Hope on the Inside

by Marie Bostwick

  “And Deedee?” Nancy asked with a knowing smile. “Is she catching on quickly as well?”

  “Oh, Deedee.” Hope laughed at the mention of her most affable and most bumbling student. “Don’t ask me how, but yesterday she sewed her quilt block to her sleeve. Twice.” Hope laughed again. “She’s such fun but all thumbs. However, even Deedee is making progress. I’ll make a quilter of her yet. Just see if I don’t.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” Nancy said earnestly. “Any woman who can make the rounds of local businesses and quilt clubs and, in two weeks’ time, come away with twelve sewing machines and all the fabric and supplies she needs is someone to be reckoned with.”

  “It wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be,” Hope replied. “Once I explained what I wanted the supplies for, I was flooded with donations. Those women couldn’t raid their fabric stashes quick enough. But then, quilters are generous by nature. After pouring so much time, money, and energy into a quilt, nine times out of ten they turn around and give it to somebody else. And the only thing that quilters love more than quilting is bringing new quilters into the fold.”

  Hope crunched another carrot. “And they could definitely afford to part with some of their stuff. Most quilters I know own more fabric than they can use in a lifetime. That doesn’t stop them from wanting more. Donating yardage to a good cause means they’ve got space to store more of whatever they decide they can’t live without the next time they go to the quilt shop.”

  “So donating to the quilting program just means they can buy even more fabric they’ll never use?” Nancy clucked her tongue. “Sounds like we might be encouraging hoarding.”

  “It’s harmless,” Hope said, waving a carrot stick. “And for some people, it’s even therapeutic. When my mother was going through chemo and was too sick to sew, she’d pull out different combinations of fabric from her stash, lay them out on the table, and dream about what she would stitch when she felt better. It gave her a reason to keep going.”

  Nancy put down her fork. “I think your mother would be proud of the work you’re doing here, the way you’re helping to heal our wounded birds. Like your mother with her fabric, you’re giving them a reason to dream, something to look forward to. It’s not always easy, but thanks to you, some of them are beginning to believe that they have something worthwhile to give. I can see it in their faces.”

  Hope ducked her head. Though Nancy’s words touched her, she’d never felt comfortable accepting praise, especially if she felt it was undeserved.

  “Well, good. I hope so. Because I think they do have something to give, every one of them. Even the really, really tough ones. The ones who are so warped by pain, and fear, and anger that they can’t recognize the good in themselves or anybody else.”

  Nancy pressed her lips into a sympathetic line and tipped her head to one side. “You’re thinking about Nita. Don’t feel bad. She’s a hard case, that one. You did what you had to do.”

  “Did I?” Hope asked. “I suppose. Once the fight broke out, I didn’t really have a choice but to call the guards to break it up, even though I knew it meant she’d be kicked out of the program. I just wish I’d been able to reach her.”

  “I understand. But Nita’s an adult,” Nancy said. “She has to live with the consequences of her actions. Besides, think of all the others—the ones you are helping. You’re doing a fantastic job, Hope.”

  “Thanks, but they’re the ones who are doing the heavy lifting. Yes, sure, I prepare the lessons, teach them the skills, and cheer them on, but they’re the ones who have to do the hard work. And I don’t mean learning how to thread a needle or run a sewing machine.

  “For people who’ve never done it before, the tough part of making a quilt, or doing anything creative, is figuring out how to silence the negative voices in your head so you can do the work. Everybody carries around those old tapes from childhood, the soundtracks of all those people who said we were untalented or unworthy or somehow just not good enough. Mine was my high school guidance counselor; she said I wasn’t cut out for college.”

  “Mine was my first-form art teacher,” Nancy said. “She gave my papier-mâché elephant sculpture a failing mark. I was so convinced of my utter lack of artistic talent that I never took another art class. It took twenty years before I was willing to take a chance on another creative outlet,” Nancy said, tilting her head toward the wall and her photographs of the Sussex coastline.

