Raising Hope (28 page)

“If I’m walking, then what the devil am I doing sitting in this foolish chair?” Mamie would snap at her.

The nurse would hold up her hand, her own eyes closed. “No, no,” she’d say. “Only positive visualization.”

My head still on my knees, I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I’m imagining blood flowing from my insides to my outsides. From my insides to my outsides. From my insides to my outsides.

“Hope!” It’s Sara Lynn, banging on my locked door. “What are you doing in there?”

I wipe, pull up my shorts, and flush. “What do you think I’m doing in here?” I shout. “I’m peeing! Peeing!”

Silence, then: “You know I don’t like that term. It’s vulgar.”

I grit my teeth and look in the mirror as I wash my hands. That stupid zit is covering my entire chin. Dammit. I pull open the top drawer under the sink and fish around through the combs and elastics and lip glosses for a Band-Aid.

“You’re going to be late,” Sara Lynn warns from outside my door. It’s a wonder I don’t kill that woman; it really is.

I put the Band-Aid on my chin and take one more look at myself. Ugly, I think, and I want to throw something at the mirror and smash it into a thousand pieces. I wish I were prettier. I wish I were older. I wish my stupid period would come so I would feel like a normal girl.

“What happened to your chin?”

At least Sara Lynn didn’t ask me right when I came out of my room and stomped downstairs and out the door. At least she had the sense to wait until now, when we’re in the car. She’s driving, so if I kill her, I’m going down with her. Which, come to think of it, might not be a bad idea.

“Nothing,” I mutter, my hand instinctively going up to cover the Band-Aid.

“Were you picking at a pimple?” she asks, and it’s not a question; it’s like she knows that’s exactly what I was doing.

“Like you’d even know what it’s like,” I burst out. “You probably never had a pimple in your whole perfect life!”

She doesn’t speak for a minute, then says quietly, “Is that what you think? That I’ve had a perfect life?”

I don’t answer, just look out the window.

“Well, I haven’t. I don’t. I’ve had my share of ‘pimples’—some on the outside and some on the inside, where you can’t see them. Maybe I don’t . . . I don’t know . . . talk about it the way I should, but it’s true. My life is far from perfect.”

She sounds a little sad, and her sadness makes my anger disappear. I wish I were little so I could throw my arms around her and cry and cry. Instead, I just kick my foot a little and whine, “Sara Lynn, when are things going to start happening to me?”

“What kinds of things, honey?” she asks.

What do I say that won’t sound stupid? I want my period; I want a real, full-blown romance; I want to find my father; I want to be pretty and self-assured and have a figure like she does; I want to be popular; I want all kinds of things. “Just things,” I say lamely.

She takes her right hand off the steering wheel and pats my leg. “Things
are
happening to you, Hope. Every day. You might not see it, but they are.”

“Like what?” I mutter. I’m sounding all sullen, even though there’s a part of me that’s happy she sees me changing.

“Like . . . well, look how you’ve taken up tennis this summer. Sam says you’ve been working hard and improving your game. That’s something to be proud of.”

“Big deal,” I say.

“It is a big deal.”

I’m silent, then I ask, “What . . . what else did he say?”

“Sam?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, that you have natural ability; that he enjoys teaching you. He sees what I see—you’re a terrific person.”

“Well, I’m not that terrific,” I say, trying to hide how pleased I am.

“Yes, you are,” she says. “You’re our Hope.”

Turns out I’m not late for my lesson at all. That’s the good thing about living with Sara Lynn, who’s a freak about being on time—I’m never late for anything. She badgers me to get going way before I actually have to, so even when she thinks I’m running late, I’m really not.

Sam’s practicing serves when I walk over to the courts. I’m quiet as I walk behind him, watching him toss the ball high and wind up his body like a spring. Then—bam!—he unwinds and he’s over the ball, smashing it hard.

“Hey,” I call as he grabs another ball from the basket.

“Hope!” He drops the ball back in the bucket and grins at me. I can’t help but smile back; he just has one of those contagious smiles.

“That was a really good serve,” I tell him.

“It does the job,” he replies. “Are you ready to start?”

“Yeah,” I say, unzipping my racket case. “I am.”

“What happened to your chin?”

I shoot him a glare. “Don’t even ask,” I say.

