Something Like Hope (16 page)

       
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.

       
B
ad 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.

       
D
elpopolo 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.”

       
C
onnie, 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.

       
M
r. 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.”