Read Online Raising Hope by Katie Willard - Free Book Online
Authors: Katie Willard
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“Doesn’t matter. You know in here.”
“Hmmph,” I say, thinking about it as I take some more popcorn.
Ruth flicks a kernel of popcorn at Sara Lynn and says, “You know, I am beginning to believe my mother was correct all those times she told me you were a genius.”
Sara Lynn laughs. “Your mother said that?”
“Only every goddamn day!” Ruth looks up at the ceiling and says, “Ma, you were right.” Then she looks at Sara Lynn and says, “Oh, Jesus, Ma’s so happy I finally admitted she was right about something that she’s doing a little dance with Saint Peter.”
Those two start laughing, and I can’t help but laugh with them, even if I don’t really get the joke. I mean, what’s so hilarious about Ruth’s dead mother—my grandmother, I might add—dancing in heaven?
Chapter 5
O h man, I’m tired. It’s the crack of dawn and I’m driving to Jack’s. Five hours of sleep just won’t do it for me these days, although it used to be just fine. I’m damned if I can keep my eyes open lately. Having a little drama fest with Hope last night didn’t help matters much. Goddamn Bobby, anyway! I shake my head and drum my fingers on the steering wheel as I stop at the red light. Stupid to be parked here at a light when there’s no one else on the road at this hour, but it’d be just my luck to get caught and have to pay a big, fat ticket.
God, Hope about broke my heart last night. What in hell am I supposed to tell a twelve-year-old kid about her father who took off when she was a week old and never came back? The line I fed her about how he’s just scared was pretty good. Pulled that one out of the old hat. But, man, that’s all it was—a line I pulled out to help my little girl feel better. “We’re all scared, Bobby,” I say out loud, narrowing my eyes. That’s just what I’d tell him if he was sitting here next to me in my little shitbox car. I’d say that we’re all freakin’ terrified every day of our lives, but we still get up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other like the world is a certain place.
Christ, I sound like Ma. God helps him who helps himself! When the going gets tough, the tough get going! Got to play with the hand you’ve been dealt! I dreamed about her last night, and it was a bad one. Probably part of the reason I’m about to drop off to sleep over my steering wheel. It’s not exactly restful to dream about your dead mother screaming at you. And that’s what I dreamed. We were cleaning a house and she was yelling over the noise of the vacuum cleaner I was running. “You’re not doing it right, Ruth. You’re just a big failure.” And then I hollered back, “I’m trying my best.” “Well, your best never was good enough,” she said back to me, and as she walked away, I chased her, yelling, “Ma! Come back!”
Sick! Sick, sick, sick! What’s going on in my head that would make me have a crazy dream like that? I don’t like to remember the bad stuff; I just like to block out those years Ma and I didn’t see eye-to-eye. Oh hell, I’m being like Sara Lynn, hiding what’s true behind pretty words. I should say, those years when Ma and I couldn’t stand each other, those years when all we did was fight, those years when we wondered what kind of a twisted God had ever thought it was a good idea to put us together in the same family.
Four days after I graduated from high school, Ma decided it was time to put me to work. I was taking it easy that morning, sitting with my bare legs hanging over the arm of the La-Z-Boy chair and chomping on a bowl of Cocoa Puffs as I watched a talk show. Ma stomped in with her usual storm cloud hovering above her gray, permed hair helmet, pulling on the shades fiercely and letting go so they raced up to the roller with a
crack
! Then she cleared the boys’ breakfast dishes from the table right next to the La-Z-Boy where I sat, clanking the bowls and spoons and sighing all the while. Didn’t even say
“Hmmph,” I say, thinking about it as I take some more popcorn.
Ruth flicks a kernel of popcorn at Sara Lynn and says, “You know, I am beginning to believe my mother was correct all those times she told me you were a genius.”
Sara Lynn laughs. “Your mother said that?”
“Only every goddamn day!” Ruth looks up at the ceiling and says, “Ma, you were right.” Then she looks at Sara Lynn and says, “Oh, Jesus, Ma’s so happy I finally admitted she was right about something that she’s doing a little dance with Saint Peter.”
Those two start laughing, and I can’t help but laugh with them, even if I don’t really get the joke. I mean, what’s so hilarious about Ruth’s dead mother—my grandmother, I might add—dancing in heaven?
Chapter 5
O h man, I’m tired. It’s the crack of dawn and I’m driving to Jack’s. Five hours of sleep just won’t do it for me these days, although it used to be just fine. I’m damned if I can keep my eyes open lately. Having a little drama fest with Hope last night didn’t help matters much. Goddamn Bobby, anyway! I shake my head and drum my fingers on the steering wheel as I stop at the red light. Stupid to be parked here at a light when there’s no one else on the road at this hour, but it’d be just my luck to get caught and have to pay a big, fat ticket.
God, Hope about broke my heart last night. What in hell am I supposed to tell a twelve-year-old kid about her father who took off when she was a week old and never came back? The line I fed her about how he’s just scared was pretty good. Pulled that one out of the old hat. But, man, that’s all it was—a line I pulled out to help my little girl feel better. “We’re all scared, Bobby,” I say out loud, narrowing my eyes. That’s just what I’d tell him if he was sitting here next to me in my little shitbox car. I’d say that we’re all freakin’ terrified every day of our lives, but we still get up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other like the world is a certain place.
Christ, I sound like Ma. God helps him who helps himself! When the going gets tough, the tough get going! Got to play with the hand you’ve been dealt! I dreamed about her last night, and it was a bad one. Probably part of the reason I’m about to drop off to sleep over my steering wheel. It’s not exactly restful to dream about your dead mother screaming at you. And that’s what I dreamed. We were cleaning a house and she was yelling over the noise of the vacuum cleaner I was running. “You’re not doing it right, Ruth. You’re just a big failure.” And then I hollered back, “I’m trying my best.” “Well, your best never was good enough,” she said back to me, and as she walked away, I chased her, yelling, “Ma! Come back!”
Sick! Sick, sick, sick! What’s going on in my head that would make me have a crazy dream like that? I don’t like to remember the bad stuff; I just like to block out those years Ma and I didn’t see eye-to-eye. Oh hell, I’m being like Sara Lynn, hiding what’s true behind pretty words. I should say, those years when Ma and I couldn’t stand each other, those years when all we did was fight, those years when we wondered what kind of a twisted God had ever thought it was a good idea to put us together in the same family.
Four days after I graduated from high school, Ma decided it was time to put me to work. I was taking it easy that morning, sitting with my bare legs hanging over the arm of the La-Z-Boy chair and chomping on a bowl of Cocoa Puffs as I watched a talk show. Ma stomped in with her usual storm cloud hovering above her gray, permed hair helmet, pulling on the shades fiercely and letting go so they raced up to the roller with a
crack
! Then she cleared the boys’ breakfast dishes from the table right next to the La-Z-Boy where I sat, clanking the bowls and spoons and sighing all the while. Didn’t even say
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