I realize that, aside from violent takedowns and having my hair braided by Cinda, no one has touched me since I’ve been locked up. How strange to go through life without touch. In its own way it is like going without water for years. Impossible, I know, but there it is.
Delpopolo has taken off his tinted glasses and I can see he is crying. Is he crying for his own miserable life or for mine? Doesn’t matter. Like a drowning person, I grab for him, because at the moment, he is all that stands between me and madness or self-destruction. There is still the desk between us, so I grab what is available: his fat hand. I bury my face in it and cry like I’ve never cried before. Tears pour out of my eyes and run into his outstretched hand. Like he can absorb the pain and the grief by catching my tears. Or maybe just share it for a moment and then let it go. I don’t care, just so long as there is that touch.
We stay like that for a long time. He brings out his other hand and I take that one too, clasping both of his wrists and burrowing my face into his palms. He says over and over, “It’s all right, Shavonne. It wasn’t your fault. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be just fine.”
I grab his wrists tighter and bury my face deeper into his palms. I gasp for air between sobs and say, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I don’t know if I’m apologizing to Marcus for what I did, or to Mr. D. And still, Delpopolo keeps saying those words: “It’s all right, Shavonne. It wasn’t your fault. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be just fine. It wasn’t your fault.”
57
Nothing. I have no real thoughts or feelings. I pass the days by staring out the window or pretending to read a book. Choi got fined five hundred dollars and was given a five-day suspension for fucking up my face and hurting Mary. Tyreena, Kiki, and the other girls are celebrating, singing that shit from The Wizard of Oz about the wicked witch being dead, but I don’t care. I see now that Choi has nothing to do with my problems. She isn’t anybody to me; she’s just a distraction, like so many other things I’ve wasted my time on.
My eighteenth birthday is three days away, but I refuse to talk to my law guardian or Susan, the DSS worker. I won’t talk to Connie or Jasmine, either. I can’t deal with problems that are too big. The only thing in my head close to a plan is not to have a plan. I will go into court and say nothing. I will nod to the judge. I will let the whole thing play out without help from me. The judge will give me a new assault charge, for Ms. Williams, or not. He will send me to adult prison, or not. I will be released on my eighteenth birthday, or not. None of it matters, really.
58
Ms. Choi is back from her suspension. She says she’s got something planned for me on account of how I cost her five hundred cash plus a week of pay.
“Eye for an eye, little girl. You messed up my life, now I’m gonna mess up yours. And in the end, it’s your word against mine. You think anyone’s gonna believe your lyin’ ass?”
One look at the other guards tells me they’re in on it. Or they’ll cover for her. Same difference. She calls our movement on the radio and leads me to the cafeteria for work duty. Only, the cafeteria is dark; no one is there.
She turns on the lights and points to a prep table with a bunch of vegetables: heads of lettuce, greenish tomatoes, and a cucumber. She unlocks the knife drawer and gets a small paring knife, puts it on the table with the veggies. The thin blade of the knife gleams under the fluorescent lighting.
This is bad. I see now that she’s crazier than I thought. She planned this. She is watching me, grinning, rubbing her hands together. She set the whole thing up and this is part of her pleasure.
“Go cut up them vegetables, Shavonne. We ain’t got all day.”
It’s like she’s reading from a script. Her tone is casual, friendly even. I don’t understand what’s happening because my brain isn’t working quickly enough. But I know enough not to touch the knife.
“I can’t. I’m on restriction. I lost my work privileges.”
“I don’t care about no restriction. You do what I tell you, girl.”
“But Ms. Choi, I can get a level three.” I look around for help, but there’s no one. Just me and Choi.
“Girl, I don’t give a shit about no level three.”
“What’s this about, then? Not vegetables.” I try to find some way out of this, but I’m trapped. Either I pick up the knife and get set up for a weapons charge, or I get another concussion or a broken arm for not following directions.
