Excerpts from Hope Was Here by Joan Bauer
Background: This
book is about a girl named Hope who, once again, must leave a place she’s
called home to move. We pick up in the novel as she and her aunt are getting in
their car to begin their latest move.
We
walked across the street to the old Buick that was packed to the hilt with
everything we owned and had a U-Haul trailer chained to the back.
It
was May 26. We were heading to Mulhoney, Wisconsin, to start work in a diner
there that needed a professional manager and cook (Addie), was short on
waitresses (me), and was giving us an apartment. The man we were going to work
for had been diagnosed with leukemia and needed help fast. I don’t mean to
sound ungenerous, but working for a close-to-dying man didn’t sounds like a
great career move to me. I had to leave school right before the end of my
undistinguished sophomore year, too.
I
hate leaving places I love.
We
were about to get into the car just as Morty the cabdriver double-parked his
Yellow taxi.
Good
old Morty. The first time I waited on him, he unloosened his belt a notch
before he even looked at the menu. I knew I had a true believer.
I
raised my hand to a great tipper.
“You
always took care of me, kid!” He shouted this from across the street as a UPS
truck started honking at him to move his cab.
“I
tried, Morty!”
“Wherever
you go, you’ll do okay. You got heart!”
The
UPS driver screamed something heartless at Morty, who screamed back, “Watch
your mouth, big man in a brown truck!”
I
didn’t know what kind of customers I’d get in Wisconsin.
Background: This is
about the same point in the book. Hope has gotten in the car with her aunt,
Addie, about to set out on the trip to a new life in Wisconsin. Addie is trying
to reassure her.
She
grabbed my hand and gave it a squeeze.
Addie
never promised that life would be easy, but she did promise that if I hung with
her the food would be good.
Believe
me when I tell you, I know about survival.
I
was born too early and much too small (two pounds and five ounces). For the
first month of my life I kept grasping for air, like I couldn’t get the hang of
breathing. I couldn’t eat either, couldn’t suck a bottle. The doctors didn’t
think I would make it. Shows what they know. my mother didn’t want the responsibility
of a baby so she left me with Addie, her older sister, and went off to live her
own life. I’ve seen her exactly three times since I was born—when she visited
on my fifth, eighth, and thirteenth birthdays.
Each
time she talked about being a waitress. What made a good one (“great hands and
personality”). What were the pitfalls (“crazed cooks and being on your feet all
day”). What was the biggest tip she ever got ($300 from a plumber who had just
won the instant lottery).
Each
time she told me, “Hon, leaving you with Addie was the best thing I could have
done for you. You need constants in your life.” She had a different hair color
each time she said it.
Addie’s
been my number-one constant….
Because
of this, I don’t buy into traditional roles. My favorite book when I was little
had pictures of baby animals, like foxes and lambs and ducklings, who were
being raised by other animals, like dogs, geese, and wolves.
Addie
said it was our story.
I stared out the window as the
Buick roared west to whatever.
Harrison
Beckworth-McCoy, my best male friend at school,… had given me a goodbye
present, and I was opening it now as Addie pushed the Buick through Ohio.
Inside the box was a small glass prism that caught the sun. A hand-painted note from Harrison read, “New
places always help us look at life differently. I will miss you, but won’t lose
you.”
Harrison
was always saying sensitive things like that, which put him instantly on
Jocelyn Lindstrom’s male sensitivity chart. He was the only male either of us
knew who had made the chart consistently over twelve months. Donald Raspigi,
who occasionally said sensitive things like “Nice sweater,” had been on twice.
Enter
memories, sweet and sour.
Harrison
and me baking enormous mocha chip cookies for the high school bake sale and
having them stolen on the Lexington Avenue subway.
Harrison’s
African fighting fish, Luther, who ate Chef Boyardee ravioli without chewing.
Harrison
reading my mother’s photocopied annual Christmas letter that she sent to family
and friends—“Dear Friends….” (She’d cross out “Friends” and write in “Addie and
my little Tulip.”) Harrison commenting that motherhood should be like driving a
car—you should have to pass a test before you get to do it legally.
I
held the prism up to the light. The sun hit it and showered colors through the
windshield. “Now isn’t that something?” Addie said, smiling at the sight.
“Yeah.” I looked out the window, trying not to cry.