When my lesson’s over, Sam sits with me on the bleachers. The sun’s hot; it seems we could both use a break.

“I’ve been thinking . . . ,” he says, twirling his racket between his legs.

“About what?” I ask.

“About you,” he says. “You and Anne Frank.”

I blush and turn down my mouth, embarrassed. “Oh, no. Just forget I said anything about that. It’s kind of stupid. You know, to get all worked up over a dead person I didn’t even know.”

He takes his racket and bops me gently on the head with it. “No, it’s not at all stupid. It shows that you have a heart.”

I shrug and hide my face with my hair.

“Listen,” he says, “I’m thinking that you’re just the kind of person the world needs. Someone who cares about injustice, someone who wants to right wrongs.”

“Well, I’m not Superman,” I say, trying to make a joke out of it so he won’t see how much I’m listening, how much I care that he thinks there’s a place in the world for a person like me.

He ignores my joke. “You said last week that you hadn’t found your passion; you know, something you like to do that gives your life meaning. I think . . . and it’s just a thought . . . but I think you may be on your way to finding it.”

I squinch up my nose. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that Anne Frank’s story moves you so much. About the fact that you give a damn, and that you’re smart and articulate. You know, it’s people like you who change the world, Hope. People like Martin Luther King Jr., John and Robert Kennedy, Betty Friedan, Gloria Steinem.”

“Huh?” I know about Martin Luther King and JFK, but not the other names. And what on earth do I have in common with a civil rights guy and a president?

“They’re all people passionately committed to ideals. They wanted the world to be different. They were mad about the way things were—like you’re mad. So they changed things and made them better.”

I look up at him from underneath my hair. “So how am I supposed to change things?” I ask skeptically.

He laughs. “I don’t know, my little activist. That’s up to you.” He stands up. “But I have no doubt you’ll figure it out. Maybe you’ll be a senator. Or the first woman president. Maybe you’ll be secretary-general of the UN.” He jumps off the bleachers, turns to me, and smiles. “But I expect big things from you, Hope.” He puts his racket over his shoulder and calls back, “You’re going to make the world a better place.”

I look at his back as he walks away and put my hands up to my cheeks. He really thinks that about me? I stand up and then sit back down again, laughing. Me—making the world a better place. Ha! But then I stand again and walk down the bleachers, my head held high. Why not me? Why shouldn’t I, Hope Teller, change the world?

Chapter 20

I
’m kneeling on the ground, cutting back my pansies and pulling off the swollen seed heads, then breaking them so the seeds scatter around the plants. It’s close work, requiring time and patience, and I have both today. I’m craving the time by myself, in fact—time to think. Well, not so much time to think as time to feel.

It was just a week ago that I returned from Boston, zipping up Route 93 after kissing Sam good-bye like I’d never see him again. But I am seeing him again—tomorrow, in fact. I’m sneaking out to his lake house to do God knows what, and the hairs on my arms stand up just to anticipate it. It’s desire I’m feeling, sweet desire like I haven’t felt in years.

He’s going back to Boston in a matter of weeks, though. Thud. All that yearning just stops even to think of him going away, and something in my heart hurts. I likely won’t see him much once he’s gone. There are only so many trips I can say I have to make to Boston for the magazine. But I won’t think about that, won’t let my deadening pragmatism spoil the lovely feelings buzzing around inside me. He’s here now, and that’s all that matters.

I’m not used to doing things by my heart, and I laugh out loud at myself—a full and golden sound. The last time I did something just because my heart told me to, it changed my life in ways I couldn’t have imagined. The best thing in my life I did by my heart. I got Hope.

I stand up and stretch my arms over my head. I feel like the sixteen-year-old I never was. I feel like dancing through my gardens singing Sam’s name. I laugh again and look at the sky. My senses are sharpened today. It’s the kind of day where seeing a hummingbird up close would make me cry from happiness; and I’m suddenly still, looking for that hummingbird, for a visible sign that the world is a magical place.

“Sara Lynn,” a male voice says behind me.

“Oh!” I jump, holding my hand to my throat. “Oh, my goodness! You scared me.”

“Sorry,” he says, and touches my arm to steady me. It’s Jack Pignoli, the owner of Ruth’s diner.

“My mind was somewhere else,” I say, trying to smile. “It’s all right.”

“I was driving by and I saw you here.”

