by Holly Jacobs
I trusted Ned completely. I knew he’d support me and that decision I made so many years ago, but this wasn’t a story to tell tonight.
He looked concerned and I realized that I’d hesitated too long.
“Pip, I thought you’d feel the same way,” Ned said softly.
“I do,” I assured him. “I may be a writer, but I don’t have the words to tell you how much I love you. How much I love the life we’re building. And yes, we should move in together. As for the rest—”
“Marriage and kids?” he asked.
I nodded. “We need to talk about that. About . . .”
“About?” he pressed.
“Later? Could we talk about this later? It will be a longer conversation than we can have right now.”
He looked hurt.
Knowing that I’d been the one to put the pained look in his eyes hurt me as well. For the first time I’d hurt, or maybe disappointed, the man I loved. I kissed him, hoping to wipe away the feeling. “I love you, Ned. More than you can ever know. Can you wait until later for the rest?”
He sighed. “Pip, I’ll wait as long as you need me to. I should never have brought this up tonight. So we’ll table the discussion until later. Just know I love you. That will never change.”
I did know that. And I realized just how amazing that was . . . to know that someone loved you so completely. Once upon a time, I’d worried about a spark, but what we had wasn’t a spark, nor was it a blaze—something that would burn out as fast as it began. No, this was a well-tended fire that would burn steadily and warmly for the rest of my life.
My kids found us in our corner of the wing, and it was no longer quiet. Jo came up to me and squealed as she hugged me, and some of my excitement came roaring back.
Ned loved me and I loved him.
We’d work this out.
I was surrounded by the kids as the program started. The principal of the school was first at the microphone and welcomed everyone to the event. He introduced my mom, in her capacity as superintendent. She walked onto the stage from the opposite backstage wing and smiled at me.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming out tonight. I’m here in two capacities. First, as superintendent it’s my honor to be here and introduce the participants in this unique and wonderful project. But I’m also here as a mother. I’m so proud to introduce my daughter, Piper George, who not only spent months spearheading this project, but has also spent her entire adult life donating her time and talents in so many ways that benefit the community.” Mom continued her short speech, talking about the project and the students who were involved. She finished by saying, “. . . So on behalf of the entire school district, I want to thank and congratulate Piper George. I’m going to turn the microphone over to her before I start blubbering up here and totally embarrass myself.”
She waved to me and said, “Piper.”
Ned squeezed my hand, then released it as I walked out onto the stage. I wiped at my eyes and kissed my mom as I reached her and the mic. She walked off the stage and I said, “Geesh, thanks, Mom, for worrying about blubbering and making a spectacle of yourself.” I overexaggerated as I wiped my eyes, trying to make the very necessary act funny.
“And I’m honored to be here speaking on behalf of everyone who was involved with Raise Your Hands: Stories from Today’s Classrooms. But before I talk a bit about this very special project, I’d like to introduce the writers who were able to be with us tonight.”
As I read their names, one by one the kids filed on to the stage and took one of the seats behind me. “And finally, the girl who inspired the project, Jo Larson. Jo’s the only writer who’s not currently a school district student. She’s a freshman at Gannon University this year, but she took time away from her classes to not only write for the book, but also help with the project.”
All the kids who’d written for the book stood as the audience applauded, and soon the entire auditorium was standing and applauding.
Jo’s cheeks turned a brilliant red as she walked to the end of the seats. Soon the auditorium was quiet again and I turned back to the mic.
“I’ve been writing for years, and I can tell you that each current project is my favorite. If it’s not, I’m doing something wrong. As I finish a book, I move on to the next one, which then becomes my new favorite.
“But Raise Your Hands: Stories from Today’s Classrooms is a book that will forever have a firm place in my heart, not only because the stories are all amazing and give such a raw, honest look at today’s classrooms, but because of the students had the opportunity to work. No, not students . . . writers. All of them opened themselves up and wrote from the heart. Their stories are ones that every educator should read. They’re stories that every parent of a school-age student should read. Well, let’s face it: I think everyone at every stage of his or her life should read this book.”
That got a laugh.
“So please take a minute to talk to all our student writers tonight, and then go home and talk to the students in your life. Ask about their reality. It might be very different than you’ve imagined.
“I think that’s it. I’m honored to have worked with these amazing kids, and I am anxious to see what the next chapter of their lives will look like. I’m sure it will be brilliant.”
I started to walk off the stage, but Jo called my name and ran off the stage and came back wheeling a dolly with a huge potted bush on it. She stopped at the microphone and said, “We thought about buying Ms. Pip roses, but we all did some of our work in her garden and we decided we wanted to leave a mark on it. So we went to Johnston’s nursery and they said you’d like this. Now, every time you look at it, you’ll remember how much we appreciate everything you’ve done. Not just working with us on our book, but for all the books you’ve written. You write stories that don’t talk down to kids . . . they tell the truth.”
She hugged me and I finally did start crying.
Ned came out and wheeled my new bush off the stage because I could hardly see through my tears.
