Pieces of Hope (21 page)

“And you
. . .” I hesitated, already imagining additional laughter. “You can make a bird
. . . do that?”

Gus
shrugged noncommittally. “It does require some concentration, a bit of
practice, as well as a certain level of skill. If it’s a small creature, I
usually can. But I have to get very close, focus, and squeeze gently.”

“And not
everyone can do this?” I asked more pointedly.

I must
have made it sound like brain surgery, and everyone laughed.

“Well,
not
that
specifically,” I muttered to
another round of laughter. It wasn’t like I was about to embark a
dove-squeezing rampage anytime soon.

“Some of
us are blessed with greater talents than others,” Gus replied. “Mine is but a
simple one.”

I
watched with growing impatience as Gus and
Creesie
exchanged thoughts. I wished this mind-reading thing worked more consistently.
Whatever tidbit they’d just shared, I had a sneaking suspicion it had something
to do with
Creesie’s
special talents.

“What
happened after that?” I asked, hoping the conclusion was coming shortly and
feeling self-conscious about having that thought—knowing all the while they
were listening.

“Yes, of
course, hurrying along now . . .” Gus straightened his head and returned his
attention to the entire group. “Can you imagine my Ellen, the day after our
visit, pushing her grocery cart back to her car, when something wet hits the
top of her head? An expression of genuine astonishment crosses her face as she
glances up to see a dove flying away. And, to my delight, she began a torrent
of whoops and shouts in the parking lot, ‘Gus, is that you? I know it’s you! I
love you! I still love you, Gus!’”

Gus’s
eyes momentarily leaked tears, but he didn’t stop smiling.

“Then
she yells at the sky, ‘“Don’t think for a minute I believed your malarkey all
those years. Damned bird had nothing to do with it.
You
were always my good luck!’”

I wiped
the tears from my eyes, not knowing the appropriate thing to say or even sure if
the story was true. Gus seemed like the total practical joker type.

But
Creesie
changed my mind when she sniffed, “That’s
beautiful, Gus . . . One of my favorites. That last bit gets me every time.”

“Speaking
of good luck, we have somewhere we need to be.” Charlotte shoved her tiny hip against mine
and catapulted me out of the booth. Getting better at being bodiless, I managed
to land lithely on my feet, and rubbed my already tender hip.

“
Ow
! I think
that’s going to leave a mark.”

Though I
was kidding, Charlotte
started to apologize. I saw the words forming in her mind, but
Creesie
spoke first, “Have fun, girls. We’ll see you
later.”

Creesie
stacked our plates on top of one another, clearing
the way for a huge slice of triple-layered chocolate cake with lots of curled
shavings on top. My mouth watered at the sight of it, and instantly I regretted
the fact that we were leaving.

“What’s
on the agenda?” I asked as we reached the arched doorway of the café.

Charlotte twittered with
excitement. “We’re going to see if you can break through to my mother. I just
know you’re going to be
our
good
luck!”
 

“Just
promise not to squeeze me too hard, I don’t think I could take it.”

I was
being totally serious, but for some reason, they couldn’t stop laughing.
  

12
New Visits

We ran
without stopping, dodging visitors as we went, making our way quickly to the
ticket booth. There wasn’t a soul waiting in line there, nor at the shiny,
flat-nosed bus. Our timing was perfect. Joining hands so we didn’t lose one
another, we took three steps, and then disappeared briefly into blackness
before landing in a quiet neighborhood park. Mature trees shielded us from the
warm afternoon sun, colorful flowers sprang up everywhere, and over at the
playground area, two kids were swinging so high they nearly gave me a heart
attack.
 

Charlotte,
Rin
, and I waited in tense anticipation for Mrs.
Gooding. In my mind’s eye, I saw her as a beautiful redhead, just like Charlotte, with thick
hair and bright blue eyes. Then again, that might not have been my image of
her, but rather, Charlotte’s. Even if this mindreading stuff was getting
easier, I didn’t always know when I was doing it.

“That’s
her!” Charlotte
cried suddenly. I started to shush her, but no one looked in our direction,
most notably not her mother.