“Yes?” I’m wondering what in the world he wants and then it hits me—a hard kick in my stomach. “Is Ruth all right?” I ask. I just know it’s Ruth; it’s the only reason he’d be here. I stumble backward and raise my hands to my face, as if to shield myself from the pain I know is coming. “Oh, my God! It’s Ruth, isn’t it.”

“No, no,” he reassures me. “No. She’s fine. I just came to get some advice.”

“Oh, thank God!” I slowly lower my hands and relax my shoulders.

“Listen, can we talk?” Jack asks.

“Of course.” Goodness, where are my manners? “Come on, let’s go sit on the porch and I’ll bring us some lemonade.”

“No, that’s not necessary,” he protests.

“Of course it is,” I say firmly, and I start walking up the steps to the house. “Come on with me now.”

I sit him down at the little table on the porch and tell him to wait just a minute. When I bring out the lemonade and some scones, he’s sitting hunched over the table, looking out at the back gardens.

“Here we are,” I say, sitting down with him. “Now, what did you need to discuss with me?” I smile and wait for an answer. Perhaps he wants my help to plan a party for Ruth or give her an extra-nice birthday present for working so hard.

“I love Ruth,” he tells me without touching the lemonade or scones I’ve set out. “I want to marry her.”

I’ve surely lost my mind. It couldn’t be that I just heard him say . . . I set down my lemonade. “Come again?”

He sighs, picks up one of the scones in the basket, and bites into it. I wait, bug-eyed, I’m sure, for him to chew and swallow. He takes a sip of lemonade and shrugs. “We’ve been, well, involved for three years.”

“Three years?” I ask. How did Ruth keep this from me for so long? Where on earth have I been that I haven’t seen what was in front of my eyes?

“She didn’t want anyone to know,” he says, almost apologizing. “And she’d kill me if she knew I was telling you right now, but I don’t know what else to do.”

I have to remind myself to breathe; that’s how shocked I am. “You and Ruth,” I say weakly. “Three years.”

He nods, and his eyes are clouded with pain. “I love her so much, Sara Lynn. I really do.”

I nod back at him because I can’t think of a thing to say, and we’re like two of those bobble-headed dolls nodding at each other. “Well,” I finally say. “Well.”

“She won’t see me anymore. Not since last week.”

“Did . . . something happen?” I ask. Oh, they must have had a spat. Probably just a little lovers’ quarrel that’ll blow over by tomorrow.

“No,” he says. “Nothing. That’s the thing. She just keeps avoiding me.”

Well, she’s been avoiding us, too. She’s sick, for heaven’s sake. “Oh, that’s just because she’s been under the weather,” I tell him, waving my hand to indicate he’s worrying over nothing.

“Under the weather?” He sounds confused, like this is news to him.

“Well, yes. She’s got a stomach bug of some sort.” Hasn’t he noticed? “I mean, she has no energy. She just comes home and sleeps. Didn’t she tell you she wasn’t feeling well?”

He frowns. “No, she didn’t.”

“Oh, my God,” I say. The world is tilting, and there’s nothing I can do to keep it upright. “Oh, my God.”

“What?” he asks, leaning over the table. “What?”

“Maybe . . . I wonder . . . something might be really wrong with her.” I look down at my hands and see that they’re shredding a scone into tiny crumbs. It feels like my fingers aren’t part of my body; I can’t make them stop. “She’s so stubborn, she’d rather break it off with you than put you through seeing her sick.” Then I remember his wife died some years ago of cancer, and I say, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be . . .”

“No, no.” He waves his hands. “It’s fine. Diane’s death was hard on me; that’s for sure. But I was with her, where I needed to be. If there’s something the matter with Ruth, I won’t be able to stand not being with her, helping her.”

Tears sting my eyes as I picture Ruth’s casket being dropped into the ground. “She’s been putting off Hope and me, too,” I say through my clogged throat. “She’s trying to keep us away from her.”

“Do you really think . . . ?”

“I do.” I wipe my eyes and set my jaw. “If she could keep it from me that she was . . . ah, seeing you for three years, then she’s very capable of keeping something like this from all of us.” I’m angry at Ruth, angry at her for being such a stubborn mule all her life. Then I’m ashamed, because it’s terribly unbecoming to be angry at a sick person. And then I’m just sad, sad for Ruth because she deserves so much better than this.