Something Like Hope (14 page)

But in the morning, she’s right as rain, smiling her dumb smile and trying to be so nice and friendly. “Hi, Shavonne,” she says.
Hi, Mary
.

That’s about the extent of our conversations. Whenever I feel her looking for an opening to talk, I grab a book and bury my face in it. She takes the hint and continues staring out the window.

Then I feel guilty again and I sit by her. We play Uno even though she doesn’t really understand all the rules. Sometimes I let her win. One day she gets a box of homemade cookies in the mail and shares them with me.

“These are from my auntie,” she says. “She’s mad pretty like you. I told her all about you. She says you’re nice for helping me. I know I need help, Shavonne. I ain’t stupid, you know. I’m just a little slow because I don’t know no numbers or how to tell time and stuff. But my auntie says that’s okay, because everyone needs help sometimes, right?”

I tell her that her auntie is a smart lady. I tell her everything is going to be okay with her baby and she’ll get out of here soon. I tell her whatever she wants to hear because it’s not much when you think about it. It doesn’t take a lot of work to reassure a nice person like Mary. Even if no one can do it for me, it’s a small effort and it makes me feel good to see her beautiful innocent smile.

       
T
oday 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.

       
M
y 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.

       
A
t 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.

       
I
t’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.