Were you sent straight from hell to destroy my life?
present
I’m worshipping at the altar of Pinterest again. Lasagna is the target of my affection. I’ve been stalking it like a sociopath, a carb-loving sociopath, for the past thirty minutes.
I check my watch. Seven o’clock. In the morning. It’s Saturday, and I’m picking up the kids from Seamus’s at eight. Now that I’m in my new house we’ve agreed they’ll spend weekends with me.
I clap my hands. “Hell yes, we’re having homemade lasagna for dinner.” It’s positive reinforcement, mental preparation for the culinary challenge ahead. I grab my keys and purse and march out the door on a mission. The mission includes the grocery store, Seamus’s, and while I’m at it I hijack my cooking talisman, Hope—a little insurance that dinner will be palatable. Hope is a goddamn genius in the kitchen. Everyone has a hidden talent—Hope’s, it turns out, is food.
Everyone and everything gathered, we assemble back at my house for Operation Lasagna.
Rory, Kira, Hope, and I are knee-deep in making noodles using the fancy contraption I bought, when Kai bows out to go outside and ride his bike. “Stay close, Kai,” I yell when I hear the front door open.
“I will, Mom,” he answers.
This is the point at which, in hindsight, I want to stop everything and put it in temporary suspense.
Life.
The Earth spinning on its axis.
Every.
Fucking.
Thing.
I want a do-over.
In my do-over, this is what would’ve happened:
I tell Kai no, he can’t ride his bike. Ever again.
He stays and we all tag team the hell out of building a glorious pan of Italian magnificence.
We eat said Italian magnificence in blissful harmony at my dining room table.
Happily ever after.
The end.
Instead, this happened:
I realized I forgot the damn ricotta cheese, because I’m a forgetful loser.
I asked Hope to watch the kids while I ran to the grocery store, instead of taking them with me like a good mom would.
I hurried out to my car and started it with only conquering lasagna on my mind in true self-absorbed fashion, because I’m a selfish bitch.
And then I backed out with a vengeance, forgetting there are more important things in the world than making lasagna.
I heard the crash.
I felt the impact.
And my heart.
Stopped.
Beating.
They say change comes when you least expect it.
That all transformation needs is a catalyst.
I’ll take transformation, but I want a different fucking catalyst.
I’m mechanically filling out forms though I can’t see the words on the page through the fear blotting my vision and streaming down my face. The words, You’re a horrible monster, repeat over and over taunting me like the soundtrack of a horror movie. I’m arguing with them, praying, trading promises, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please let him be okay. I’ll do anything. Anything. Take me instead.
“Daddy,” Kira’s voice is weak with sadness, and it pulls me out of my trance.
Seamus is standing just inside the automatic doors, scanning the waiting room for us.
Rory charges to him from the seat next to me.
I’m scared to look at his face. Whatever emotion he’s wearing will be a variety so raw it will strip me to the bone. And I’ve got no flesh left. I forgot what I said to him on the phone when I called. Kai. Bike. Car. Accident. Hospital. Those are the only words I can recall now.
“Is there any news, Miranda? What are his injuries? What have the doctors said?” The words are shaky with dread, but to the point and protective. He’s laser-focused in thought and mission, in problem-solving mode. His posture is stiff and rigid with determination.
But when I meet his eyes, all the fear I feel is reflected back at me tenfold, so I do the only thing I can do. I lie. To put his heart at ease for a bit, I lie. “We don’t have details yet, but he’s going to be okay, Seamus.”
“You’re sure he’s going to be okay?” he asks, eyes pleading for good news.
I nod, and my stomach turns at the lie.
He releases a wobbly breath. It’s relief, and he sits in the chair next to me. Rory crawls into the chair next to him and takes his hand, and Kira climbs into his lap, and he wraps his arm around her. The three of them cluster into a loving, supportive mass because they know how this whole family thing works. They’ve mastered it.
I’m reminded again that I’ve failed. Kai. Them. Me. You name it. I’ve messed it up. I let them find comfort in each other while I finish the paperwork. When I return it to the nurse’s station, I ask if there’s any news. “They’re prepping him for surgery. A doctor will be out to speak to you shortly.”
Shortly isn’t soon enough when the mortality of my child is in question.
“Lost a lot of blood. Broken femur. Ruptured spleen. Broken ribs. Surgery.” He says more, but those are the words I remember.