  Hope puffed with disgust and threw out her hands. “See? That’s exactly the kind of thing I’m talking about. Fortunately for me, my mother intervened. She had a few choice words for that counselor, I can tell you. Until she let loose on Mrs. Blalock, I didn’t realize she even knew those words.”

  Hope laughed, recalling how her shock was mirrored in the face of the guidance counselor. “The fact that she was willing to stand up for me like that meant the world to me. It gave me courage and made me determined, not only to go to college, but to graduate magna cum laude, if only to prove Mrs. Blalock wrong.”

  “For good or for ill, revenge can be a powerful motivation,” Nancy said.

  “It was for me,” Hope said. “But the point is, those negative voices everybody carries around have an outsized impact on the way we look at ourselves. I mean, you’re a strong person, raised by loving and supportive parents. If the criticism of a snippy art teacher rang powerfully enough in your mind that it kept you away from art for twenty years, then how much harder is it for these women?

  “I bet fewer than two in ten had anything even close to a stable family life when they were young. Many of them were abused, debased, and degraded in ways that most people can barely imagine. From the time they were children, most of them have heard one message, over and over: ‘You’re nobody. You’re worthless.’”

  “If this is about Nita . . .” Nancy’s forehead crinkled with concern. “Hope, that’s not your fault. You can’t save everybody, you know. She’s made her own choices. Think of all the women in here, most with backgrounds every bit as bleak as Nita’s, who’re making good choices, the ones who have decided to own their mistakes, face their fears, and do the best they can to plot a real future for themselves. Think about Mandy and Steph.”

  “I know,” Hope said, pushing the empty hummus container and zipper bag to one side of Nancy’s desk so she could lean closer. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. In spite of what all these women have been through, all those bad experiences and critical voices, they’re pushing through the doubt and taking a chance on themselves. I’ve had tough students before, kids who had low self-esteem and zero self-confidence, but these women seem like they had the cards stacked against them from day one.

  “Did you know that Mandy’s father threw her out of the house when she was sixteen years old? Or that Deedee lived under a bridge for two years? Or that Steph was born addicted to crack?”

  “I did,” Nancy said softly.

  “And yet, after all that, they’re trying. In addition to all the usual demons of human existence, these women are fighting against abuse, neglect, and plain bad luck, plus the dumb decisions that landed them here, to learn something that’s new and, for most of them, really difficult, just so they can make a quilt to give to somebody else.”

  “Yes,” Nancy said evenly. “Because you were willing to step up and teach them how to do it. They’ve been here long enough to know how hard it was to get this program to happen, to talk David and the powers that be into letting felons have access to sharp objects, and to go around town begging for supplies and funding. They know how you’ve stuck your neck out for them. And because you’ve shown that you think they’re worth taking a chance on, they’re starting to believe it themselves.”

  Hope rolled her eyes and Nancy clucked her tongue.

  “You just can’t take a compliment, can you? Fine. If you don’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe our esteemed superintendent.”

  “David?”

  “Uh-huh. He dropped by this morning to welc
ome me back. He sat right in that chair you’re sitting in now and spent a good five minutes singing the praises of the quilting program as a whole and you in particular.”

  “Okay, now you are just toying with me,” Hope said, tossing her trash into the wastebasket. “No way did David Hernandez sit in this chair and say nice things about me. He hates me.”

  “Well, I’m not sure that’s true, but if it ever was, it isn’t now. He thinks you’re doing an amazing job with the women and that, thanks to you, he’s actually going to have something of substance to say when he writes his report for the governor’s commission.” Responding to Hope’s silence and doubtful expression, Nancy pointed to her white clerical collar.

  “Hope. I am a woman of the cloth. Would I lie to you?”

  “Well . . .” Hope said slowly. “No. I guess not. Huh. Well, I’m glad he feels like that. And it brings up something I’d been thinking about.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Inviting David to Christmas dinner. When Hazel came up from Portland to help me try to convince David to green-light the quilting program, I noticed a definite spark between the two of them.”

