mr. D?” The blood in my temples pounds and my heart fills with fear. I know instantly what is in the envelope. How could he do this to me? Why?

  “Shavonne, we’re almost out of time. Not just for today, but for good. We’ve got to finish. Do you understand?”

  �
��Yes.” I’m looking down now in total fear. I know he’s right, but I’m so scared. I undo the clasp on the envelope and slide out a couple of the reports. They’re stamped CONFIDENTIAL: PSYCHIATRIC REPORT in red ink. I pick them up with shaky hands.

  “What am I supposed to do with these, Mr. D?”

  “Whatever you want. It’s your history. You can read it, hang on to it, or put it through the shredder. This is the only copy, and the original will be sealed on your birthday, which is in one week, right?”

  “Do you do this with all your patients? Like a going-away present?” I don’t know what to do or say. Maybe if I keep talking it will become clear.

  “No. It’s actually against policy for me to give you these papers. But I think you need to see them, or at least hold them.”

  “Why?” I don’t really want to know why, but the question comes out anyway. “Why do I need to see them?”

  “Because there’s one last thing. Something you’ve avoided for a long time. It’s actually in the reports, and maybe seeing it there will make it easier to talk about.”

  Then there is silence. I push the beautiful journal and the fountain pen away from me. I will just get up and leave, walk out of the office and never come back. But my legs won’t work. They are not my legs. They are made of stone. I remain in the chair.

  I remember the “one last thing.” It’s from my first assignment, the one where I had to write the list of things I felt guilty about. I wrote down mostly typical delinquent-girl stuff: fighting, lying, stealing, skipping school, getting high, having sex, etc. Most of the girls in the Center could have written the same list. Except there was a blank spot on the list. I hadn’t been able to write the word because my brain wouldn’t even allow me to form the letters. But they’re forming now as I speak mechanically, like I am playing some prerecorded message:

  “I know what you want from me. I know what you want me to tell you about. It’s that thing that I kept off the list and never told anyone about. My secret. You want to hear it? You really want to hear it? Because so help me God, I’ll tell you.”

  “I want to hear it. It’s what we have to do today.”

  The sound of my voice is different. It’s like I’m in someone else’s body watching myself talk. My words are short, clipped. I must be going crazy. So this is what going crazy is like.

  “It’s winter, a long time ago. I’m real young, but I don’t know how young. Maybe six. I can’t explain why I’m not in school. Maybe I don’t go to school. I don’t know.”

  Delpopolo doesn’t say anything. He just sits there with his hands in his lap. Every now and then he shifts in his chair and the rickety thing squeaks like hell. And the whole time, he stares right at me like he’s saying “Go on with the story … I want to hear it.” But nobody wants to hear this story.

  “All I remember is it’s cold. So cold the baby is screaming and I can see my breath inside the apartment. The furnace is broken but the electricity works, so Mommy sets up a hot plate in the middle of the living room floor with a big pot of water. She says it will warm us up. She asks me to hold my baby brother, who is wrapped up in blankets. Then she goes out to do a trick and buy drugs. She’s been straight for a few days and it’s killing her. She practically throws the baby at me and runs out of the apartment. With no jacket on, just a T-shirt and skirt. It’s the last time I ever see her.”

  Delpopolo doesn’t even nod or say “Uh-huh” or “Go on” like he usually does. He doesn’t interrupt.

  “I do my best to sing a lullaby—’Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Momma’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.’ Only I change the words around to say ‘Hush, little baby, don’t you worry, momma’s gonna be back in a hurry.’ I know she’s not coming back, though. I sing mostly for myself because I’m cold and hungry and scared. I know the baby will wake up soon wanting something to eat and there’s nothing in the house. No food or milk.”

  Delpopolo takes off his tinted glasses and I see his eyes. They’re not mean or kind or anything. He’s looking at me without any judgment, which is good because I think I’d die if he got even the slightest bit upset or worried. I realize that I’ve become supersensitive to other people’s emotions. I’m always looking to see how they feel about me, like I can only see myself through others’ eyes.

  I notice that my heart is racing and my legs are shaking back and forth in the chair. I stop talking and feel so scared, like I’ve already said too much and damned myself forever. I won’t finish the story. I say to Delpopolo in a real low voice, “Please … Mr D, I don’t know what kind of life you’ve had, but …”

  And then he gets mad. For the first time, the big shrink shows his real self and says, “That’s right. You don’t know what kind of life I’ve had. I agree with you on that.”

  In a flash I am filled with rage.