I’m pleading again. Please let Kai be okay. I’ll do anything. I’ll change. I’ll be the best mother the world has ever seen if you just let my little boy be okay. Please.
As if he can read my desperate thoughts, Seamus says, “He’s a tough kid, Miranda. He’s going to get through this.” Even though he just heard the same news I did, it’s optimistic Seamus putting positive words into action. Willing it to be true. He won’t even allow himself to consider a different outcome.
I felt pain when my grandmother died. It was crushing pain. My world was forever changed, my guiding force was gone. This pain is different. I’ve never felt anything like it. It’s worse, it’s so much worse. It feels like pain I won’t be able to recover from. Pain that’s slowly squeezing my heart within a fist, and if this all goes bad it will constrict until it ruptures from the pressure, leaving only mutilated pieces to fall away in an act of defeat.
The pain is also the biggest epiphany I’ve ever had. I love my kids. Because only love could create this kind of reaction within me. Not guilt, but love.
I stand only to kneel in front of them. I take Kira’s hand and rub the side of Rory’s calf. “I’m going to find you both something to eat.” When I look at Seamus’s face it’s blank, he’s checked out and pulled inside to deal with this. Focusing all of his energy and thoughts on Kai. “Can I get you anything?”
The question doesn’t register in his eyes, but he shakes his head.
The wait is hell. I never realized what a formidable opponent time could be. It teams up with my thoughts and drives me to the brink of insanity all within the span of a few hours. It’s a constant battle. One minute I have myself convinced Kai is going to be fine. The next minute I’m cursing the universe that the possibility exists that children can be taken before their parents.
By their parent.
The doctor returns with more news. More words. “Critical condition. Sedated. ICU. Monitor closely. No visitors.”
Though his body still looks alert and determined, the light is still absent from Seamus’s eyes, exhaustion and fear have drained him. “I need to see him,” he pleads. “Please.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. McIntyre. The situation is too unstable at this time to allow visitors.” I can’t see through my tears, but the doctor sounds sadly sympathetic.
Seamus was keeping it together. Not anymore. His eyes are glassy. I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, he’s struggling to keep his composure. “He’s my son. Please. He needs to know I’m here. That he’s not alone. I need to see him. I just need to see him to know he’s okay.”
The doctor offers another, “I’m sorry,” before he disappears down the hall to our son.
Seamus hesitates for a minute before he rises and marches down the hall leaning heavily on his cane. I know where he’s going, but I don’t stop him.
The nurses do. “Sir, you can’t go back there. Sir, stop.”
Seamus doesn’t stop and disappears behind a door.
Only to reappear moments later escorted by two males in scrubs.
“He’s my son! I have a fucking right to see him!” His shouting is pain, nothing more. Sadness and fear have grown so great they’ve turned into pain.
The men are holding his arms tightly. They look small flanking his tall frame. “He can’t be back there,” they say to me when I approach. “Get him under control,” one of them adds rudely, as if Seamus is the first person to ever act out under stress in this facility.
I nod. “He’s upset.”
“Upset doesn’t mean you don’t have to follow the rules, ma’am.” He’s laying down the law like Seamus was caught trespassing on private property, there’s no emotion involved. And then he repeats, “Get him under control or I’ll call security and have him removed. Understand?”
I step to him. “Do you have children?”
He shakes his head.
I lower my voice and the barracuda in me comes out. No one is going to fuck with my family today, Seamus included. “Then you have no idea what he’s going through. Don’t be an asshole. I’m not asking you to break rules, but back off and show some goddamn compassion. His son is fighting for his life back there.” I point to the door in a violent manner because punching this guy in the teeth won’t help our situation. “There’s no need to make threats.”
He’s unblinking but unhands Seamus. Words are over. My dirty looks aren’t, my scowl follows them as they retreat behind the door.
“I need some air, are you good with Rory and Kira?” He’s a shattered man and it’s killing me knowing I’ve done this to him. I’m responsible for all of the pain in his life. All of it.
“We’ll be fine. They’re sleeping. Go outside. Take your time. We’re not going anywhere.” I wish I could help him. All those years when he needed me and would’ve accepted and welcomed my help, I ran the other way. Now, when I want nothing more than to be the one he turns to, it’s his turn to run. My timing is absolute shit.
