thirty-five
If it were not for hope
the heart would break.
—John Ray
Mama Watson turns the key in the ignition and speeds away. Then she says, “Buckle up, mijos.”
We do, and Ford sticks to me like glue. He rests his hand on my leg, just above my knee, giving gentles squeezes every now and then.
We ride in awkward silence, absorbing the gravity of the situation. Ford told off my dad. Blocked his punch. Kept his cool. For me. There’s no going back after that exit. I pick at the hem of my shorts with my free hand and when Ford notices this, I switch to tucking and untucking my hand in my sleeve. The familiar rhythm comforts me and absorbs some stress. He doesn’t look down again. I stare at the fdloorboard, afraid to break down. Afraid I’ll never be able to be put back together again.
Mama Watson turns into their neighborhood. I realize I haven’t even said thank you. But no words come to the surface. My throat’s as dry as a bag of cotton balls. She stops at a stop sign. I wonder how I’m going to explain things and think how much I owe them, how the warmth of Ford’s hand holding mine means the world. She parks in front of their garage. The familiar grate of their gravel drive calms me.
We get out of the truck. Ford grabs my suitcase, and I carry my backpack and teddy bear. Mrs. Watson unlocks the front door and as I shove my hand in my pocket, I remember it’s now void of a house key. Realization hits me: I have nowhere to call home. Loneliness sweeps through me, adding to the ache in my chest and throat. And shame. I’m so ashamed. My everything is good facade has been blown to a million little pieces. Now I don’t even have pretend dignity.
Mr. Watson stands guard in the living room. He surveys us. “Did things go okay?”
Mrs. Watson gives him a hug. “We’ll talk more about this later.”
He nods. Then he hesitates and walks over. “Grace, I want you to know that you’re welcome in our home.” He tries to ignore the handprint on my cheek, but his eyes keep focusing on that side of my face. He wipes at the corner of his eye and escapes down the hall.
Mrs. Watson leads us into the guest bedroom and flips on a lamp. “Grace, why don’t you sit in this chair? It’s cushy and comfy. Ford and I will sit on the bed for a quick minute. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
I sit and note the worn look in her eyes and the lack of life in Ford’s.
“For tonight, we’ll put you up here, in the guest room. Usually we attend mass on Sunday mornings, but we’ll go tomorrow evening instead; I think we could all benefit from sleeping in as late as possible. Tomorrow afternoon, we’ll regroup and sort things out—figure out how to make you feel more at home. Don’t feel bad, mija. This isn’t your fault. We’ll stick by you.”
Unsure of how to respond to everything thrown at me, I nod and hold back tears.
Mrs. Watson stands up. “I’m sure the best thing right now for you is sleep. And a hug. Everyone needs hugs.”
She leans down and gives me a big hug that’s warm and enveloping. Even when I let go, Mama Watson holds it for a second longer. Something in me melts a little. She turns to Ford. “I know you need to talk. You two have ten minutes, and then, Ford, you skedaddle to your own room. Okay?”
Ford says, “Okay.”
She leaves us to bumble through our confusion. I stay seated, unable to sort out my feelings.
Ford sits facing me, his knees touching mine. He takes my hands in his.
“I’m really sorry I dily sorrydn’t figure things out and help you sooner. I look back at little clues I never caught, and I feel stupid. I know you think you’re tough and you can take it, but I’m not that tough. Your bruises—little or big—they exist. That kills me.”
His voice breaks, and so does another little piece of my heart. I bite my upper lip.
“You deserve so much more. Hell, everyone deserves better than this.” Ford tucks my hair behind my ear and whispers, “You’re safe here.”
Safe.
I break down sobbing. Everything I’ve held in gushes out uncontrollably, and with it the noises I always suppress. And even though I’m bawling—shoulders shaking, snot flowing, full-fledged bawling—I’m crying out so many unspoken hurts. It’s cleansing.
He pulls me to him and I hang on to him like he’s a life preserver. Our faces touch and I realize Ford’s crying too. I wonder why I didn’t tell him sooner, why it took me so long to stand up for myself. And if things will ever be okay, really okay? When Ford stood up to my dad, I was in shock, but it’s like he turned on a pilot light inside me, one that says I’m worth it—that I have value—that we all have value. And that is what I’m going to cling to.
Emily Dickinson once compared hope to a “thing with feathers,” but I disagree. Hope is a wide-open ocean full of endless possibilities.