Something Like Hope (2 page)

“Fuck you,” I say. “Fuck you and your stupid name. I don’t have anything to say.”

He just smiles and ignores my words. He points at the bit of turkey on the floor.

“Is that from the famous sandwich I’ve heard about?”

“Maybe it is,” I snarl.

He doesn’t seem bothered by my attitude.

“You must have been very hungry. Or perhaps you were concerned about Ms. Williams’s cholesterol, what with the bacon and mayonnaise in the sandwich. Is that why you stole it?” He arches one of his bushy eyebrows above the rim of his glasses. I wonder if he’s making a joke, but he shows no emotion. No smile, no chuckle, and of course I can’t see his eyes through those dark lenses. A big fat
mystery stuffed into a bad suit. But it
is
funny, and I find myself laughing again, though I catch myself quickly.

“Did you say your name’s
Mr
. Delpopolo? You don’t have a PhD?” I say this because shrinks keep track of each other and their degrees. Plus it’s good to change the subject. That way you become the asker of the questions. And the asker of the questions has control.

“We can discuss my credentials some other time. Maybe in a couple of days when I’m able to talk with you again. I wanted to introduce myself and I guess I’ve already done that so I’ll leave. Enjoy that sandwich. You certainly paid for it.”

As he walks away, I throw the rest of the sandwich at his fat ass; incredibly, I miss. He doesn’t notice, or else pretends not to. That pisses me off even more, because I really wanted to eat it, and now it’s ruined.

       
A
lmost a week has passed, so I guess Mr. Delpopolo lied about talking to me in a couple of days. I think he waited so long on purpose, just to make me mad. It’s not like I
was
waiting or anything. Well, I kind of was, but only out of boredom.

The guard brings me downstairs to the admin wing. I enter Delpopolo’s office and eye him coolly; he launches right into the usual shrink bullshit. Rules and confidentiality and therapeutic goals. But his heart isn’t in it. He looks tired and worn out; his clothes are even sloppier and more wrinkled than the last time I saw him.

I look around at the walls, which are painted industrial green and pocked with chips and nail holes. They are bare except for two black-and-white photos. They look like they’ve been torn from a magazine: one of Gandhi, one of Einstein. Missing are the family pictures, knickknacks, and
other crap shrinks usually keep around. But there is one thing: a ceramic coffee mug that says
World’s Greatest Dad
. It’s white with red lettering. The kind you can buy in any junk store for three dollars.

I bring my attention back to his little intro, which I’ve heard before and which I think is a load of shit. In the Center, guards and shrinks and teachers all put your business out there. They gossip about kids, each other, even the director, Mr. Slater. Especially Mr. Slater. And this guy wants me to be reassured because of his rules and “confidentiality”?

“How can you possibly help me?” I ask. “You’re a mess. Why are you even working in this place—did you get fired from a
real
job?”

He smiles. “You want me to answer those questions?”

I shrug.

“Okay, here goes. I don’t know if I can help you. Yes, I am a mess. I work here because, strangely, I get along okay with kids. And maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe I was fired from a real job.” He says it like he’s not even embarrassed.

“What job?” I ask, interested now in spite of myself.

“I was a teacher. At a college.”

“Oh,” I say. I don’t think he looks like a college professor, though I’ve never seen one. College professors should be older, wiser-looking. Better dressed. “So why did they fire you?”

He shifts in his seat and says, “Never mind. Now it’s my turn to ask questions. How come you can’t finish your program here?”

“Who says I can’t finish it? I can get out of this place anytime I want to.”

“So then why don’t you want to get out of here?”

“I didn’t say that.” I am no longer interested in talking to this guy. He’s twisting my words around and it pisses me off. “What if I don’t want to talk to you anymore? What if I don’t want help?”

“Let’s just skip this part, okay?” His words suggest a hint of frustration, but he still looks calm.

“Who says I need help? You think I’m crazy or mentally ill or something? What’d they tell you? PTSD? Depression? A little intermittent explosive disorder? Borderline personality disorder? Which one do you think it is,
Mr
. Delpopolo?” I know that I should shut up, that I’m out of line, but I can’t stop. I don’t know why I talk like this. It doesn’t make sense to, except that it’s just how I am. “You people think you know so goddamn much. You don’t know shit.”

Then the strangest thing happens. Mr. Delpopolo slumps in his chair and sighs. I swear he looks sad. Not angry. Not frustrated. Not busy and out of time, but sad. He takes off his glasses and looks right at me, and I notice the heavy dark bags under his eyes. They are very plain eyes, brown and deep-set. And I see in them now that he too is troubled.

Maybe he’s sad because he knows I need help but am
beyond helping. How can he know that? And if he does, then how can he get up and walk right past me out of the office without really trying? He doesn’t even look at me or say goodbye. Instead, he calls one of the goons over and says, “We’re done for today. When she’s calm, please tell her that I’ll see her in another two weeks.”