Watching him walk away makes me realize that when you love someone, you only want what’s best for them. And how much I wish what was best for him was me. It’s not. It never was, and it never will be. And then I sit down in a chair next to Rory and Kira, who are both sleeping, and I bawl. It’s crying that wets my cheeks and demolishes my soul. The tears are for Kai. And Seamus. And me. And my grandmother. All for different reasons. I can’t get the visual of Kai lying crumpled, bleeding, and unmoving on the street out of my head. It was an accident.
Accident.
An innocuous occurrence.
Until it involves my little boy on a bike being hit by my car.
Or my grandmother riding in the seat next to me.
There should be a different word for this type of accident. Accident seems too mild when tragedy is involved. Accident—Kai and my grandmother are meshing together in my mind until they’re one bloody heap that I feel wickedly responsible for. For years, I’ve tried to ignore the guilt that crushes me regarding my grandmother. It has a far weightier companion now.
When Seamus returns, I’m cried out. For now, anyway. I excuse myself to the restroom.
Bladder relieved, face splashed with cold water that does nothing to relieve mental or physical anguish, the waiting room receives me back in like an unwelcome guest. I wonder if Seamus can feel my guilt, it’s a larger presence in the room than I am. I need to tell him what happened and face his justified wrath.
Rory and Kira are huddled together, still sleeping in one big chair under Seamus’s jacket. Part of me wants to close my eyes too, but even if I did, I know I wouldn’t be able to sleep, my waking nightmares are worse than anything my imagination could dream up. I may never close my eyes again and just endure the torture.
I drop into the chair across from Seamus. He’s sitting up straight in his chair, but it’s contradictory to the exhaustion and sorrow in his eyes.
“You can talk to me, you know?” he says. It’s quiet, I’m sure because of the late hour and the kids sleeping next to him, but it’s also his concerned voice. A voice I haven’t heard in years. A voice that wraps me up like a warm blanket.
“My grandmother died.” This is me talking.
He looks at me thoughtfully, he’s never heard this story, and I’m sure he wasn’t expecting anything remotely close to this. “The one who raised you?”
I nod.
“When did it happen?” he questions. I know he thinks this is strange; I’ve always refused to talk about her to him.
“I was eighteen. She was sixty-two though I always thought of her as ageless. A woman with the wisdom time affords, but with the vitality and enthusiasm of someone much younger. An enigma. The type of person who should be able to dodge death, outsmart it, forever.”
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“I killed her. It was my fault.” I’ve thought those words thousands of times. They’re loud and condemning in my head, but quiet and wounded when they dribble between my lips. It should worry me that this type of shock-worthy declaration is registering shock-free on his face. But I’m not worried about me for once. I’m purging. Purging all the bad. “We were in a car crash. Hit a tree. I was driving.”
“Sounds like an accident. Accidents aren’t anyone’s fault.” It’s still his concerned voice. I know that will all soon change.
I take a deep breath and when I do the sob climbs from somewhere deep in the bowels of me where I bury the ugliest of the ugly and erupts in quiet expulsion. “It’s my fault. I was in such a fucking hurry. I needed the fucking ricotta cheese, and that’s all I was thinking about.”
When I look at Seamus, his eyes are wide and disbelief is mounting in them, contorting his face though he’s fighting it. I watch it slowly transform into the grimace of hate. He knows I’m not talking about my grandmother. “What exactly are you saying, Miranda?”
I look away and turn my brain off because I can’t bear to hear the words, let alone say them. “I hit Kai. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault. I’m sorry.” My body is shaking, not in fear, but self-loathing. I’m preparing myself for the onslaught of rage.
He leans over and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and I watch his fingers curl into fists that look like they could punch through steel. His right heel is vibrating up and down like a jackhammer, ferocious and destructive. Quicker than I’ve seen him move in years, he leaps from his seat and strides roughly on a grave limp to the other side of the room. When he stops, his back is to me. He looks larger than his six foot four inches, filling up the other half of the room with his presence. Hands on hips, head dropped back so he’s peering at the ceiling, I watch his posture stiffen into something I’ve never seen before. He’s preparing for a fight.
Let me have it, Seamus, I think to myself. The kids are sleeping; say everything you’ve kept bottled up for years. It’s time. I deserve it.
He doesn’t hesitate and spins on his heel. Eyes blazing, he thrusts an accusatory finger at me. “You. Fucking. Bitch.” It’s a low, growling whisper.
I don’t respond. The truth pierces my nonexistent armor, and I let it wound me, breach my skin, muscle, and bone.
