Pieces of Hope (55 page)

“Daniel
tried to . . .” My sentence broke apart. Mom waited for me to finish, but I
don’t think I even reacted. I felt too numb to continue.

At last,
she went on, “He looked horrified as I fell, though there was nothing else he
could have done, and I wanted him to know that. That’s why I went to find him
first. Anyway,” she said, shrugging as she finished her retelling, “the moment
my head hit that third step, I heard a loud
snap
—

To my
everlasting gratitude, she didn’t picture it. I had no desire to yank that
image from her mind and have it permanently etched in mine. But it did cause something
else to click into place. “Mom, I think I felt that during my climb with Brody.
It was instantaneous and sharp—and then it was gone. Is it possible that some
part of me knew you were gone?”

“We have
a close connection. Always have, haven’t we?” Her voice was reassuring.
 
I nodded back, grasping how very connected we
had been, even in her final moments.
 

But one
last question burned a hole in my conscience.

“Um, Mom
. . .” I gnawed intently on my bottom lip.
   

“Yes, Katydid?”

I
couldn’t look her in the eye. “Was there a lot—” More lip gnawing. “I mean, did
it—did it hurt much?

It took
no time for her to understand. She seized me in her arms. “Oh, honey, no! It’s
a little fuzzy, I admit. But I do recall lingering a moment or two afterwards.
I stood beside Daniel as he dialed 911 from our phone, still trying to help me
. . . But, no, I don’t remember any pain.” More softly, she said, “And I really
wish you didn’t, either.”
  

I sat
there for the longest time, unable to speak. But I no longer cried. I stared off
at the swimming swans, up at the cloudless morning sky, then back at her face.
 
 

I felt
adrift.
Untethered
. But not in a bad way.

“You’re
right.” My voice sounded surprisingly calm. “It’s good that Daniel was there with
you. It’s good that you weren’t alone.”

“And
neither were you.” She smiled at me as my insides turned to mush. “I never left
you alone, Katydid. And I never will.”

I
thought about that for a moment. “Yeah, I get that.”

“Good.” Mom
squeezed me hard. “Then all is right with my world.”

I looked
back at the swans once as we walked toward the fairgrounds. They dazzled my
eyes in my favorite color—a glistening golden emerald. The color of Ethan’s
eyes. Mom hit it right on the mark. Our hands entwined, she smiled as we broke
into a run.
   

26
Ride of my
Life

The
Ferris wheel was even more hypnotizing up close.

Somehow
impossible to look at or look away from . . . reminding me of a happy train
wreck, if there was such a thing.

“Are we
going to ride it?” I asked. Squinting at its golden glow, I asked myself again
why anyone would go to the trouble of building such an impressive ride, and
then only put one car on it
  

“You are,”
Mom said with an air of mystery.
  

“Aw,
come on,” I begged. “I know you love Ferris wheels as much as I do. And both of
us can fit on the seat, I know we can . . . unless you’ve recently packed on
the pounds at the Station.”

She
laughed and patted her backside. “You know that I can eat my weight in cake.”

“I know.
I remember.” Sunday mornings. Me.
Mom. Cake.

“I’ll be
right here,” she told me, taking her eyes off the wheel.

I huffed
as if it were torture, “Okay, you win. I’ll go first!” I ran up the wooden
ramp, dropped onto the seat, yanked down the golden lap bar, and stretched my
arms across the back of the seat. “Chicken!” I yelled at her.

“Hang on
tight, Katydid!” Mom called anxiously. “You’re in for the ride of your life!”

“Don’t
be silly, Mom. How fast could this thing possibly go?” But when the wheel
lurched backwards a few feet, then stopped, I reached hurriedly for the bar. I
wasn’t going to take any chances. Not any more, anyway.

Mom
backed up several paces as if the Ferris wheel were a rocket about to fly off
into outer space. And as the wheel kicked in hard a second time, I caught a
glimpse of
Creesie
, Charlotte,
Rin
,
Gus, Mac, and Cat as they joined Mom at the end of the ramp. They stared in my
direction, but none of them were smiling. I shrugged internally. Dead people’s
moods, who knew?

“Oh, and
honey,” Mom yelled, hand beside her mouth, “Beware of the flash! It’s supposed
to have quite the kick!”

