Raising Hope (4 page)

Hope was all smiles when we arrived at the club this afternoon, but it wasn’t an hour later that she stomped over to the tennis courts insisting we go home. Are you sick? I asked her. No, she sulked. Just bored. Now, I couldn’t very well walk out in the middle of a tennis match just because Hope was having a mood swing, so I told her to wait a while, that we’d leave soon. Ten minutes later, there she was, hitting balls over on court two with the new club pro, laughing and talking to beat the band.

And you wouldn’t mind it, but she hates tennis; she simply hates it. I’ve been trying to get her to take it up for years. It’s such a social sport, you know. Just a good skill to have. But she’s never wanted anything to do with it. It’s too hot out on the courts, she’s said; she can’t hit the ball; it’s not any fun. Well, she certainly was doing a marvelous impression of enjoying it out there today; she was swinging that racket like she was having the time of her life.

“What do I owe you for the lesson?” I asked the pro when I finished my match and went over to fetch Hope.

“Nothing.” He smiled. “Call it a birthday present for Hope.”

A birthday present! That’s Hope for you—announcing her birthday to someone she’s only just met.

“Sam says I could really be good,” she tells me from the passenger seat. She’s hugging her knees to her chest and has her feet up on the car seat.

“Hmm?” I ask, turning my head to glance at her. “Is your seat belt on?” I brush her knees aside to make sure.

“I
said,
” she announces, “Sam says I could really be good.”

“Who’s Sam?”

Hope takes a big breath and holds it, her cheeks full of air. As she exhales, she says, “Do you listen to anything?”

“Well, I do have other things on my mind besides you,” I point out. God, the self-centeredness of children! She sounds like Bobby. My lips start to form a smile in spite of myself. “You know”—I laugh—“someone I once knew used to tell me I was visiting places in my mind instead of listening. He’d be in the middle of a story, and I’d have this look on my face, I guess, and he’d say, ‘You’re not hearing a word, are you. You’re visiting places in your mind again.’”

“Who?”

“Who what?”

“Who used to tell you that?”

“Oh, no one you’d know.”
Just your father.
I put my hand up to my face and fumble with my sunglasses, and then I say brightly, “Now. I’m listening. Who’s Sam?”

“Sam’s the tennis pro. You know, the new guy at the club? He’s so nice, Sara Lynn. I mean, he just saw me sitting there bored out of my skull, waiting forever for you to be finished—”

“Sorry,” I interject wryly.

“—and he says, ‘Hey, want to hit a little while you wait for your baby-sitter?’” Her voice deepens when she says his words, like she’s onstage playing a role.

“Your baby-sitter?” I laugh. “He thought I was your baby-sitter?”

“That’s what
I
said. I said, ‘Listen, it’s my birthday today, and I’m twelve years old. I don’t have baby-sitters anymore.’”

I smile, imagining Hope taking the poor man’s head off.

“And then,” she continues, “he sort of shakes his head, like how could he be so dumb, right? And he says, ‘I’m sorry. Of course you’re too old to have a baby-sitter.’ So I forgive him, because he’s being so nice, and he says, ‘Come on. I’ll give you a free lesson, seeing as it’s your birthday.’”

“It looked like you were having fun,” I say, turning the car onto our street.

“Oh, I was. And he thinks I’m good. Or that I could be if I practice.”

“Well, that’s great. I’m happy to practice with you anytime you’d like.” I decide to be gracious and omit the “I told you you’d like tennis if only you gave it a chance” speech that’s on the tip of my tongue. It is her birthday, after all.

“Um . . . I was thinking . . .”

I glance over to see Hope chewing the inside of her cheek.

“I was thinking that I kind of want to take lessons. At the club. From Sam.”

“Oh, no . . .” I laugh. Goodness, she thinks she can talk me into anything. “No, no, no. Remember a mere six months ago when you convinced me you wanted to be a skater? And I bought you the skates, the costumes, the ice time? How many lessons did you take before you decided skating was not for you?”

“Well, that was different!”

“How many lessons?” It’s my lawyer’s training. I haven’t practiced law in years, but my skills aren’t so rusty that I’ll let a wily twelve-year-old distract me from the issue.

She sighs. “Three.”

“Three. And those skates were not inexpensive.”

“I know. And I’ve already said I was sorry. It wasn’t really my fault, though. How was I supposed to know it’d be, like, below zero on that ice rink? I was going to catch pneumonia or something if I kept skating! But that won’t happen in tennis. It’s not cold on a tennis court.”