That night, after the book signing and party, I wrote in Amanda’s journal.
Dear Amanda,
I’ve tucked a copy of every book I’ve ever written in that chest for you. Today, I added Raise Your Hands. It’s special because I didn’t write it. I edited it and maybe mentored it, but you’re in it as much as you are in any of my other books. As I read all the kids’ stories and worked with them, I thought of you. I wonder about your high school experience. As it comes to an end, are you sighing with relief, or are you sad to see this part of your life draw to a close?
I hope as you read this journal, whatever chapter of your life you’re in is a good one.
Love,
Piper
Chapter Fourteen
Foreword from Raise Your Hands, by Piper George:
I started my career in pediatric nursing and fell into writing by accident. My first books were for younger readers, but the last few years I’ve started writing Young Adult fiction. When I meet readers and they tell me, “I thought you were my age,” I’m so complimented.
I’ve spent most of my adult life trying to see the world from a child’s, and then from a young adult’s, perspective. More than see the world, I try to feel the world and be relevant as I write.
The student authors in this collection bring an authenticity that no matter how close I come I can never truly master. They bring a rawness, and in some cases a vulnerability, to their writing as they describe their school experiences. My hope is this book will help parents understand what it means to be a teen today, and that it will help student readers realize they’re not alone. I hope it will make readers feel that some of their own experiences are captured in this story. Every child or young adult needs to feel that he or she has that connection and more importantly, that his or her voice is heard . . .
The next morning, I could not ge
t going.
After the signing, a bunch of the students and their families had stopped by my house. At about eleven, Ned left for some stakeout. He was never very specific about his work projects, but he assured me he’d be safe.
Cooper stayed after everyone else had left. It was after one when I said good night to her.
Sundays are generally my lazy day, but sleeping in until eight o’clock in the morning went beyond lazy to crazy for me. I’m normally an early bird, but a late night and too much on my mind had made for a fitful night’s sleep.
It wasn’t helped by the fact that Ned had been gone all night. I kept waking up and reaching for him, only to find myself alone in my bed.
No, not my bed anymore. Our bed.
I took my coffee and paper out to the garden for the first time. The calendar said it was officially spring, and today, Mother Nature wasn’t arguing.
I was wrapped in a quilt, because although the sun was out, there was still a nip in the air. This was Erie, Pennsylvania, after all.
I was studying the backyard, trying to decide where I could possible fit the new bush the kids had given me, when the gate opened.
For a moment, I thought it was Ned. I knew we needed to talk, but I’d been avoiding thinking about it. I wasn’t sure how to start. Hey, Ned, I haven’t mentioned it before, but I have a kid . . . sort of.
It wasn’t Ned, but my mom who came into view. My always-dressed-to-the-nines mother was disheveled and it was obvious she’d been crying.
“Mom? What’s wrong? Is it Dad?” I jumped up from the bench. “Did something happen to Dad?”
She shook her head and pulled me back onto the bench with her. “No. That’s not it. Your father’s still sleeping. I left to come over here before he woke up. I’ve been up all night. Your speech last night . . .”
She shook her head.
I opened up the quilt and wrapped her in it along with me.
We sat in silence, wrapped up together, while my mother collected herself.
“This book . . .”
“The book? I only wrote the foreword and afterword. It’s the students’ stories, not mine.”
“Maybe not yours, but I know that as you worked on it, as you worked with those children, you saw Amanda. You saw her in every story, on every page, in every student. Piper, I read it in one sitting and when I finished, I started to cry. I haven’t been able to stop.”
“Mom?” I knew that some of the stories were tearjerkers, but I hadn’t expected this reaction from anyone, much less my mother.
“I’ve always been behind you, always supported your philanthropic nature. But until last night, I don’t think I ever realized that everything you’ve done, everything you do, has been for your daughter. For Amanda.”
“It has,” I admitted softly. “I may have given her up, but my life has been built around her. Someday, if or when she finds me, I want her to know that I never forgot her. Not for one minute of one day.”
“That’s what I realized last night. You’re heartbroken and it’s my fault,” my mother—my strong, brash mother who’d always stood by my side and lent me her strength and support—whispered as she started to cry again.
Heartbroken?
I really thought hard before I answered. Heartbroken?
Giving up my child was the hardest thing I’d ever done. And I’d missed her every day since she left my arms and yes, I worried about her, in much the same way everyone who’s ever had a child worries. Yes, I’d built a life around her. But my heart wasn’t broken. Seventeen years later, I still believed I’d made the best decision for both of us. Surely I’d sent a piece of my heart with her when she left, but what was left was intact.
If it was broken, I couldn’t have given it to Ned, and I was sure that I’d done that.
“Mom, that’s not—” I started to protest.
She interrupted, “It is. I read the book. You might not have written every word in it, but your heart bled on the pages.”