I
laughed. “Whatever, Mom. You can’t scare me! It’s a Ferris wheel!”

Beware of the Flash
. The ancient script
carved into the back of the golden seat. The message I’d tried to interpret.
Well, whatever it meant, I beckoned with amusement, bring it on . . .

But to
ease my mother’s worry, I pressed my back against the seat and squeezed the bar
harder. In response, the big wheel took off as if this were its
Go
switch.

Suddenly,
the wheel was spinning clockwise at a distressing rate of speed. There was no
time to gaze idle-eyed at the scenery below—the Yamhill Fair, my forever
friends, the golden spinning lights. No time to wave and laugh as it drifted lazily
around. No, this wasn’t your everyday ride.

Hang on tight, honey! You’re in for the ride
of your life!

Inexplicably,
I was thrust backwards—not only physically, but mentally. It seemed that that I
was growing younger, younger, younger. I had a mouthwatering desire to stick my
thumb in my mouth. It was beyond bizarre, but in my present state of panic, I
wasn’t about to open my eyes to see if I looked younger on the outside, too.
Maybe the whole thing was only in my head?

Ride of your life.
Ha! Had I known
thirty seconds ago that Mom had meant that literally, I would have jumped
screaming from the seat like my pants were on fire. I sensed that something big
was about to happen. But thus far, there was only the whoosh of the wind in my
ears and the brilliant lights of the fair flashing before my eyelids.
 

With an
abrupt jerk, the wheel stopped. Then it began spinning in the opposite
direction—forward not backwards—as if it had gone back far enough and now
needed to correct itself. My palms slick and sweaty on the metal bar, I
squeezed harder as the wheel raced along at what felt like warp speed.

That’s when
the “something big” happened.

It
wasn’t anything like people say . . . “My life flashed before my eyes.” It wasn’t
anything like that. There was no flashing. None. The words engraved on the seat
were disturbingly funny now that I knew what they meant.

Only
three things actually happened.

The
blackness. So thick and dark that if I’d wiggled a finger in front of my face,
I wouldn’t have seen it. But it was a sort of cave darkness—where I could tell
there was a lot going on—lots of strange things stirring around, even if I
couldn’t actually see them.

Then the
lights came back on, and all the things I suspected were going on in the
earlier cave darkness, were more than I ever could have imagined.

And
finally, the very best part. Every forgotten memory from my eighteen years
rolled past me like a movie! But I could taste them and smell them and hear
them and feel them. I was happily, deliriously drowning in them—reliving rather
than recalling them. And they were complete. Not scattered or sparse. Detailed.

Every
gajillion
frames or so, the images would slow, and a single
memory would impress itself upon me. Though
I
wasn’t the one doing the
selecting, it was similar to the sensation of lingering over a favorite photo
to fondly reminisce. But instead of just looking at the pictures, I’d find
myself cast in the memory itself—taking on the role of me—at whatever age the
memory had formed.

Pause.
Mom and Dad’s first kitchen. Our
kitchen now.
Why is the hideous yellow
countertop taller than me?
Standing/wobbling near counter. Legs must be
made of some crazy rubbery substance that doesn’t allow me to stand without
jiggling. A licorice-skinny girl with cottony-white hair is yanking candy from
my hand. My tinny voice wails an earsplitting, “
Nooooooo
!”

Then my
mother’s voice. “Clarissa Faith, what have you done to your little sister?
Remember our talk about sharing? Share with Katydid. That’s right, play nice.”

Zoom
ahead.

Pause.
Same happy yellow kitchen. Same
ugly countertop. A slightly taller Claire is sharing a hot dog with me . . .
one she has just dropped on the floor.

“That’s
right, Katydid. Eat it up. It tastes good, doesn’t it? Isn’t it nice to share?”

Fast
forward.

Pause.
Same kitchen. Newer countertop.
Now at eye level. But Mommy is crying at the sink. Her apron is flowered. I
tug, tug, tug on it to get her to look at me, but she won’t look down. “Look,
Mommy, look!” She doesn’t look.

