Read Hurt Go Happy Online

Authors: Ginny Rorby

Hurt Go Happy

 

Begin Reading

Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Page

 

Thank you for buying this

Tom Doherty Associates ebook.

 

To receive special offers, bonus content,

and info on new releases and other great reads,

sign up for our newsletters.

 

Or visit us online at

us.macmillan.com/newslettersignup

 

For email updates on the author, click
here
.

 

The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce, or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

Copyright infringement is against the law. If you believe the copy of this e-book you are reading infringes on the author's copyright, please notify the publisher at:
us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
.

 

To Belinda, John Hopkins, Lucy, and a dead dog

 

AUTHOR'S NOTE

I've always been an avid reader, but it never occurred to me to thank an author for a book I enjoyed. If I'd thought about it, I'm sure I would have written something lame: “I liked your book; thanks for writing it.”

That was before I became a writer myself. In the ten years since
Hurt Go Happy
was first published, I've received hundreds of letters from teachers, librarians, bookstore owners, and kids.

Writing is a lonely occupation. We spend huge blocks of time sitting wherever it is we do our work, feeling our way around the dark interiors of our skulls, searching for the right word or phrase to portray our characters.

Rarely is a writer lucky enough to know whether the blood, sweat, and tears he or she spills onto the page has any meaning to another human being or, for that matter, has even been read. Until I began to receive letters from readers, I didn't know that hearing from them means everything. It's how we know those hours alone, circling our thoughts like a hamster on its wheel, haven't been wasted.

One of my all-time favorite quotes is from Madeleine L'Engle: “If the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.” Children are our best hope for a brighter future for all creatures. I hoped
Hurt Go Happy
would motivate children to help, and it has.

I've had many letters from young readers who followed through—taken up the reins, so to speak. They read labels to make sure the products aren't tested on animals; took up collections of treats and toys for chimps in preserves; they learned to sign; one adopted an abused horse.

My hope is, with this new edition of
Hurt Go Happy,
more children will reach out, not only to the animals on this planet that need our help but also to each other and those among us who suffer indignities and abuse through no fault of their own.

G
INNY
R
ORBY
,

2016

 

CHAPTER ONE

FEBRUARY 1991

FORT BRAGG, CALIFORNIA

The vibration of someone moving through the house woke Joey. She opened her eyes with a start, her heart racing. The room was pitch black, but it was getting light outside. She could see the dim outline of the deck beyond her sliding glass doors and the redwood tree that grew beside it.
It's just Ray.
Her heart slowed.

The blank face of her digital clock showed that the electricity was still out from the storm of five days before. Even Joey, who was
nearly
as deaf as a post, had heard the explosion of the transformer on the pole in the yard that made her mother flinch and her brother clap his hands over his ears a moment before the lights went out.

They weren't alone; the winds had gusted to eighty-five miles an hour, knocking the power out along the entire coast, and they were sealed off. A mudslide to the north had covered the route to Leggett, and the Navarro River was out of its banks and over the south road to Cloverdale. Downed trees blocked the other three coast-to-inland roads. Only someone like her stepfather Ray, with a knowledge of the web of logging roads that lay across the mountains, could have gotten in or out.

With the pattern of getting up for school broken, Joey couldn't remember what day it was.
Wednesday,
she thought.
No. It's Thursday.
Last night they'd gone to Fort Bragg for their first good meal in days. All the meat in Safeway's freezer had defrosted, but instead of pitching it, the employees barbecued every scrap and invited the town. She still felt full, smiled, and wondered vaguely why Ray was up so early—a logging-truck driver with no logs to haul—before she rolled over and went back to sleep.

When she woke again it was light. She turned to look out the sliding glass doors beside her bed and brought her hand from beneath the covers to brush her hair from her eyes. Her left thumb was damp and wrinkled. It had been so long since she'd awakened to find her thumb wet that she'd lulled herself into thinking she'd finally outgrown sucking it. She grabbed it with her right hand and squeezed it over and over like a sponge.

For the first time in five days, sunlight slanted through the trees along the trail behind the house, though raindrops still clung to the redwood leaves, sparkling like Christmas lights. She lay and watched them, waiting for the wrinkles in her thumb to disappear so her mother wouldn't know she had started again. She tried to remember what she'd dreamed that had made her anxious. That's what the county psychologist had told her to do. Face her fears. Don't let them burrow in.

