Finding Hope Read online

  Contents

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  Acknowledgements

  More from Dundurn

  Hope

  Mom brandished an envelope above her head like a flag. “A letter just came for you.”

  I’d been waiting a month for that letter. Hopping off my bicycle, I let it tumble to the grass. Dry and scrubby, it crackled from lack of water. The summer had stretched endlessly and only now, with the hum of bugs in the air, did it show signs of coming to a close. “It’s like someone didn’t get the memo,” Dad liked to say when the seasons didn’t follow his timetable. Last two weeks of August should have meant deer flies and cooler nights, a hint of the chill that would be coming with autumn, but not this year.

  I took the sealed envelope from her. “It’s thick, that’s a good sign,” she said, her hands on my shoulders, not realizing how hard she was squeezing.

  My hands shook. The tear I made was ragged and the letter got stuck. Finally, I pulled it free and unfolded it. “Ravenhurst School for Girls is pleased to inform you that you have been accepted for the coming school year.” I didn’t read past those words. Mom started screaming and hugging me.

  I waited to feel something. A gush of relief or a flood of emotion, but there was nothing. Instead, I felt more rooted to the ragged wooden planks on the porch. A stubborn will to stay.

  “Congratulations, Hope!” Mom said and pulled me into another hug. The letter was stuck between us, my arm at an awkward angle.

  Ravenhurst had been Mom’s idea. She’d done the research to find a school that took boarders in the city and then laid out her plan over dinner one night, peering at me with her fork hanging in mid-air. “Wouldn’t you want to go there?” she’d asked. I looked at Dad, head down, shovelling mac and cheese into his mouth. “Get out of this place.” She waved her fork around, as if “this place” meant nothing more than our house. Her eyes bugged out, begging me to agree with her.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. I didn’t realize that my non-committal grunt would start a two-month long odyssey. Acceptance to a private school in the city meant letters from teachers, an exam, and then an interview. Mom had bought a navy, pleated skirt for me to wear and flat black shoes that pinched my toes. I’d hobbled through the atrium of the school, gazing up at a two-storey foyer encased in glass. Sunlight streamed in, reflecting off the marble floors. Our footsteps echoed, too small to fill the cavernous space.

  I wasn’t kidding myself, Mom wanted this more than I did. As usual, I’d gone along with her plans, not wanting to be the one who upset the delicate balance that existed in our family.

  Our splintered family.

  Eric

  Sometimes I watch them from the street. I tuck myself behind a tree or a parked car and watch them eat dinner. All three of them. Together. My chair: empty.

  I keep waiting for a pull to go back, a desire to be part of that picture again. But it doesn’t come. They are something else, separate from me. I can’t remember a life where I was part of that. I know I was. Hope leaves photos for me sometimes in our stump. Some memories for me.

  She doesn’t know that the guy in the pictures—the hockey player, the kid smiling at the beach or raking leaves—is dead. She’s pulling photos out of Mom’s albums, quietly erasing me.

  Tonight, I watch as Hope looks up from her plate and stares outside. Maybe she can sense me, her big brother, out here watching. Her eyes search, wanting something that isn’t there. She turns to Mom, pulling her eyes away from me, reluctantly, I like to think.

  She’ll leave something for me later. Some treasure, in the stump.

  I slink away, the heat suffocating, a hot, dry wind kicking up dust on the street. I’ll find something to take away the dull ache watching my family gives me. A snort or a sniff or a prick to make it all go away.

  Hope

  On the corner of our property, concealed in a thicket of prickly bushes, is a tree stump. Mythological in its presence, it’s been there since we were kids. Like a portal to another world, it smells damp and earthy, the ground around it spongy and cool.

  A dark hollow at its roots is our hiding spot. Today, Eric will find an apple, red and waxy; ten dollars of babysitting money, freshly earned, that never even made it into my wallet; and a shirt, one I found in his room.

  I went in his bedroom last night, after dinner. Counting in my head to eighteen, I limit my snooping to as many seconds as his age. In eighteen seconds, I can rifle through one drawer or peruse one shelf of trophies, and then I force myself to leave. I need to make the secrets of his room last, like I’m slowly unwrapping a Christmas gift.

  I left him a poem too, scratched onto grade eleven math notes, found under his bed. Eric used to call my poetry mental diarrhea, an excretion of words and phrases. He didn’t understand my compulsion to solidify a thought. Like a conjurer, I swirled ideas into something tangible—something that had meaning—and put them on paper.

  Your chair

  Sits like

  A corpse

  At the table

  I moved it

  Away.