“What if gets too hot out there?” I shoot back.

“Then I’ll drink some water and take a break.”

“Hmmm.” That’s a pretty good answer. Maybe
she
should study law.

“Please?” she begs. “Pretty pretty please?”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. I can’t even recall how many times I’ve been down this road with Hope. Before skating, it was ballet. Before ballet, it was gymnastics. She throws herself into whatever her current passion is and then quits when she discovers she’s going to have to work at it if she wants to be any good. Honestly, I worry about her work ethic sometimes. I take a deep breath and say, “Do you promise you won’t give up the second you get frustrated? Because tennis isn’t easy, you know. You’ll have to work very hard to become competent, never mind proficient, at it.”

“Duh!” she says, a syllable she uses that drives me batty. “I was practicing today, wasn’t I? With Sam?”

“I’m only saying—”

“Yeah, yeah,” she interrupts. “I won’t quit; I’ll listen to Sam; I’ll practice a lot. Come on, Sara Lynn. You’re always saying how great a sport tennis would be for me, and now I really want to do it!”

I sigh. We do belong to the club, after all; we might as well use the facilities there. “All right.”

“Yay!” Hope cheers. “Maybe I’ll get so good we can enter the family doubles tournament this year.”

“Maybe,” I say, trying to mask my skepticism.

We’re pulling up the driveway now, and Hope bounces in her seat. “Ruth’s home!” she cries, spotting Ruth’s blue car. “I wonder if she’s baking my cake.”

“I would bet she is.” I can’t help but smile. Even if Hope is almost a teenager, she’s still a kid who loves birthday cake. These days, she’s been reminding me of herself at five, when she proudly paraded through the house in my high heels and Mama’s old fur stole. “I’m a big lady,” she used to tell us, utterly oblivious to the skinned knees and gapped baby teeth that gave her away. And now, at twelve, she’s trying on being a young woman. She reads teen magazines with articles like “How to Impress That Special Boy!” and “Dressing Right for Your Body Type!” She sneaks my lipstick sometimes, putting on a lopsided clown mouth she thinks I don’t notice. And she’s picky about her clothes these days, flatly refusing to wear outfits she herself chose just a few months ago. But in spite of all this, she’s still, in many ways, a little girl. As I slide my keys into my purse, my heart lurches out toward her, toward my sunny, stormy, changeable daughter.

My daughter. She’s not. Of course she’s not. But, oh, in my heart, she is. My Hope.

“Honey, look how beautiful the front gardens are.” I point out the gardens lining the pathway as we walk from the driveway to the front door—yellow snapdragons and purple salvia mixed with pink dianthus and white sweet alyssum. Anything to distract myself, anything to dilute this frightening feeling that overtakes me at times, this feeling of intense love for Hope that wraps itself around me and squeezes so tightly, I can’t breathe.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hope says, rolling her eyes. She jumps up the steps, opens the door, and runs in the house, calling, “Ruth! Ruth! Are you making my cake?”

I follow Hope to the back of the house, where my mother is sitting on the screened-in porch adjacent to the kitchen. She likes to sit there in her rocker while Ruth cooks dinner, so they can visit.

“Goodness, Hope, hasn’t Sara Lynn taught you not to yell in the house?” Mama’s eyes glitter as she looks up from her book, taking in Hope and me.

“Actually,” I say in a low voice as I pass by Ruth, busy at the stove, “I’ve encouraged Hope to yell in the house. I’m hoping she throws a screaming fit so all the neighbors hear.”

Ruth snorts out a laugh as she holds on to her pot handle with one hand and stirs with the other.

“Hi, Mama,” I say, speaking with a brightness I don’t feel as I walk onto the porch.

Her soft white curls appear to float as she shakes her head at me. “Hope’s yelling and carrying on like it’s Judgment Day.” Her smile softens her words, though, and she chuckles a little as Hope bends down to hug her. “Well, well,” she tells Hope, patting her on the back. “Here you are at last.”

Hope springs away from Mama and skips past me over to the kitchen counter, her wild curls sticking out from her head in every direction. She must not have combed her hair out after swimming, though I’ve told her times too numerous to count that it’ll snarl right up if she doesn’t rinse and comb it immediately after she gets out of the pool.

“Are you making my cake?” she teases Ruth.

“Cake’s done. I’m just whipping up the frosting now,” Ruth says, looking down at her pot and whistling.

“It’s chocolate, right?” Hope asks.