“Were you sent straight from hell to destroy my life, Miranda? Because that’s how it feels. Years upon years of destruction.” He’s spitting the words at me through barely moving lips and gritted teeth. “Is there anything you’d like to say before I continue because shit’s about to get real? Buckle up.”
“I love you.” It isn’t filler, it’s the prologue to the horror story that’s about to unfold. It’s my one ultimate truth.
For a fraction of a second he just stares at me; it’s outrage. “You don’t know how to love, Miranda.” His words are biting, bitterness and anger, a vicious pair.
Regret is leaking from my eyes and dripping on my folded hands in my lap. A year ago I called him broken. He’s not. I am. Always have been.
He shakes his head and takes a deep breath before he stabs me again. “You killed my baby. Without even telling me, before, during, or after, you killed my baby.” His voice cracks. “Why? Why didn’t I get a say?” He’s trying to hold his outburst to a whisper, but it’s strained. The veins in his neck are bulging with effort. “Why?” His lips don’t move when he says it. His words pry my ribcage open to get at the heart of me.
“I’m sorry, Seamus.” I have no idea how he knows about the abortion, and I don’t bother to deny as he delivers his truth.
He takes three steps toward me, leans forward and spews more truth, “Sorry doesn’t resurrect what could have been. Sorry does fuck all to right your wrongs.”
The tears continue as I welcome his hellfire.
He retreats a few steps and takes a seat putting needed distance between us again. His hostile glare is frightening, not because I fear him, but because I know I created this fury inside this gentle man. “How many affairs were there aside from Loren? While I was sitting at home blindly loving and trusting my wife, how many men were sticking their dick in her?”
Shame, it hits me like a wrecking ball. “Dozens,” I answer honestly. The time for hiding is over. The admission is humiliating.
His eyes widen, and his mouth drops open. “Dozens?” he questions.
My head weighs five hundred pounds when I nod. “Dozens,” I confirm.
Mouth still agape in shock, his head drops back and his eyes go to the ceiling, probably to avoid having to look at me. “Jesus fucking Christ. Dozens,” he repeats to himself. “I’m so fucking stupid.”
“You’re not stupid, Seamus. You were a good husband. I was a shit wife. That’s not your fault; it’s mine. You deserved better. From the start, you deserved better. I’m just not equipped for better.” I wipe my running nose with the back of my hand, the tears still flowing freely.
He runs his hands through his hair before his chin drops to his chest. “Did you feel remorse? When you were fucking them did guilt ever cross your mind?”
More honesty. I shake my head and feel my face scrunch up as a fresh round of regret and emotion batter me. “No, not at the time.”
He huffs like the wind’s been knocked out of him.
“But now? I’d give anything to go back to the first day we met. I’d give anything to be a different person then. I’d give anything to have been able to love you the way you loved me.” My words are shaky and tear stained.
His watery eyes fill quickly and spill onto his cheeks in a silent display, and I know that he knows my secret. “Were you ever going to tell me about Kira?”
I’m not even shocked that he knows. I’m relieved I didn’t have to drop the bombshell on him. “No.” It’s a single syllable delivered on an exhalation of air, all emotion, lacking enunciation.
Hate and hurt are uncorked. Again. His face pinches in with heartache. “You bitch. Kira isn’t a pawn in your fucked up games. She’s a child. She’s my child.” His hissing whispers assault me.
It makes my throat tighten. I swallow hard against it. “I know.”
“You know?” he says loudly, it sounds strangled, like the words are lodged in his windpipe.
I wait until his wild eyes find mine, and I lay it all out. “I made a lot of mistakes in our relationship over the years. A lot.” I take a deep, shuddering breath before I continue, “I’m so sorry. But when I see you with Kira, I know that my getting pregnant with her wasn’t one of them. No matter who fathered her, you’re her daddy…and she’s your little girl, Seamus. That’s no mistake.”
The sobs wrack his body silently before they find volume, and when they do it’s excruciating to witness. His face drops into his hands and his shoulders rise and fall in the stuttering attack of emotion. When he catches his breath, his eyes find Kira sleeping in the chair near me. “She’s mine. In my heart she’s always been, no question. But she’s legally mine too, I signed adoption papers a few weeks back. Loren took care of all of it.”
If it’s possible for my shattered heart to feel relief, it does. “He never wanted children. I’m glad.” I also know that any chance of reconciliation with Seamus is impossible. His heart and mine just aren’t puzzle pieces that will ever fit together.