  Making sure all the treasures were tucked into place, I took a look around. Was he nearby? Sometimes I could feel him, ghostlike beside me. But today there was nothing, no telltale signs he’d been there.

  Eric

  I stared at the cigarette in my hand, thinking back to what I was like before the meth. Two years ago, I didn’t even smoke. Now, I took whatever drugs I got offered. The smoke had burned down to the filter, but I kept sucking on it, inhaling the last wisps of a buz
z held in the nicotine.

  My real dad was a smoker. In the few pictures Mom kept of him, there was always a cigarette dangling from his fingers or one sitting in an ashtray beside him. Usually a beer too. He looked like a guy who liked to party.

  Dick, Hope’s dad, my step-father, didn’t even drink. Maybe that was why Mom liked him; he was the opposite of my dad. A good role model for me, her young son.

  But I turned out like this anyway.

  A guy I knew drove up and rolled down the window. “Wanna ride?” He was off his night shift, kids were at school, wife at work. He was looking to buy and some company to get high with.

  Dropping my cigarette on the road, I crushed it under my shoe and got into his minivan. “I’m tapped out, man. You mind spotting me a line?”

  He pursed his lips and glowered at me. “I’m not a fucking ATM.”

  I shrugged. “You should’ve asked if I had cash before the invite.” I grinned at him, leaning back against the seat.

  “Fuck.” He sighed and put the car into drive.

  Hope

  At the spray pad, kids shrieked, wet hair matted against their heads. The air was heavy, with the promise of a storm on its way. No one would complain. We needed a good downpour, Mom and Dad agreed. The flowers had started to wither in the beds, the soil parched and cracking with fault lines.

  I watched as two girls from my grade, Shauna and Leanne, giggled with some boys. Both of them had a roundness to their bodies, an extra layer that made them voluptuous. At fifteen, I was still as scrawny and prepubescent-looking as a twelve-year-old. With the attitude to match. Girls in Lumsville cared about parties, boys, who they could score pot off of. I was like a reverse magnetic attraction, repelling those “good times.” I wanted no part of it.

  Parents sat on the other side of the spray pad, watching their kids from picnic tables and throwing dirty looks at the squealing girls with their too-small bikini tops and jiggling flesh. The boys from school looked on appreciatively, jockeying for a better view, a closer angle. I had to look away. Even outside, I was on the outside.

  The smell of pot wafted over. Like in any town where boredom was the number-one export, weed was easy to get here. I remembered the first time I saw Eric high. The telltale scent clung to him as he collapsed beside me on the couch, a goofy grin on his face. I didn’t know what high looked like, but it was unsettling to my eleven-year-old self. He was talking and laughing like he was someone else.

  That was how it began for Eric. From pot he graduated to meth, and anything else floating around Lumsville. A drug sucker-fish. An addict.

  In moments of sobriety, he warned me not to start. He wanted better for me. I just wanted my brother back.

  Eric

  Thunder rumbled. The storm hadn’t hit yet, but there was static in the air. Like something heavy was about to be dropped. I needed a place to go, hide out till it passed.

  Saturday night. Hope would be babysitting for the Kellers. Not like her friends, Shauna and Leanne, who I saw at parties sometimes, or in the park. They ignored me, turning their lips up in a sneer, like I was dirty. Like they were fucking embarrassed by me. I’d known them since they were five and now they acted like they were better than me.

  The back door at the Kellers’ house was locked. I gave it a jiggle. The glass in the window rattled. Air conditioning. All the windows were shut. How good would a cool blast of bottled air feel? God, to be cool for ten minutes. I hopped on the spot. My body felt electric, a current running through me, shooting out of my toes. Meth made every nerve come alive. I wanted to dance, run, twist, and jump; all the energy hidden when I was sober crackled when the drug was in me.

  I knocked. “Hope!” I yelled. The kitchen lights were off. I waited, bouncing. Knocked again, pressed my nose up to the glass, peering in. My face squished against the glass, breath hot and foggy. And there she was, standing in the doorway.

  My little sister. Small. She still looked like a kid: gangly arms, long, brown hair, too-white skin, and knobby knees like a stork. A thump in my chest when I saw her.

  She took a breath, her mouth hardened with determination. In three steps, she was across the kitchen, the lock clicking open.

  “Hey,” I said, low but jittery. The electricity was still firing through me, like a pinball let loose.

  “You can’t come in,” she said.

  “Nah, I know. Can I crash somewhere? It’s gonna piss down soon.”