“Your frosting?” Ruth replies, her shoulders freezing for a second. “Uh-oh—I thought you wanted vanilla.”

“Oh no,” Hope wails as if it’ll be the end of the world if she eats white instead of dark frosting.

Ruth turns around, her eyes twinkling, and points her spoon at Hope. “Ha! Fooled you! Of course it’s chocolate.”

“Ru-uth,” whines Hope, stomping her foot halfheartedly.

“Boy, I’m good!” Ruth brags, turning back to the stove. “When you’re good, you’re good, and I am good!”

Hope sticks her tongue out at Ruth’s back, then smiles as she jumps up and down. “Yum!” she says to all of us. “I love Ruth’s chocolate frosting.”

I turn from her and look out the porch screen to the meadow and woodland gardens. I’m hearing that siren call that woos me out there, and I can’t resist it when it comes. My gardens are speaking to me, telling me to be with them for a while, to leave the people in my life behind. I can feel the slight weight of my cutting scissors in my hand, smell the sweetness of the blooming roses. I rise on my toes and lean toward the outside.

“I’m going out to work in the garden for a bit,” I say. I whirl around to see my mother looking at the backyard as well, perhaps lost in a siren call of her own. After all, these were her gardens before they were mine.

She nods, still gazing outside. “Good to keep up on the outdoor work.”

“Just be done in time for supper,” Ruth says. “We’re having steak, potatoes, and veggies.”

“I’ll be on time,” I promise, and I head out the porch door, letting it slap behind me as I walk down the wooden steps. I cross the terrace and check the potted plants as I walk by. They’re plenty wet—that summer storm yesterday did wonders for them. I deadhead a few petunias and scaevola, but I save the real nitty-gritty work on the terrace for another day. The sun’s at my back, warming my shoulders as I walk down the hill. I’m walking farther and farther away from the house, and my breathing is slower and deeper as I settle into the person I am when I’m alone. Bobby was right: I do visit places in my mind. And when I’m alone, I can give myself over to those visits, can play over the whole keyboard of my thoughts.

I laugh softly as I find my pruning scissors in the little shed hidden by the bottlebrush buckeye shrubs. Who would have thought, way back when, that I’d become a recluse? I
tsk
my tongue at my exaggerating tendencies; really, I’m absolutely overstating the case. After all, a person’s not a recluse if she holds down a job. And I do work, even if I don’t go to an office.

You write articles,
I remind myself.
You write articles about gardens. That hardly requires people skills.

Well, I’m raising a child,
I argue back.
Which does, in fact, require people skills.

I enter the woodland garden and stand among the viburnum, spicebushes, and rhododendron that cluster underneath the large pines and maples in this corner of the yard. In a little clearing made long before my time sits a gray stone birdbath—three little cherubs holding up a flat bowl that fills with rainwater. I pull a soggy maple leaf from the birdbath, then turn from the woodland corner, my feet crunching lightly on the gravel path that leads to the meadow garden.

The butterflies and finches are crisscrossing the meadow’s sunflowers and phlox and buddleia. Oh, the garden is lovely at this time of day, aglow in the mellow rays of the late afternoon sun. The flowers move in this meadow, even when—as today—there isn’t any breeze. It’s the birds, I think, and even the lightest of the butterflies. They land on a flower, stay for a moment, and then—
whoosh
—they’re gone, jumping off their perch and leaving it slightly vibrating.

The small parcel of land that bridges the meadow and woodland gardens is planted thickly with pink and white roses edged with blue scabiosa. I bend to the first rosebush and smell the sweet, honeylike odor of the fullest blooms. I reach into the bush, gently, gently, so as not to be pricked by a thorn, and look for the faded blossoms. I clip them off without compunction, leaving the dead flowers where they fall to fertilize the earth. As I cut away the old to make room for the new, I croon, “Beautiful,” at the buds starting to open. In a week’s time, they’ll have faded, too, and I’ll be cutting them away. I won’t forget they were beautiful once, though. I treat the dead flowers as tenderly as I do the blooming ones. It gives me comfort that the earth will take them in and use them to create still more beauty.

As I gently pull back a branch full of just blooming roses, I startle, for I see a bright green on top of the duller, darker green of a leaf. It’s a tiny frog sunning himself, and I crouch down to watch. His eyes blink now and again, but otherwise he’s perfectly still. The green on green is stunning, and it’s moments like this that make me love gardening, moments when I can be amazed at the variations that exist in the simple color green.