  “Oh yeah? What kind of troubles have you had, Mr. D? Bad marriage? Child-support payments? Stuck in this hellhole with the rest of us? Well, at least you get to leave at night. At least you have choices. You can find a new wife and have a new family. You can walk out of here any day of the week.”

  His nostrils flare and an ugly vein pulses in his forehead. He jumps out of his chair, pointing his finger at me.

  “You don’t know who I am, Shavonne. Just because you overheard something or made some good guesses doesn’t mean that you know me. Because a person isn’t just the sum of their fuck-ups and their shame. I’m more than that, and so are you. That’s what I’ve been trying to teach you all these months. Now tell me the damn story.”

  55

  I just want him to leave me alone, to let me off the hook. It makes me want to curl up in a ball and die. Why is this fat prick pushing me around? The anger rises again and blankets the fear for another brief moment. I call up even more anger.

  “Fuck you, Delpopolo,” I say. “I’m through.” I stand up to leave, ready to blow right out of there. But then Delpopolo changes his tone. He doesn’t yell, but his voice gets stronger, like he’s ready for an argument.

  He says, “Fuck you too. You act so damn tough, but you can’t even do this one thing. If you’re so damn tough, then sit down and finish the story.”

  I scream, “Yeah, well, you don’t know what kind of life I’ve had! You have no fucking idea, Mr. D. If you did, you wouldn’t be asking me to go on!”

  His voice is calm now. Kind, almost. “It’s now or never, Shavonne. You can do this. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t believe you could. If you quit now,” he says, “you’re on your own.”

  It’s a threat that goes right through me like a bullet made of ice. It chills me with fear. I know what he says is true: this is my last chance. I need to tell this one last secret or it will probably destroy me. I try to bring back the hate and put it all on him, even though I know he hasn’t ever done anything to me. It’s confusing, and the stress is so intense that I feel like my nose will bleed. It’s not logical, but I see now that it’s him who raped me when I was eleven. It’s him who took me away from school in a cop car to a foster home where I was molested again. It’s him who burned my arms with matches for crying too much. It’s him who threw me on the hard floor and busted my teeth. It’s him I hate, and I tell him so. “I hate you,” I scream. “You motherfucker, I hate you! Do you hear me, Delpopolo? I hate you!”

  He sits back and says, “Continue, please.” Just like that. Like this was his plan: to get me angry and screaming. It’s crazy, but I do as he says. I sit back in my chair. I don’t curse at him anymore or try to escape. Instead, I finish the story.

  “I dropped the baby,” I say flatly. The words coming out slow and heavy, like each syllable is a sack of cement dropping off a building. Thump. “I was supposed to watch him, but he started crying and squirming out of my arms and I accidentally dropped him. He fell and knocked over the pot so all that boiling water dumped on him. I didn’t mean to drop him, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is, because of me, my baby brother got his skin scalded off his legs.
He went to the hospital and I got sent to foster care. I stopped talking to other people. I heard voices. They sent me to a psychiatric hospital for a long time.”

  I finish speaking, maybe forever. Because this time, I am broken. Completely. Saying the words, telling the story, it doesn’t heal me like I hoped. Instead, it shatters me, and my whole body shakes. There are no tears. Just violent shaking, like I am freezing to death. I am so cold, and I can’t stop shaking.

  A low sickening moan escapes me. It rises in pitch slowly, changing to some kind of primitive scream. Finally, it explodes out of me in a raw shriek that heaves and wracks my body like I’m having convulsions. Something awful and ugly and diseased is trying to leave my body and it wants to kill me on the way out. It’s like labor, only the end is death instead of birth. My face runs with mucus and hot tears. I am so broken, all I can do is take the convulsions and hope that it will all end.

  Please, God, make this end. I can’t take it anymore.

  56

  A hand reaching out to me. I can’t see it well because my eyes are blurry from crying. It’s got to be Delpopolo’s; the part of me that is still able to think figures that I am in his office, and he’s the only other person present. The hand reaches across the expanse of the desk and gently takes my hand. It happens so slowly. In slow motion. Even though it’s just a couple feet of desktop, it takes such a long time, so long for someone to reach me.

  Delpopolo’s large soft hand closes around my own, which feels small and childlike. A flicker of memory: I am six years old, playing a game with Marcus. I hide his tiny hand in mine and say, “Where’s your hand, baby? Where did your hand go?” Peals of laughter from Marcus as I uncover and show him his tiny beautiful little fingers, which he wiggles to show that they have been returned to him. The power of a hand held inside another, like nesting dolls or stacked shells.