I tumble
out the back door, dig for a while beneath the painted flowerpot at the corner
of the garage, find what I am searching for, then plow back into the kitchen.
Much tugging later, Mommy wipes her wet face on her apron. She kneels down so
that I can see her face and says, “What is it, Katydid? Mommy’s having a bad
day.”

I open
my chubby little hand, exposing a shiny blue rock.

“For
you, Mommy. Don’t cry.”

At the
sight of my gift, she makes a funny choking nose and pulls me so tight into her
that I have a hard time breathing. My face squishes into her apron, and I smell
her wonderful Mommy smell. I feel how much she loves me. And I don’t care if I
can breathe or not.

“Oh,
Katydid,” she says, rocking me a little. “If I ever, ever forget how much you
love me, remind me . . .”

Zoom
forward again.

Pause
. Miss Allen’s kindergarten class.
A boy is staring at me. He has hair the color of dark honey and long floppy
curls that most girls would kill for. My sister would, anyway. “Hey, you!” he
says as he climbs across the top of the desk. When he smiles, I see a tooth is
missing. “Come sit by me. My name’s
Bwody
.”

Pause.
I am eight years old, on honor
roll, and Claire hates me for it.

Pause.
I am twelve (going on a
thousand), knobby-kneed, metal-mouthed, and hideous. Claire is a tall willow
with perfect teeth, skin, and hair—and I hate her for it.

Pause. I
am fourteen and I have just experienced love at first sight! I think I heard Angels
sing when he entered the room. Either that or I am hallucinating.
 

“Hey,
you’re Hope
Valenti
, right?” His eyes are gray and
blue. It makes me think of thunder, and his hair reminds me of dirty sand.

I lick
my teeth. They feel straight and shiny. “You’re that new boy, aren’t you? The
one from California?”

He nods,
looks me right in the eye. And I am zapped!

“I’m
Daniel
Hartlein
.” He smiles back. “And this is going
to sound way crazy, but I feel like I know you from somewhere.”

Pause.
I am fifteen. I am nauseous. I am
scared, frightened, and terrified that I’m about to lose my wonderful mother to
cancer. I pray, “Not now, God . . . Not now . . . Please don’t take my mother
now.”

The
memories fly up to the present moment.

Again,
the wheel jerks to a sudden soundless stop, rotates one quarter of a turn to
the right and—now twisted sideways on its base—spins wildly backwards once
again. My eyes are
squinched
tight, and my hands are
numb from holding on so hard, but all I can see is that same cave blackness for
a while—some
scurryings
and other things that I can’t
see clearly in the darkness—and then the lights are on
 
again. Only this time I’m not watching the
images from my own eyes, but rather, I am a spectator . . . as if I’m watching
someone else’s life, or perhaps
another
life
 
. . .

I see a
basketball hoop decorated with crepe paper, old-fashioned posters bearing the
image of a pointy-nosed, white-haired man in a flag-colored suit who beckons:
Uncle Sam Wants You!
The lights are dim
in the long rectangular gym and I am vaguely aware that there is a band onstage
at one end, and in front of them, what seems to be the entire town swaying
between the hoops on the crowded wooden floor.

But I am
mesmerized by only one face. I focus in on him. He has angular features, strong
and honest. His hair is darkish blonde. And he looks wildly happy.

“Lucy
King . . .” he says to the pale-haired girl. He drops to one knee and I notice
the drab green of his uniform. He smiles at her as if she is the girl of his
dreams. Then he takes her hand, turns it over, and gently kisses her palm.

She
looks back at him in adoration. Her eyes are wet.

“Marry
me, Lu. Make me a happy man or I swear I’ll never love again . . .”

FULL
STOP. Jerk. Rotate slowly back to center.

Stop.
Click.
Spin wildly forward.

There is
darkness for a brief while, and then I am me again—staring out of my own eyes,
watching the pictures again. But these can’t be my memories. They don’t feel
the same. Some part of me knows these things have not yet happened. The images are
slightly transparent . . . new . . . as if the threads holding them together
could easily come apart . . . or possibly never come together . . .

I see
the back of a man’s head. His hair is dark and messy, and the angle at which he
holds it—confident and straight—is a dead giveaway. I would know him anywhere. His
arms are full of something. I catch a glimpse of several tangled coat sleeves.