  “Oh, really?” Nancy said, arching her voice as well as her eyebrows and propping her chin onto the tent of her folded hands. “Do tell.”

  “There’s nothing to tell, yet. But Hazel’s been feeling a little down. So I was thinking, you know”—Hope shrugged—“maybe get the two of them together in a room and see if the spark—”

  “Becomes a flame? Brilliant idea. And since I can now assure you, with one hundred percent ecclesiastical authority, that David Hernandez does not hate you and, in fact, thinks quite highly of you, there’s no reason not to.”

  “Maybe not. But . . .” Hope blinked a couple of times. “David Hernandez. And my sister.”

  Nancy threw back her head and barked out a laugh.

  “Come on, Hope. He’s not so bad. And since Hazel has a truly dismal track record with men, I’d rate the chances of this turning into an actual relationship somewhere between slim and none.”

  “True,” Hope said, feeling her anxiety ease a bit. “It was just one meeting. If they spend any real time together, they’ll probably realize they have absolutely nothing in common and are completely wrong for each other.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Nancy said, hopping up from her chair, then across the room to pluck a blue metal watering can off the top of a filing cabinet. “Besides, it’s Christmas! Room in the stable for everyone, right?”

  “All right, I’ll invite David. Also, I’m sure you already have plans and loads of invitations, but if you and John did happen to be available, we’d love it if—”

  “Join you for Christmas dinner? Thought you’d never ask.” Nancy carried the watering can to a small and serviceable but oddly placed wall sink that stood near the door and began to fill it. “Roger can’t come home this year, so it was going to be just me, John, and one of those sad, over-processed little turkey rolls. We’d be thrilled to come. Can I bring anything?”

  “Yes. As long as it’s not bubble and squeak,” Hope said. “How about a salad?”

  “Done,” Nancy said, and began watering a brown and brittle fern that, to Hope’s eyes, already looked like a goner.

  “As long as we’re issuing invitations,” Nancy said, “why don’t you come to services on Christmas morning? It’s going to be a first-rate sermon. And very short. I know this because I’ll be delivering it.”

  “Oh. You’re sweet to ask. But, you know, I’ll be pretty busy that day. You know, cooking and getting ready for the party. Besides, I haven’t been to church since—Well, not for a long time. The stained glass would probably shatter the second I walked in.” Hope laughed, hoping her lighthearted response would convince Nancy to drop the subject.

  Instead, watering can still at work, Nancy tilted her head to one side, regarding Hope with a slightly confused expression. Hope bit her lip. That poor fern. If it wasn’t dead before, it surely would be soon. Nancy was going to drown it.

  “Stained glass? Oh no!” Nancy exclaimed, righting the watering can as liquid started seeping over the rim of the pot. “I didn’t mean church services. I was talking about chapel.”

  “Chapel. You mean here? At the prison?”

  “Yes. We do it every year, right in the cafeteria. It’s a sunrise service, five o’clock, and only lasts forty minutes, so you’ll be back home in plenty of time to tend to your Christmas preparations, probably before the rest of your family are awake.

  “It’s a beautiful service, Hope. It would mean so much to the women if you came. And to me. Deedee is singing a solo. Say you’ll come.”

  Feeling cornered, Hope bit her lip once again. After a moment’s thought, she opened her mouth, prepared to say no.

  But then, for some reason, she didn’t.

  “All right. I’ll come.”

  Chapter 26

  When she began serving her sentence, Mandy was just twenty-one years old and, in spite of all the things she’d seen and done since her dad had thrown her out of the house at sixteen, still a little green. The first few weeks on the inside had been rough, but as Hope had observed, Mandy was a fast learner.

  She learned quickly that the way to survive on the inside was to make herself as inconsequential and unobtrusive as possible. For five years, Mandy kept her head down, minded her own business, and made no enemies. But she hadn’t made any friends either, not until she started taking Hope’s quilting class.