“That’s right, smart girl. It ain’t about vegetables. Now pick up the damn knife and start choppin’!” She screams at me, desperate, coming unhinged. Then she calms herself, grinning madly, and turns up a bloody palm for inspection.
“Doesn’t matter, ’cause you already cut me. See?” I see. I am fucked. She will push the emergency button on her radio and wait for the guards. Then she’ll rush at me, grabbing the knife on the way if I haven’t already grabbed it. It will be a good story. A believable story, with witnesses.
Choi takes her radio out of its holster and shows me the little orange button called the pin. But before she can push it, the doors swing open with a whoosh of air. In walks Cyrus with a tool belt and a power drill.
Ms. Choi is beyond pissed. She stares him down and says, “Get back to the unit, Cyrus. They need you to help with bathroom breaks. We’re fine here.”
Cyrus acts like he doesn’t even hear. “What, Ms. Choi? I didn’t hear you. I gotta do some work here, but I won’t make no noise. It’s all wrenches and screwdrivers. You won’t know I’m here.” He kneels down by one of the freezers and removes a panel, starts tinkering. I step away from the table and the knife.
Ms. Choi is furious. “Shavonne, get back at that table! And you, Cyrus, who told you to come down here? There ain’t no problem with that thing!”
“Oh, these old freezers are temperamental, Ms. Choi. Every now and then they need the dust blowed away and the compressor adjusted. It cost this place a hundred bucks just to get an HVAC guy to come out and take a look. But I said I’d do it from now on. I kind of like to play around with ’em, if you can believe it.” He winks. I wink back and smile broadly. I decide that Cyrus is my hero.
Choi glares at him. No doubt she’s trying to melt his face with her pure meanness. As she pushes open the cafeteria doors, the self-inflicted cut on her hand leaves an angry smear of blood. At the bottom of the smear a single scarlet rivulet collects and travels down a few inches before stopping. I am relieved to have escaped such a close call with Ms. Choi, but I fear that the blood on the door is a sign, a warning. If you stay here, you will bleed. Maybe it will not scrub off easily and will stand through time to show the truth of this place, but I doubt it.
59
A knock on my door. It’s Ms. Williams. Her face is pretty again. I am glad about this because she is a good person. She never treated us badly. She tried to do right, even if no one wanted her to. I’d like to apologize to her, but I’m just too tired. I can hardly keep myself sitting upright.
She walks in, followed by Mr. Delpopolo. He says, “Hello, Shavonne.”
I wave but don’t feel like talking. I already heard that I’ll be leaving on my eighteenth birthday, but I don’t know how to feel about this. On the one hand it’s what I wanted: to go home. The only problem is, I’ve got no home to go to.
“I’ve got something important for you.” He has a thick envelope in his shirt pocket, which he pats with his hand. “You remember the other week I said I had to make some phone calls?”
I draw my knees up to my chest and nod. I wrap my arms around my knees and look at the far wall. I don’t think I want any more surprises. I want to be left alone. So I can think.
“Well, those calls were about this letter. It’s from your brother. He wants to see you.”
My ears hiss like the air has been sucked out of the room. Before I can say anything, Delpopolo tosses the envelope onto my bed. He and Ms. Williams sit there looking at me, watching to see what I might do—scream, fight, go crazy? N
o. There is nothing left in me. I feel the weight of the letter pressing down on my mattress, though I know this is impossible. A letter from my brother. But it can’t be. I say the words in my head: My brother. Maybe my lips move.
I say, “I don’t have a brother. I had a brother. I hurt him and he got taken away. We don’t get to be family anymore. Weren’t you listening when I told you the story?”
Mr. D and Ms. Williams look at each other with concern.
“You’re still family. Your brother lives in a foster home in the city. Like I said, he wants to see you. He wants to get to know you, Shavonne.”
Mr. D and Ms. Williams sit there for what feels like a long time, probably because I look so freaked out. Thank God they don’t try and talk to me. After a while they nod to each other and walk out. It’s strange, these two working together. They’re very different, but I like them both.