They say the truth will set you free.
That’s bullshit.
I feel like I’ve been trampled on.
And Miranda looks like a ghost. Pale. Translucent. Void of life.
I’ve never felt exhaustion like this. I’m emotionally drained. A vessel of bone and tissue, hollow to its core. I let silence grant us both respite for a few minutes before I wipe my wet face off on the front of my shirt. There’s no point in discussing any of this further. It’s all been said. Insults have been hurled. Shit’s been slung. I’m done. “Do you want some coffee?”
She nods. “Please.”
I get us coffee and we drink it in silence.
The kids wake to use the bathroom and go back to sleep.
We get periodic updates on Kai. No change. They assure us that’s a good thing. It doesn’t feel like a good thing when you’re a parent.
Somewhere around five in the morning, Miranda excuses herself to make a phone call.
An hour later she excuses herself again, to the bathroom this time, and I’m left alone with my thoughts. They’re grim.
“Excuse me?”
There’s a middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair standing in front of me. Drowning in my grim thoughts, I didn’t see him walk in.
He speaks again when I don’t. “I’m sorry, excuse me. I’m looking for Kai McIntyre’s mother, Miranda. You wouldn’t happen to know her?”
I nod. “She ran to the restroom. She’ll be back any minute.” And then I remember my manners because the shock of the past several hours has stifled everything except basic survival skills, pleasantries have been forgotten, and I offer my hand. “I’m Seamus McIntyre. Kai is my son.”
He pats the side of my forearm with one hand while he shakes with the other. “I’m so sorry to hear about Kai. Miranda said he was out of surgery, but in ICU, when I talked to her on the phone.”
I nod as our hands part.
“I’m Benito Aragon. I work with Miranda at Good Samaritan House.” He points with his thumb down the hall. “Is the restroom this direction?”
I nod again.
“I’ll just go and look for her. It was nice to meet you, Seamus. My prayers are with Kai.”
“Thank you.” I watch him walk away, not because I’m interested but because it’s something to do to keep my mind off what’s happening with Kai. When he’s out of sight, my face drops into my hands. I’m bent over thinking. Thinking that the darkness behind my hands is preferable to the overhead florescent lighting. Thinking about the pain in my head, it feels like my skull is being squeezed in a vise. Thinking about—a hand on my shoulder interrupts the thought. I know that touch. “Please tell me you’re real?” I beg from behind my hands. I’m talking in a voice that I usually reserve for internal dialogue, it’s questioning, but pessimistic. “I need you to be real. Please.”
“I’m real,” she whispers in my ear.
When I raise my head and remove my hands, she’s kneeling on the dingy tan linoleum in front of me with tears glistening in her eyes. I never thought I would see her again. She’s even more beautiful than I remember. She doesn’t say anything and neither do I. I pull her in for a hug without asking. It’s a hug that dissolves everything for a few minutes. “I’ve missed you, Faith. I’ve missed you so much.”
“I’ve missed you, too, Seamus.” Her voice cracks on my name. “How’s Kai?”
“He’s in ICU. They won’t let me in to see him.” I sniff. “How did you know?”
When I pull back from the hug, she swipes her hands under her eyes. “Miranda asked Benito to find me. He drove me here.”
I try to smile. “I knew I liked Benito.”
She laughs through her tears. “Yeah, he’s a good guy. We picked up Hope from Miranda’s house too. She wanted to see you all and check on Kai.”
Hope is peeking around the corner, keeping her distance, trying to give us privacy. I wave her in. “Come on in and sit down, Hope.”
She walks in and sets a grocery sack on the chair next to me. “I brought some food from Miranda’s. Figured you hadn’t eaten nothing.”
“Thanks, Hope. That was very thoughtful of you. The kids will love it when they wake up.”
She nods to acknowledge me and takes a seat in the corner.
I look back at the angel in front of me. “How do you know Benito?” I ask.
“Our introduction is a story for another time, but now I rent a room from his brother and work in their bakery.”
I don’t know if the smile registers on my lips, but I feel it. I’m happy Faith made a change. “That’s great. I’m proud of you.”
She blushes and changes the subject when the kids stir. “Let’s eat.”
Rory and Kira are groggy and disoriented when they wake, but after they use the bathroom they’re both hungry. Hope made monkey bread. She’s officially their hero.