  Mandy wasn’t sure what had changed. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she was so close to release. Or maybe it was because quilting was such a communal activity; she and the other students were always asking one another’s opinions on color combinations, sharing tips on how to sew straighter stitches or rip crooked ones out more quickly, or proudly showing off their finished blocks or quilt tops. It might have been any of those things. Or it might have been something about Hope, the way she made them all feel capable, and trustworthy, and safe.

  Whatever the reason, for the first time since she’d passed through the prison gates, Mandy felt like she had friends, people who had her back, people she actually cared about and who, much to her surprise, she would miss when she left.

  And that’s why, when Deedee told Mandy that she was going to sing a solo at the sunrise service on Christmas and asked if she would please, please, please come, Mandy said she would.

  Cindy, who Mandy actually thought was okay, gave her a firm but silent poke in the shoulder at twenty minutes to five. She’d lain awake for hours the night before, her brain busy trying to answer questions with no clear solutions.

  Groggy, her brain fuzzy with the remainders of interrupted sleep, she rolled over and glared at the guard. When Cindy leaned down and whispered, “Merry Christmas,” Mandy remembered why she’d been woken while it was still so dark.

  She lay in her bunk for a couple of minutes, blinking, and nearly fell back asleep. But when she heard quiet rustling from a handful of other inmates who were getting dressed in the dark, she got up and did the same. Yawning, Mandy shuffled through the dark dormitory, the valley of bunk beds still mostly filled with slumbering women, and down the hallway.

  The cafeteria was dark too, which surprised her. The only light in the room came from a single-pillar candle, set on a tall, silver lamp stand. Except for one near the front of the room, covered with a snowy white cloth and topped by a simple silver cross, the tables had been pushed to one side to make room for the chairs. There were eight rows with twelve chairs in each one, separated by a center aisle.

  Nearly every seat was filled, another surprise, and no one spoke a word. In a prison housing more than a thousand women, silence was a rare and precious commodity. Its presence, and the glow that the single candle cast upon the faces of the silent worshipers, filled Mandy with a sensation so far distant from her memory that it took her a moment to identify it—peace.

  After a moment, Mandy heard a hissing noise. Deedee, sit
ting in the third row, waved her over.

  “I saved you a seat.” Deedee’s announcement was whispered with a mixture of excitement and pride, as if she was pleased with herself for having thought so far ahead. “For Mrs. C. too.”

  “Thanks, Deedee,” Hope said with a smile.

  Deedee bobbed her head and bounced halfway out of her chair, making room for Mandy to pass. “You sit there, next to Mrs. C. I need to sit on the aisle so I can get up when it’s time for me to sing.”

  Mandy moved past Deedee’s knees and took her seat. Hope smiled as she sat down and then reached over, squeezed Mandy’s hand, and whispered, “Merry Christmas.”

  Mandy nearly flinched. It had been a long time since anyone had touched her in quite that way—not a caress, not a touch that invited or required a response, just a simple acknowledgment of her presence and humanity, a sign of affection.

  Mandy smiled at her teacher. “Merry Christmas.”

  * * *

  The service was, as promised, brief.

  Nancy, who normally wore just a plain black shirt and white clerical collar over black trousers, entered the room at the stroke of five, dressed in a splendid flowing robe and a clerical stole embroidered with an intricate pattern of red, green, and gold vines.

  Two inmates walked in front of her, one carrying a thick Bible with a gold cover, the other a shallow gold plate. After placing their burdens on the table, the women took seats in the front row. Nancy greeted everyone, wishing them a “Happy Christmas,” which made a few of the inmates chuckle, including Mandy and Deedee.

  They liked the chaplain. They liked her enthusiasm, her funny accent, and the weird way she said things—“Happy Christmas” instead of “Merry Christmas,” “biscuit” instead of “cookie.”

  What they really liked was the way she treated them, with kindness. Not because she was trying to convert them or anything—Mandy had never attended chapel services before—but because that’s the way she treated everybody, as though they mattered. When Mandy first arrived, Nancy convinced her that her life really wasn’t over, that if you can hang on, life goes on. And now, five years later, here she was.