Why doesn’t he tell
me
this? He knows I’m right here and I can hear him, but he doesn’t even look at me before he leaves.

       
I
’m so sad. I feel like crying, but nothing comes out. My roommate, Cinda, tries to comfort me. Cinda, the freckled pixie who hears voices and pulls her hair out in frizzy clumps. Cinda, who takes five different kinds of meds and sometimes cuts herself. Cinda, who asks me hundreds of questions.

“Shavonne, why are you sad? Is it because of your daughter? Do you miss her? I would too, because I saw her picture and she’s
soooo
cute. Do you want to talk about it? I saved some of my meds if you want to take them.”

I tell her to mind her own business. The last thing I need is some crazy girl’s pity. Like she can do anything for me anyway. She’s maybe the one person in this place who’s worse off than me.

Cinda says really strange things that don’t make any sense, like she really loves everybody, or she’s going to burn the place down on Easter. She doesn’t mean it. But once
you say things like that, you can’t unsay them, and then there are consequences. For Cinda the consequences are that she has to stay locked up for a long, long time.

But Cinda is actually my friend. She’s amazing at doing hair, and braids mine almost every night. She sits me on the floor in front of her bed and lets her fingers go like magic through my hair, twisting and crossing, twisting and crossing. Sometimes I lean back and pretend that I’m at home—even though I don’t have a home—and that it’s my mother who’s braiding my hair. And even though it’s just Cinda, it feels kind of nice to have someone fussing over me.

Cinda says nice things too. Like that my hair is strong and beautiful and I should be proud of it. “I wish I had hair like yours,” she says. “You know those other girls are so jealous because they have to use weaves and strengtheners to get that look.”

The guards say Cinda’s been here longer than anybody else—three years. It’s mainly because she has nowhere to go. They say the psychiatric hospitals won’t take her because she’s violent, and the group homes and residential centers won’t take her because she’s crazy and belongs in a psychiatric hospital. Also, she’s set several places on fire, which doesn’t make her very marketable.

But I want to get back to the crying. I think it has something to do with my session with Mr. Delpopolo. I think he’s trying to use his psychological bullshit to break me down. I certainly don’t intend to let this happen, but then again, I’m tired of holding secrets in. I’m sick of
them. They make me sick. It’s like drinking poison and not being able to throw it up, waiting quietly for the telltale signs that death is coming, the dark lines inching up your veins.

I won’t go on about this, because I don’t like self-pity in other people, and I hate it in myself. But I don’t know if I can deal with all this. I’ve been numb for so long and this asshole, Delpopolo, is messing it all up. He has no fucking clue. You go opening doors that are supposed to stay closed and you end up like Cinda. Does he want to do that to me? Have me go crazy and take a million meds that make me sleep and drool? He couldn’t survive a day in my shoes. Fuck him.

       
T
his whole mess started with a lie. Not a big one, but still a lie. I don’t want to think of myself as a liar, but maybe I am.

“No, Ms. Williams, I didn’t take your sandwich. I been busy at my desk working, see?”

I put on my most innocent face, which I must admit isn’t very innocent. Then I sat back to watch the show. All the other girls watched too. They’re all bored and mean-spirited, just as eager to see a fight as I am. Ms. Williams closed her eyes ever so briefly in silent irritation. She knew what I was doing but couldn’t help playing along … her role in my game. And that’s exactly the point, it was
my
game.

Ms. Williams’s long fake eyelashes gently touched her cheeks, and in that instant, she looked pretty and perfect and soft. I wanted to freeze the moment and think of her like that always, her beautiful dark complexion, her woven
hair coiled neatly on top of her small round head. Her hands rested firmly on her full hips, and I thought she looked like a mother who was angry—a good mother, who gets angry but would never hit you or say nasty things. She just wants you to know she’s angry and then everything will go back to normal.

I let myself go further into the daydream and imagined Ms. Williams as
my
mother. She was angry with me but ready to forgive. She said, “It’s okay, Shavonne. I know everything that happened and it’s okay. I still love you. You’re my baby! I’ll always love you. No matter what.” In the dream she smiled and placed one small hand on my cheek. It felt warm and good, like stepping into the sun when you’re cold. It was so real I forgot where I was.

I forgot all about the Center and the other girls. I wanted to fall down on my knees and say to Ms. Williams, “Please …” Please what? Will you be my mother? Will you love me? No. I wasn’t playing that. Hell no.

I stopped this thinking because it’s pathetic. Ms. Williams isn’t my mother and never will be. My mother is on drugs. She is a prostitute. And in that one heartbeat, the fantasy went away and I fell hard, like I was a piece of soft fruit hitting the tile floor. I snapped out of it in time to realize that I was in trouble. Because Ms. Williams is no one to be trifled with, which is exactly why I was messing with her. Everyone knew damn well that I took her sandwich. And I knew that my small and stupid lie would send her over the edge. In here it’s always the small stupid stuff that sends a person over the edge.