Read Online Hope Girl by Wendy Dunham - Free Book Online Page A

beans. And no matter what I say, she refuses to put those gol-blasted things in her ears. I can’t get her to talk, or smile, and God forbid I’d get her laughing.” Gram shakes her head. “I give up!”
    I take Gram’s hand. “But Gram, you never give up. Maybe you should try again.”
    Gram scrunches her nose. “Well, all right, Sugar Pie. Would you ask her so I don’t have to maneuver back through that maze?”
    I make my way to Myrtle. When I touch her shoulder, all she does is look up. Then I wave at her, and she smiles. I point toward our big table and motion for her to join us. All of a sudden, she stands up, grabs her plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and shuffles across the dining room in her pink, fuzzy slippers.
    Uncle Henry has a chair ready for her right across from Forrest. When Forrest waves at her, Myrtle grins so big I’m afraid Gram will jump out of her wheelchair and set her alarm off. But she doesn’t. She just shakes her head and says, “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!”
    After the waitress gives us each a plate of spaghetti, she puts four loaves of bread, two pitchers of milk, a stack of cups, a mound of silverware, and a handful of straws and napkins in the middle of the table and then walks away (had she any idea what kind of chaos this would cause, I think she’d have done things differently).
    First Hannah yells, “Can someone pass the bread?”
    â€œAnd send the milk this way,” says Nathan.
    Bethany hollers, “And don’t forget the cups.”
    Then Daniel stands up and looks around. “I can’t believe this! Why are we the only ones without meatballs? It’s not fair!”
    While everyone yells and passes things, Myrtle picks up one of her meatballs and gives it to Forrest. No one realizes this but me. I hold my breath.
    Forrest takes the meatball and smiles. Then he looks at Uncle Henry and shouts, “Catch, Dada!” The meatball soars diagonally across the table, hitting Uncle Henry right between his eyebrows.
    The entire dining hall falls silent—except for Myrtle, who’s laughing so hard that milk squirts out her nose.

    Later that afternoon when the little Whippoorwills take naps, I take a walk. I think about going to the birding place, but I don’t want to go alone. I’m not sure where to go, so I kick a stone down Meadowlark Lane and enjoy the warm sun on my shoulders. When I reach the end, I know where to go. I turn onto Main Street and walk a mile or so to Dad’s studio.
    Since everything inside is dusty, I decide to clean. I sweep all the rooms and open the windows.
    After I sweep, I find more cleaning supplies—a bucket, mop, and window cleaner. But there’s no paper towels. I remember helping Gram wash windows when I was little. We used newspapers instead of paper towels because they don’t leave streaks. And since there’s a box of old newspapers by the fireplace, I have everything I need.
    Once the living room windows are clean, the sun shines in, making the whole room glow like a field of golden dandelions.
    Next I wash Dad’s office windows. I’m glad there’s a desk because Dad will need it for his business. I set my supplies on it. That’s when I notice an orange piece of paper tucked under the lamp. I pull it out. It’s Dad’s handwriting.
    M
    691-375-2727
    731 Swift Road South
    Sparrow Harbor, West Virginia
    I realize two things. This address is just fifty miles north of Birdsong, and it can only belong to one person—Maggie, my mom.
    I sit at the desk, pick up the phone, and dial zero. The operator answers, “Good afternoon, may I help you?”
    My heart’s beating so loud I can hardly hear myself talk. “I’d like to make a long distance phone call to 691-375-2727.”
    â€œOne moment please.” Soon a phone rings. A woman answers, “Cassandra residence, Margaret speaking. May I