  “Wait here.” She disappeared, small feet beating a trail somewhere I couldn’t follow. And then back. The sky flashed with sheet lightning. A moth beat its wings against the porch light. “You can sleep in the garage at home. I’ll bring you food in the morning.” She passed me the key for the garage, spinning it off her keyring. A blast of AC hit me, I breathed it in. The hot and cold clashed. Electricity zipped over my skin. “Did you eat?” she asked.

  I grinned at her. My teeth felt huge, gargantuan in my mouth, like a horse’s.

  She left the door open, and I stuck my head in, rolling it around in the cool air, feeling it shrink, like my dick in cold lake water.

  A few slices of pizza, limp, heavy with shiny cheese and pepperoni, on a paper towel. “From Luigi’s?” I asked. We used to order from there all the time, or the whole team would go after a game.

  Before. So much life had happened before.

  She nodded, and I couldn’t remember what she was nodding about. I just took the pizza, pocketed the key in my pants, and tripped off the back steps.

  Hope

  I heard Dad’s car roll up and looked at Mom, wide-eyed. He was supposed to work late on Wednesdays. What was he doing home so early?

  Mom moved her mouth soundlessly, like a fish. Eric was at the kitchen table, eating a sandwich, drinking a glass of Pepsi, bubbles percolating up past the ice cubes. He was in no rush.

  She went to the kitchen window, looked out. Dad would be in the garage, puttering, making his way into the house. She bit her lip, chewing off dead skin. “I could pack that up for you,” she offered, stressed now.

  Not much riled Dad. He was mellow, liked to sit in front of the TV and watch real-life cop dramas. But he’d had it with Eric. And Mom had promised she wouldn’t let him come over anymore. “Tough love, Ev,” Dad had said gently, urging her to agree. “It’s for his own good. The only way he’ll hit rock bottom is if we let him.” That was months ago, before we knew what kind of a monster Eric’s addiction would turn into.

  “It’s my house too,” Eric mumbled.

  “No, it’s not.” Firm Mom. It took all her strength to say it. “Not while you’re using.”

  Eric stood up fast, the chair bucking away from him. His eyes flashed.

  “Shush!” she calmed him, trying to placate, keep the peace. “Don’t.”

  In my head, words formed a poem, aligning themselves.

  Do not.

  Use.

  Yell.

  Come back.

  Leave.

  Dad was walking up the path to the house. It was his sore neck that had brought him home early: occupational hazard for a mechanic. He was rubbing it, squeezing the muscly, hard flesh. Mom would be coaxed into rubbing it for him while he watched TV later. He’d moan with relief as her hands kneaded it like dough.

  “Hiya, Dick,” Eric said before Dad was even all the way in the kitchen. I winced. Used to be Dad, sometimes Richard. Now it was Dick.

  Dad looked at Mom, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring. He ignored Eric. We stood like a stage play, each of us hitting our mark. I stayed mute, escaping in my head with a poem.

  The daffodil curtains

  Flutter in your wake

  Sunlight beams penetrate

  Fading fabric

  Glowing with creature comfort

  To announce your arrival.

  I wished I had a pen and paper so I could capture the words before
they flitted away like smoke.

  They all started talking at the same time. Mom, apologizing to one but meaning it to the other, Dad railing against her enabling Eric. Eric, mad as hell at everyone.

  But not me. Please, not me. I backed out of the room. No one would notice.

  Their raised voices reached a crescendo. One door slammed, then another. There were angry, tearful words from Mom and more yelling.

  Digging in my desk, I found a pen and jotted down the words, letting my mind roll over them, like they were a delicious bite I didn’t want to let go of. I created that. Before, there was nothing, shapeless ideas floating in the air. I brought them together. I had power over the words, they bent to my will.

  They would end up on my wall. Tacked, layered over another one.

  A patchwork of poetry in my now-quiet house.

  Eric

  Where did it begin? In lucid moments, when I wasn’t jangling for want of a fix, or high, I’d remember, trace it back like a tangled ball of yarn.

  The pot was for fun. Me and the guys, hanging out. Then Matt’s older brother brought some other shit, stuff for us to try in the basement.

  God, the first time that shit went into my body, I felt like I was flying. Nothing could touch me. Everything in my life made sense, was exactly the way it was supposed to be.

  All the heat and anger that boiled in me when I was sober, disappeared on meth.

  Hockey was gone, done. It didn’t matter what I put in my body. It was an empty vessel, something to be used. And it felt so fucking good.

  When I catch my reflection in a window or a washroom mirror, it takes me a second to process who it is staring back. My own face freaks the shit out of me.

  Hair: unwashed, flat with grease. Scabs on my face, smudges of black under haunted eyes. Gaunt, skeletal, ears and teeth that stick out because the rest of my face isn’t big enough to support them anymore.