Mrs.
Gooding in person was not quite as Charlotte
had depicted. Maybe earlier—before Charlotte
had died, maybe then she was lovely. The woman I saw today was frail, thin, on
the verge of breaking. Her pain pulsed through me, and instantly I wished I
could leave.

“It gets
easier,” Charlotte
whispered, gripping my arm. I saw the tears in her eyes. “I need your help,
Hope. Please make her happy again.”

“That’s
a tall order, Char,”
Rin
said gently. “Just talk to
her if you can, Hope.”

“I’m
sure I can do that.” I tried to appear eager, but my voice betrayed me.

I walked
toward Mrs. Gooding, but only a few feet from Charlotte and
Rin
I bumped into something hard that knocked me backwards. I couldn’t see it at
first, but as I felt around in front of me, a thin, sheer curtain—grayish in
color—seemed to surround Mrs. Gooding. Unlike a curtain, however, it was solid.
Like an invisible wall.

I
pushed.

Nothing
happened.

Over my
right shoulder, I glanced surreptitiously at
Rin
and
Charlotte. Sensing their disappointment, I pushed again.
Harder.
As I pushed, I thought of my mother. If the situation were
reversed, how desperate would she be to hear that I was okay? If I had died,
and Mom had lived, wouldn’t she want someone to come to her and do what I was
now doing for Charlotte?

With
everything I had within me, every ounce of concentration I could muster, I
threw my shoulder against the solid curtain again and again, and just when I
was on the verge of giving up, I tumbled miraculously through to the other
side.

Mrs.
Gooding sprang from the park bench.

“Sweetheart,
are you all right? Where did you come from?” She appeared startled, as though
I’d materialized out of nowhere and, from her perspective, I supposed I had.

“I—I—” I
had no idea what to tell her.

“Oh, my
goodness!” She helped me up. “Did you hit your head?”

I could
see Charlotte and
Rin
sending me exaggerated nods
behind the curtain.

“Yes . .
. yes, I think I did.” Absently, I rubbed my head, one side and then the other.
Though I sucked at acting, she seemed to believe me.

She
walked me to the bench as I feigned a head injury, throwing in a few
Ow
’s
for good
measure. Being one of those nurturing, overprotective Moms, she offered to call
me an ambulance, but I told her I’d be fine. For several minutes, we watched
the children playing on the swings, and then, without any prompting, she
started talking.

“I had a
daughter about your age,” she said, the weariness creeping into her voice. “She
bumped her head as well, but I wasn’t there to help her.” There were tears in
her sad eyes. I watched them fill up, like a cup about to overflow. And then
they did.

“It
wasn’t your fault,” I blurted out, knowing she was referring to the drunk
driver and Charlotte’s
car accident. “That driver never should have been on the road.”

“It’s a
mother’s job to keep her children safe. I should have driven her myself . . . I
should have kept her home.” Her pain was tearing at my insides, but each time I
looked at Charlotte,
I was reminded to stay exactly where I was.

“What if
I told you she was okay?” I whispered. “What if I told you that Charlotte wants you to be
happy again?”

She
stiffened, shouting at me, “I never told you her name! How did you know her
name? Who—WHO ARE YOU?”

I was
craning my neck at Charlotte,
pleading with my eyes for help. Charlotte and
Rin
were waving their arms in the air, at a loss for words as much as I was.

Mrs.
Gooding stood and began to walk away. She couldn’t have been more than a few
feet from me when the lights flickered off, and then on, and I knew we were
running out of time.

“Do
something!”
Rin
bellowed. “Don’t let her get away!”

My mind
was frantic, racing.

“Wait,
Mrs. Gooding! Wait!” I shouted.

But she
didn’t slow her pace.

“I’m—I’m—I’m
an angel!” The lie flew out before I could stop it. I slapped a hand across my
mouth, but it was too late. To my amazement, Mrs. Gooding stopped, and slowly
turned.

When she
was facing me eye to eye, she asked warily, “What’s your name?”

“Hope,”
I managed to say. “My name is Hope.”

Mrs.
Gooding collapsed on the grass.