Mr. D has a guard keep a real close eye on me for the rest of the day. I think he’s worried I might try and kill myself. I stay awake the whole night looking at that envelope. I hold it next to my heart, trying to feel some of what could be inside. I don’t dare open it, though. Too scared. Is it a letter to finish me off and damn me to hell? Or is it really what Mr. D says? How can my brother possibly care about me after what I did to him? I trace the name and return address with my fingers as though I am reading Braille. Marcus Washington. 312 Porter Avenue, Apt. 3B. But my fingers never get any farther. Each time they trace back to the beginning, to his name. Marcus. Marcus Washington. My brother, Marcus.
60
Time passes quickly now. I still haven’t read the letter, but I carry it around with me. It’s taped to the inside of my journal next to a picture of my daughter.
It’s getting harder to think of Jasmine as my daughter, because the distance between us is increasing every day. We have no real history together other than a couple of days in the hospital. Every week I spend in lockup is another one she spends with her foster mother. I imagine the two of them reading books, watching Disney movies, snuggling under a blanket. It makes me sad to think of what I’m missing. I’m also jealous, because Jasmine is experiencing something I always dreamed of. I am ashamed of this feeling. I know it’s selfish, but I can’t deny it. Imagine being jealous of your own daughter’s safety and happiness!
61
I call on the phone.
“Connie, it’s me, Shavonne.” My voice is shaking badly, but I will go on. I will go through with it. Because I have to. For Jasmine.
“Are you all right, Shavonne? Did something happen?”
I can hear the worry in Connie’s voice. She’s used to me being hostile or defensive.
“Listen, Connie. Don’t interrupt, because this is going to be hard for me to say. You love Jasmine, right? I mean, you really love her. Like she’s your own, right?”
“Why, of course I do, Shavonne. Are you in some kind of trouble? You’re not planning to do something, Shavonne, are you? Maybe I should talk to that doctor you’ve been seeing.”
“No. Shut up and listen, Connie. I need you to hear me and I can only say this once. I want you to be Jasmine’s mother for good because I just can’t do it. It’s not fair for her to have me as a mother because I’m too messed up. I want her to be safe and happy. You’ll give that to her, won’t you?”
Silence. Then Jasmine starts talking in the background, asking Connie for some juice. Only she doesn’t call her Connie. She calls her mommy. Connie doesn’t answer until Jasmine chatters, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy, juice, juice, juice!” Then Connie says softly, “Okay, baby, here’s your juice.”
That’s all I need to hear, because it tells me I’m right to walk away. Connie really has become Jasmine’s mother. All I’m doing is acknowledging it. I didn’t think my heart could break any more, but apparently it can. Instead of answering my question, Connie starts crying. She wails into that phone just like her own heart has been broken, and I can tell she’s crying for me. She should be crying out of happiness, because I know she wants to adopt Jasmine more than anything in the world. But she’s crying for me because I am giving up my baby.
“Oh, Shavonne, I’ll keep her safe and I’ll make sure she has a happy life, but I’m so sorry. I know that I should be happy and I suppose I am, but I’m also sorry. I’m so sorry, Shavonne.”
“I’m sorry too, Connie. I’m sorry for lots of things. Goodbye.”
62
I go to court and sign the papers for Jasmine to be adopted. Delpopolo stops meeting with me because I have nothing to say. I don’t argue or curse. I answer questions either yes, no, or I don’t know. And I don’t play games or avoid anything. There’s simply nothing to say, and I think he knows this. So instead of meeting with me, he checks in with the guards every day.
“Has she been eating?”
“Yes, a little bit from each meal.”
“How about sleep?”
“Some. She stays up late writing in her journal, but then sleeps through wake-up and chores. We let it go because she’s out of here in a couple of days anyway. There’s not much we can hold over her head to motivate her.”
63
There’s a lot I don’t know about or understand. Like saying goodbye. The first person to come by my bedroom is Ms. Stokes. I’m still sullen and shut-down, afraid of what lies ahead of me. This is new for me, because I’ve always been afraid of the past. I never even bothered thinking about the future.