A breeze brushed the redwood leaves but the raindrops held on. She imagined herself as small as a drop of water falling from the sky, thinking herself a goner only to be saved at the last moment by a spiky green finger. She stared at one drop in particular, as if guarding it, until a rougher breeze knocked it loose to shatter on the deck.

Joey examined her thumb. It was nearly back to normal.
Why do I do this?
she wondered again.
I'm safe—in my own room.
Her own room. Since his birth, she'd shared the front bedroom with Luke. Then, four months ago, the builders had finished the second-story addition and Ray and her mother moved upstairs. Their old room, with its view of the creek and the forested canyon, became hers.

Before she'd lost her hearing, she'd loved the whisper of wind through pines, and since she had no way of knowing how different it sounded in a redwood forest, the sight of branches swaying re-created that sound in her mind. Even after six and a half years of deafness, she sometimes awoke expecting her hearing to have returned, like her sight, with the dawn.

Joey wasn't totally deaf. The doctors had told her mother that she'd lost about 70 percent of her hearing, leaving her able to hear lawn mowers, chainsaws, horns honking, sirens, her brother's wails when he was hungry and his shrieks when he was hurt. All other sounds were lost. Still, over the years, she'd gotten used to the silence, and liked it in many ways. She did miss the quiet rhythm of normal conversation, birds singing, and music. Listening with her eyes always reminded her of Smiley, the nickname she'd given her nurse in the hospital because of the yellow smiley-face button she wore. On the day Joey's mother told her she was deaf, Smiley had made it seem like a gift, promising Joey that she would always keep the memory of certain sounds—phantoms, she called them—like her mother's voice, rain, and the wind through pines. Smiley said she could attach those remembered sounds to whatever she pleased, even to silent things like leaves falling and butterflies.

She lay for a while with her thumb jammed into her fist and watched the music of the tree limbs swaying until she was jolted by the slamming of the door to the bedroom she used to share with her brother. The house would soon shudder and tremble with the energy of a two-and-a-half-year-old.

Joey stretched and yawned, pulled the covers to her chin, and hugged herself. The air in her room was frigid because she never used the heater, even when the power was on. She hated the feel and smell of electric heat. She preferred socks, long-johns, and piles of warm blankets no matter how cold it got. Unheated air helped her fight down the memory of rusting, over-heated trailers or bare-bones apartments sweltering in the middle of winter.

Though she liked to sleep in a cold room, she didn't like getting up in one. She scooted out of bed, jerked the spread up to cover the pillows, then darted into the woodstove-warmed hall with her shoulders hunched and her hands clamped in her armpits. She glanced down to see if the light was on in the bathroom, then remembered the power was out and opened the door slowly, in case someone was there. A candle burned in the wall-mounted candleholder her mother had bought the last time the power went out.

“Hi,” she said, when she came into the kitchen from brushing her teeth with bottled water.

Her mother turned from the little two-burner Coleman stove and smiled.

“Where's Luke?” Joey asked, then watched her lips.

“Outside peeing on the roses.”

“How come?”

“Ray told him it keeps the deer from eating the garden. As soon as you went into the bathroom, he grabbed his crotch and ran outside.”

Joey laughed. “Is that true about the deer?”

Her mother shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Is the power still out in town?”

Ruth nodded. “Except what's on the mill's circuit, the hospital, and the harbor.”

“Where'd Ray go?”

“Up there somewhere,” her mother said, pointing with the spatula in the direction of the hill behind their house, “splitting firewood. Pancakes?”

“Yes, please.” Joey caught Luke's arm as he came in and kissed the top of his curly blond head.

“Ick,” he shouted, giggling and squirming to free himself.

“But I love kissing you,” Joey crooned and swung him off the ground to smooch the back of his neck.

When she put him down he whirled and stomped his foot. “No kisses,” he hollered.

Joey pretended to get the urge again and chased him a few times around the sofa.

Her mother waved to catch her attention. “Will you get ---------- outside to ---------- toilet with?” her mother asked, but mid-sentence she had looked down to check the underside of the pancake she was cooking.

“What?” Joey said.

Ruth faced her. “Sorry. Will you get a bucket of water from the barrel outside to flush the toilet with? And finish helping Luke dress, okay?”

“Are you going somewhere?” Joey asked.

“I told you. The radio said the power's on in the harbor. I'm going to work.” She flipped the pancake. “Could get busy.”

Other books

Mummy by Caroline B. Cooney
The Killing League by Dani Amore
The Crook and Flail by L. M. Ironside
The Camera Killer by Glavinic, Thomas
Bird Box by Josh Malerman