The room fills up quickly when Miranda and Benito join us with several cups of coffee and juice. The monkey bread disappears, and all that remains are sticky fingers and full bellies.
It’s then that we receive the news that Kai is improving. If he continues, he’ll be moved out of ICU by late afternoon. There was a moment immediately following the birth of each of my children that I felt intensely and overwhelmingly grateful to be given the gift of fatherhood. This news is the trigger that makes it swell within me again. Thank you. I repeat it over and over in my mind.
Relief floods the room. I see it in every face. We’re a mismatched tribe with a common link—we’re Kai supporters. Miranda is weeping into Benito’s shoulder. The kids are both hugging me. And Faith and Hope are holding hands in the chairs in the corner. Relief.
“Were your kids all born here? In this hospital?” Faith’s looking at me with her inquisitive, blue eyes.
I glance at Miranda before looking at Rory and Kira sitting on either side of me. “They were,” I answer with a smile.
“My God, I bet it was breathtaking,” she looks at Miranda before tracing her gaze back to me, “watching your babies come into the world.” Tears begin trickling down her cheeks, but she’s smiling. She wipes them away with her free hand. She’s still holding Hope’s with the other.
“It was. Each time. Witnessing their first breath. Hearing their first cry. Looking at their sweet face. Counting their fingers and toes. From the very first moment they imprinted on my soul, an unbreakable connection. It was breathtaking.”
Hope sniffles next to Faith. Her eyes are a glassy with happiness. “It felt like hope.” I’ve never seen this kind of emotion exhibited by her. She’s usually indifferent or detached.
I don’t know if that was a statement or a question, but I agree because she’s right. “It did feel like hope.”
She nods in return.
Faith is staring at me, and she’s still smiling. “Do you think my mom felt that way when I was born?” She looks content. The way she asked the question makes me wonder if she’s put the search for her birth mother behind her or if she’s approaching it with a new perspective and less desperation.
I answer, “I’m sure she did,” and I mean it. Faith has this incredible energy about her. I’m sure it was evident the moment she was born, that she was special.
Hope hops to her feet with an urgency I’ve never seen her display. She tugs on my hand that she’s still holding. “Come with me. I wanna show you something.”
“Okay.” I stand and follow her out of the waiting room.
When we’re in the elevator, she pushes the button for the fourth floor. The doors open to a reception desk where a friendly looking woman greets us with a toothy smile and crinkled eyes. “Good morning. Do you need help with a room number?”
I’m at a loss, so I look to Hope.
She tries to smile at the woman, but the happy tears from earlier have been replaced with sadness she’s trying ward off. “Room four hundred.”
The woman slides a clipboard in front of us. “Sign in and I’ll need to see ID please.”
I write down my name and start to write down hers, but she stops me when I write Hope and sets her State of California ID card on the counter in front of me. It reads Jane Marie Martin. I scratch out Hope and write Jane Martin instead. The woman verifies our IDs and buzzes us through a secure door.
“Your name’s Jane?” I ask.
She stops walking and faces me. Sometimes Hope’s stories are random. She tells them like I’m privy to every detail of her life. I follow along the best I can. This is one of those stories. “When I was eighteen, Mama married Jonas. Jonas moved into Mama’s house and told me I couldn’t live there no more. Mama knew a lady, Mrs. Lipokowski, who had an apartment. Mrs. Lipokowski was real nice and gave me a job. I wasn’t no good at it though, working with customers and money, so she filled out a bunch of papers for me and I got money in the mail every month instead. She says it’s called public assistance. She takes a little bit for my rent, and I buy food with the rest. Mrs. Lipokowski’s always been real nice to me. Like I wish my mama would’ve been. When I turned twenty years old, I told her that I didn’t like my name, that I liked Hope better. She said I could be called whatever I want. Ever since that day I called myself Hope ‘cause I feel better with that name. It’s special.”
“Where are we going, Hope?” I’m nervous now. I have no idea why, but the tears running down her cheeks are puzzling.
She takes my hand and walks silently to room four hundred. She slows as we approach the open door. We take a few steps inside. There’s a woman sleeping in the bed.
When I start to retreat, retracing my steps backward so we don’t disturb the patient, Hope stops me with a firm, but gentle hand. “Do you know her?” I whisper.
She shakes her head without turning around to look at me. “No,” she whispers.
“Why are we here?” When I ask the question, I know the answer. I feel it in her touch.
Hope.
It felt like hope.