Ms. Stokes pretends everything is normal. She says, “Happy birthday, Shavonne. You can go ahead and be depressed or rude or any way you like. But I’ve got my girl stuff here and I’m not leaving until I do your hair and your nails. So move over.”
She opens up her kit and gives me a total pedicure, or what I think a total pedicure is, never having had one before. I’m embarrassed by the attention until she says, “Look, Shavonne. This is a small thing. Just one small thing I can do for you out of respect. Because you tried to protect that poor pregnant girl when things got out of hand. And you protected Cinda, too, when no one else ever did.”
As she braids my hair she tells me I’m going to grow up to be a strong woman. She says that my life is a book with only a few finished chapters. And even though they have been bad, I can work hard to write the next ones and make them better. It sounds nice, and I appreciate her spending this time with me and telling me something hopeful, even though I don’t really believe it.
But before she says goodbye and leaves my life forever, Ms. Stokes hands me a small color photo of a light-skinned newborn baby with wisps of curly brown hair and impossibly chubby cheeks. “Your grandson?” I ask.
“No. Guess again.” She’s smiling, like she knows I’ll figure out the answer and it will please me. And as I do figure it out, I smile too. A big broad happy smile, the first in a long time.
“For real? Mary’s baby? Ramón? He’s healthy?”
“Yes.” Just one word, but she says it so proud. Like it’s proof of something. What can it prove? That there is still reason to hope? That good things are possible? For Mary? For me? Before I can think about it, Ms. Stokes gives me a quick hug and says goodbye. “Take care of yourself, Shavonne. Be a strong woman.” She leaves me standing in my small bedroom, clutching the picture and feeling so many things: happiness, sadness, fear, regret, and yes, the beginnings of something like hope.
64
I’m now on a Greyhound bus headed to a shelter/independent living program in the city. The bus is packed. I scan the aisles and find one empty seat. It’s next to a large black woman, who motions for me to take it. I walk down the aisle and feel everyone’s eyes on me. I’m wearing new clothes Ms. Williams purchased for me at Old Navy.
They’re nice clothes, and I feel special today only because of them. The down jacket is white with pink faux fur around the hood. And the jeans must look good on me, because some boys turn their heads as I walk past them. But mostly I feel nothing as the bus cruises away. And that’s okay, because I think I can deal with nothing.
/> The big woman next to me changes seats so I can look out the window. I try to object, but she puts up a big fleshy arm and says, “Girl, I seen almost everything there is to see out them windows. Now you sit there and look while I take myself a nap.” I like her voice because it reminds me of someone, but I can’t remember who. Everything seems so distant.
Trees line the roads in different stages of readiness for spring. I see the buds starting to break open with the faintest hint of green. I try to relate to this slow awakening, but I can’t. It’s like looking at a beautiful wilderness scene in a book and saying, “Oh, that’s nice.”
I wish I knew the trees by their names. Back at the Center Cyrus taught us about the trees on campus. He used to point and call out, “Hemlock, ladies, and over there, maple, pin oak. Those two are walnut. And there, shagbark hickory. You see that one? That’s American iron-wood. Also called hornbeam and musclewood, because the bark looks like it’s got muscles.”
I don’t know why I’m thinking about Cyrus. Maybe because of the trees. Or maybe because he helped me in the cafeteria when no one else could. But I think it’s because he too seemed out of place and trapped. Maybe he will quit and go work on a farm somewhere. It could be a farm with a horse to plow the fields the old-fashioned way. And one day he’ll be out there in the fields when the sun sets and lights everything on fire with orange and gold, and his shadow will stretch out forever. That’s a nice thought and I’m trying to hang on to it, but it’s already fading.
The Greyhound is passing houses now. Nice houses, big fancy things, but I don’t know their names. Could be Victorian or something else. It occurs to me that I don’t know much about the world outside of the Center and my old neighborhood. How will I manage? How will I find my way?
Something Like Hope Page 11