By the
time she came to and I’d assisted her back to the bench, Charlotte and
Rin
were jumping up and down hysterically from the other
side of the curtain. Mrs. Gooding wasn’t fully convinced of my angelic status.
Her skepticism was obvious. So I babbled on and on about Charlotte’s
appearance—giving her every detail that I could see, including the tiny flowers
in her upswept hair—thankfully Charlotte
morphed back into her prom dress as I described it so I didn’t have to recall
it. Then I spoke of Charlotte’s
boundless optimism, her little-girl voice, and told her that she had a special
message for her mother.

“I miss
the sound of her voice . . .” she said weakly, breaking off into sobs. I held
her against me, trying to think of something to say that would ease her pain.

“Mrs.
Gooding, Charlotte
wants . . .” I looked past her to her petite, copper-haired daughter for
guidance. She had dropped to her knees,
Rin
at her
side, unable to speak. It wasn’t easy to put myself in Charlotte’s shoes, to verbalize the wishes in
her heart, or to imagine all the things she’d longed to say for the past ten
years. But when I pictured my own mother, saw the face of Vivienne sitting
beside me, the words finally came to me.

“She . .
. she wants you to stop crying.” I placed an arm around her shoulder. It felt
bony beneath my fingers. “She wants you to start eating.” At this, a maniacal
chuckle erupted between Mrs. Gooding’s sobs. “She’s tried to see you several
times, to let you know that she’s happy, but she’s been unable to, um, reach
you. So she sent me instead.”

Her face
turned ashen. Between fresh sobs, she said, “I see her everywhere I go. I feel
her around me all the time. We used to love this little park. I come here to be
close to her again . . .” Her body convulsed into sobs, rendering her
speechless. After composing herself, she said, “I want her back with me so much
that I’m certain I’m imagining her.”

Funny
how people did that to themselves, I thought, and there was no need for it. I
was having a difficult time speaking; hot tears were running down my face, and
there was a heaviness in my chest. “You’re not imagining her,” I said. “Charlotte is happy. She’s
with
Rin
. They’ve both been watching out for you.”

“She and
Rin
?” Her hand flew to her mouth.
 

“She
doesn’t want you to be in any hurry to see her . . . permanently,” I added, and
I saw Charlotte
smile. “She loves you way too much for that.”
          

And then
the park disappeared, the space going black, void of anything solid, and as I
reached out, I felt two hands take mine firmly—one
Rin’s
,
the other Charlotte’s. Dim light appeared—
Rin
was
holding back a corner of the heavy velvet drape, making it look unbelievably
easy—and in less than a heartbeat, we stood in a very familiar place.

If the
blowing autumn leaves and pilgrim pictures taped to the windows were any
indication, it was a chilly November evening sometime around Thanksgiving,
possibly a short time after my accident. I looked around with blurry,
tear-filled eyes. I had missed this place more than I’d known.
 

Mom and
Dad lived here until Claire hit the terrible two’s (or so I’d heard). Just a
tiny bungalow near downtown McMinnville that Mom had fallen in love with, and
Dad eventually had done the same. Painted moss green with deep purple shutters,
and a picket fence and porch to match, it suited my mother’s personality. As
soon as I came along, the house got a bit crowded so the four of us moved into
our second home, a comfy two-story across town.

But
then, last year, when Claire turned twenty and wanted to be “free”—which I took
to mean, live on her own, be independent, throw wild parties—our parents
offered up the bungalow. Implying that my older sister needed a sitter, Mom
not-so-slyly hinted that I should go with her, mistakenly assuming that I had a
hair’s-width of influence on Claire’s behavior—good or bad. Despite my ensuing
rant, Mom bribed me. Free laundry service for a year, and all the cake I could
eat was our agreed-upon settlement.
  

I
unlatched the small gate and bounded up the sidewalk, pausing at the front
door.

“Should
I knock first?” I asked, suddenly nervous.

“Why are
you whispering? This is your house, isn’t it? I say we . . . Aw, what the
heck—Let’s surprise her!” Charlotte
giggled. “This is a happy occasion! I can’t wait to meet her.” Our last visit
had left us in an extremely buoyant mood, Charlotte
most of all.