Something Like Hope
Page 12
In my lap, fingers are working to break open the seal of an envelope. The fingers are beautiful, slender, and smooth, with nut-brown skin. The nails, gently curved and lacquered, are not long but appear well cared for. Are they mine? They can’t be the old woman’s, because her skin is a very dark black. Plus her fingers are short and chubby. They must be my fingers. But I can’t really feel them. I don’t know what’s happening. I am drifting into some other place like a daydream, but I’m also reading the pages, which are spread on my lap. And now there’s a picture, one of those small rectangular school pictures.
A voice penetrates the trance. “That your boyfriend?” It’s the woman sitting next to me. She has awakened from her nap and is trying to start a conversation.
“What? Excuse me?”
“I said, is that your boyfriend? He sure is handsome.”
“Um, no. It’s not my boyfriend.”
“Well, then who is it? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I don’t mind. It’s my brother.”
“What’s your brother’s name?”
I think the name in my head but I can’t say it. Marcus. My brother’s name is Marcus. The woman is looking at me with concern because tears are coming, streaming down my cheeks in hot rivers. Tears that are equal parts salt and fear, water and sorrow. I see now what tears are made of, at least my own. And I understand why I haven’t been able to get better. Because I am made of equal parts fear and sorrow.
And this makes me cry even harder, for all of it. All of it. Mary and her pregnant belly. Cinda and her burned-down house. Samantha’s birthday cake. Cyrus and those fucking geese. All those people whose lives I passed through: Ms. Williams. Mr. Delpopolo. Jasmine. Mona, who held my hands and talked softly to me that day at the hospital. I have passed through all their lives and they are gone. Have I gone too?
The woman next to me touches my upper arm. “Lord have mercy! What have we here?” She’s looking at me with sympathy. She sets down her purse and pulls me to her. She’s soft but strong and I am not able to resist. I am grateful that I am, at long last, not able to resist.
“Let it all loose, girl! Whatever it is, let it loose. Let it come on out and we’ll take a look and see what it is!” She looks up at the other passengers, who are staring at us, and shouts, “Ain’t you never seen nobody feelin’ sad? Shoot. Nosy sonsabitches!”
Eventually she sets me back against my own seat and pulls some tissues out of her purse. She talks softly to me for the rest of the trip, telling me that it’s always been a hard world for a woman, no matter if she’s young and pretty or fat and old. She tells me that it’s going to be okay.
“How do you know?” I ask. I hear the desperation in my voice, as though the rest of my life hinges on the answer to this one question. It’s a child’s question, really. How do you know that everything’s going to be okay? How do you know that the world isn’t going to crush me?
“Because, child, I know at least one person loves you.” She pulls out the small rectangular picture from between our two seats and returns it to me. Could it be true?
I cry again, but this time it’s out of hope. I am hoping that this big kind woman knows what she’s talking about, and I think she does. I think I can trust her. And I think I already do trust Ms. Williams, and Connie, and Cyrus, and Mona, and Mr. Delpopolo. It’s a good list.
65
The bus pulls into the station with a whoosh of air from the brakes and suspension. I am afraid to get out but all the passengers are gone. The driver is waiting patiently for me, probably because he’s afraid I’ll start crying again.
Down the steps and into the rain. There are people everywhere. Some are shaking hands or giving hugs. But none of these people mean anything to me. I am alone.
Then, through all the anonymous faces, there is one that I know. Well, I don’t know it, but I recognize it. It is familiar. A boy, thirteen years old, wearing a backpack and a rain jacket. Waving. Walking over to me. Smiling but frightened. Frightened that maybe I will not recognize him. Frightened that I will not accept him. Or is that what I’m feeling?
“Shavonne?”
“Marcus?”
We stand there smiling at each other. Then Marcus throws his arms around me awkwardly. He squeezes me half to death and I try to hug him back but I can’t get my arms around his backpack. I can tell he is crying and doesn’t want me to see. I try to look at his face, but he is still hugging me tightly and won’t let go. I am crying, too, and the tears are mixing with raindrops. They taste lightly salted.
“I missed you, Shavonne. I’ve missed you so much.”
“Me too, Marcus. Me too.”
“But everything is all messed up because …”
Marcus starts to tell me why things are messed up, but I cut him off. “It’s okay, Marcus. I’ve got a plan.” I put my arm around his narrow shoulders and we start walking away. I don’t even know where we’re going. Marcus leans into me like he trusts my weight to hold him up. Like he trusts me. It feels strange and powerful and scary, all at the same time.
“We’re going to be okay,” I tell Marcus. I say it again and again to reassure him. I say it just to hear the words. And it’s like someone else is saying it, telling me. “We’re going to be okay,” I say once again. It sounds good because, for the first time, the words are believable, like they might be true. Could they be true? I think so. For a moment I think they might be magic words, like they hold some special healing power if only I can say them enough times. I want to tell Marcus about this, but I am afraid it will sound silly and become untrue. Which is crazy, really, because it’s not about the words at all. It’s about forgiveness. Or maybe it’s about faith. Or maybe I don’t even know, which is okay too. Because all that matters is that I am with my brother, and we are walking together toward something new.
about the author
Shawn Goodman based Something Like Hope on his experiences working as a psychologist in a girls’ juvenile justice facility. He lives in upstate New York with his wife and daughters.