“Mom—”
She interrupted. “I am your mother.” She wiped at her eyes. “My job is to save you from pain. And though you didn’t talk about Amanda, I’ve always seen her clearly behind your stories. She was the little girl in the grocery store and the reason you started Amanda’s Pantry. She’s every child you’ve written for. She’s Jo Larson and all the other students who worked on the book.”
I didn’t know what to say to all that, because it was true. “Where you see pain, I see—”
“I could have saved you all the pain if I hadn’t been so selfish,” she admitted. “I could have dropped out of my doctorate program. Juggling school and my teaching took so much time away from home—from you and your father. Even before the baby, I sensed how much strain it was putting on our relationship. You were at an age when you needed your mother present. If I had been around more, maybe you’d never have gotten pregnant. Maybe—”
“Mom, stop,” I said in my firmest nurse’s voice. I didn’t need to use it often anymore, but I still had it. “I know you’ve always worried that I was somehow torturing myself, first by working on the ped’s floor at the hospital, then with the books and Amanda’s Pantry. And you’ve always been wrong. All the things I do give me such . . . satisfaction. Joy. No, glee.”
My new character was a bubbly sort who used the word glee a lot. Sometimes I give characters attributes I want to develop, and sometimes I give them attributes I already have or believe in. I think most of my life is a quiet sort of happiness. Sitting here in my garden, reading a Sunday paper, or working on the front porch.
But those quiet, happy moments were punctuated by frequent moments of utter and absolute glee. Story times at the school when one of the kindergarteners hugs me. Saturdays at Amanda’s Pantry. Letters from readers, or from people the pantry has helped. Other moments.
And Ned.
Always Ned.
It didn’t matter if we were cooking dinner, or washing the dishes together. It didn’t matter if we were walking the dogs, or weeding my backyard jungle.
Waking up next to him and watching him sleep.
Those were small moments that filled me with . . . definitely glee.
I realized my mother needed to hear that. So I repeated it and kept listing things. “Dinner with you and Dad. Seeing you win that award last year. Our vacation to the Outer Banks so many years ago. Do you remember the baby turtle?”
Her tears were slowing and she nodded. “You were so excited as we watched it crawl from the sand and into the water.”
“Glee, Mom,” I said, borrowing the word again. “My life is filled with the big moments and the smaller ones, but all of them make me happy. I need you to hear this and believe what I’m about to say this time. I have an utterly wonderful life.”
“But—” she started.
I interrupted. “Mom, I would never have let you quit school to help me keep Amanda, because I’m sure in my heart of hearts, she’s where she was supposed to be. She’s with a couple who couldn’t have biological children. She’s loved and cherished. They were able to give her the childhood and life I wanted for her. Please hear me on this—I wouldn’t have let you quit school to help with her because even if you could have been home more to be Amanda’s grandmother, I wasn’t equipped to be her mother. Not the kind of mother I dreamed of for her. No matter what, I’d have still given her up for adoption. It was the right thing for her. For me. And for you.” I wrapped my arm around her. “Honestly, Mom, it was the right thing.”
She fell silent. I knew her well enough to simply sit quietly next to her and allow her a moment to digest what I’d said.
After a few minutes, I quietly added, “You were the best mother ever. I was too young to live up to that, and that was what I wanted for Amanda. I truly believe that’s what I gave her. And I’m at peace with the decision. I always have been. I won’t say I
never worry about her. I think we worry about people we love, which is why you’re here this morning, worrying about me.”
“Still, what if I—”
“Ned has pointed out that I use what if every day when I work, but you have to be fair. What if you had quit and I tried to raise her? Could I still have made it through college? Would I still have been a nurse? And if I weren’t, would I have become a writer? Or would I have started Amanda’s Pantry? If I hadn’t started Amanda’s Pantry, what would happen to all the kids and families we serve? Mom, maybe I’m the selfish one, but like I said, I love my life. All the work I do is filled with meaning, and I’m surrounded by people I love.”
“Ned,” she said.
This time I didn’t answer but only nodded.
“Have you told him about Amanda then?”
“No. I really don’t know why. I know he’ll accept that part of me, just like he’s accepted every other part of me. It’s just . . .”
“Just?” Mom prompted.
“What if he sees me differently?” There. I’d given my hesitancy a name.
I think I’d known all along this was a big part of why I hadn’t told him. “I mean, if I can’t convince you that I’m at peace with my past, and that I love my life as it stands, how can I convince him? What if he sees me as a tragic figure and pities me?”
Mom sat straighter and all traces of her tears disappeared in an instant. “You’re right. I’ve done you a disservice seeing you as someone who’s heartbroken. Giving away a piece of your heart doesn’t break it. A heart never runs out of room. A heart can always expand. You gave a part to Amanda, and you’ve given pieces to every child you’ve worked with at the hospital, the pantry, and at the school. You put a piece of your heart in every book you write . . . that’s what your readers respond to. Your stories are genuine because you put yourself into them.”
“I try to,” I admitted.
“You’ve given away all those pieces of your heart, but instead of having less left, your heart’s only gotten bigger because of it. You need to tell Ned, and he’ll see that.”
