Hope Nicely's Lessons for Life

by Caroline Day

  I don’t know what the time is and I don’t know how long I’ve been here. And I don’t know if my mum, Jenny Nicely, is dead and in a box already. I don’t know what I am feeling, because of not being very good at knowing it, but it is a very horrible feeling and I do not want it in my brain at all. And I am shaking, mostly my hands and my arms which are over my head, like they’re holding it tight, but they won’t stop moving, and my teeth too, which are making a funny noise and I don’t know if it is my head or in the real world too.

  And what I am thinking about now is how I don’t want to be made like this. With this brain that tells me to go away when I should be there with my mum, with a brain that doesn’t remember the phone number for an ambulance. Because everybody knows 999. But not me. I am thinking what a bad person I am. When I was younger, like sixteen or maybe eighteen or maybe even twenty, I tried to kill myself. It was because of not wanting to be like this. I wanted to not be stuck in my stupid, rubbish brain anymore, but I didn’t know how to make myself different. I couldn’t think of another way to not be me. But, in fact, I didn’t end up dead in a box, because of not being good at tying knots, and because of my mum, Jenny, telling me that she loved me more than anything in the whole entire world and that she wouldn’t have wanted to adopt any baby that wasn’t me, and certainly not one that was an ordinary drop of light, and that my brain was part of who I am, and that is unique and perfect. But now my mum, Jenny, is maybe dead and in a box all by herself, and I am not even there. I am not feeling unique and perfect. I am feeling a very horrible thing, and if I had a rope and I knew how to make a knot, then I would want to go away even from being alive.

  After that time, with the rope that fell off – because of not being very good at tying knots, and because of the rope being scratchy and itchy, and not wanting it to be too tight on my skin – I had to go and see a woman called Camilla da Silva, which was a nice name, actually, because of sounding like silver, and she would ask me lots of questions about my week and how was I feeling. And sometimes I would make up answers, because of not really knowing what the right answer was. Mostly I would say that I was feeling fine and better. And Camilla would say: ‘But are you really …?’ Or ‘So let’s talk about that …’ I didn’t like it very much, going to Camilla da Silva, because of normally being a chatterbox but not with her, because of not knowing the answers.

  And I saw a doctor, who was a woman too, and she said to take some pills. But I can’t remember her name. My mum, that’s Jenny Nicely, said that the pills were to help me not be the thing. It will come to me. But she said that the most important thing was to know that I could talk to her about anything in the whole entire world and that I could say anything at all and she would love me just as much. And she wanted to know about what had made me so sad that I would try to do the – I know this word – and that she wanted us to talk about it. And I told her about not wanting my brain the way it was, and that if it was unique and perfect then why did my birth mother throw me away in a cardboard box like rubbish. And I told her, my mum, about not knowing any other way to stop being inside my stupid brain, and about that being the reason for trying to do it. Trying to kill myself. I didn’t really want to be dead, actually. I just didn’t want to be me. And that was why, I think, we went to the thing, like a party, which was called FASD Friends, with other people who all had the same thing as me.

  And my mum, Jenny, showed me videos, too, and there were other people, who were maybe a little bit blue or indigo or yellow or one of the other colours, and they were talking and some of them said how they didn’t like it too, and some said about being unique, and some said about coping. There were bad things, like drinking and drugs and the touching bodies thing, and about being angry or anxious or forgetting not to run into cars or jump out of windows.

  And there was another video, and it was women who had been the mums with the babies in their tummies and who had done the drinking. And some of them had had their babies taken away from them, because of not looking after them. And some of them were very sad and said about it being a disease and not wanting to hurt their babies but not being able to control their thirstiness. That’s because of being an alcoholic. And one of them – she had a name but I can’t remember it – said nobody told her. She said she did not have the disease but her friend, who already had a baby, said it was OK to have a little glass of wine and she was having a stressful time, and she thought if a little glass was all right then why not two or three or maybe five. And one said she did know about it, and that she would not have had even one glass in the whole entire time of having her baby in her tummy, except that she didn’t know about having the baby until her tummy was really fat, and that was why she kept on having the glasses of wine. And that by the time she knew, it was too late for the baby’s brain to be made right again. And all of the mums in the video said about being very sorry for making the babies the way they were. And I thought it was sad about them feeling so sorry, because really it wasn’t their fault. But it was sad about the babies, too. And one of those babies was me. And even if I was unique and even if I was an extraordinary drop of light, maybe it wasn’t all for the best after all.

  That was when I started thinking about what my mother – not Jenny Nicely, my mum, but my birth one who made me – about what she would say if she met me. Would she say that she was sorry too? Like the video mums. Or would she say good riddance to bad rubbish in a cardboard box? One day when Camilla da Silva asked me, what feelings do you have towards your biological mother, I said how could I know what I felt if I didn’t know why she’d thrown me away. And, it’s a bit silly, but I started crying. And Camilla said had I ever tried writing down what was in my head. And that is when I started thinking about my book …

  And I’m crying a bit now, too, because of being cold and wet and hungry, and it’s like my tummy is growling, like a dog, and my legs are starting to hurt from sitting and being bent – and because of maybe my mum, my real mum, Jenny, being dead and alone and I don’t know where she is. And I’m pressing my hands onto my head, and I’m rocking a bit. And I’m counting, one, two, three – one, two, three.

  But then I hear something. What I hear is like squelching but in a rhythm like walking, like someone is walking in the wet leaves coming nearer to me. And not just that but also talking. And the talking is like angry swearing, like fucking shitty bastard, bastard fucker. And it’s not like an accent but it’s like a man, and it’s not very clear, because of all the words being scratchy and blurred, like a drunk person. And I hold my hands over my head really tight, with my head pressed down on my knees, even though my hands are still shaking. And I’m squeezing my eyes tight shut, even though it’s dark and they’re pressed against my knees so I can’t see anything anyway. And I can hear the footsteps, because of all the leaves, even though they’re wet. It’s like heavy feet stepping into soggy leaves and making a noise as they do it. And I know it because of hearing the same noise when I’m walking the dogs, except then the noise is my own feet in their Wellington boots, but with my very long socks because otherwise it would be too scratchy, but this is with the talking and the fucking and the shitty and the fucking kill him. And I’m wanting to make a noise with my mouth, like not a real scream because I don’t even know if I could make the noise. My whole body is a bit stuck, like squeezing. And it’s scared. That is the feeling. Even if I’m not good at knowing my feelings, that is what it is. I am so, so scared.

  He is nearly at my bench. I can hear him – the breath that comes out with his angry, slurry words. And I can smell him. He smells like sick. And then the squelching walking stops, but because of his breathing and his angry talking, I can hear that he is just beside my bench. And then another sound, and it is like water from a tap splashing into the sink. And it is very close, onto the wall beside me. And I can smell the wee, so I know what it is. And a couple of splashes hit my cheek, and it’s not the rain, because of that coming onto my hands above my head but not onto my face, but this is s
plashing from the wall right beside me. And I know that it is his wee that is splashing me, because of the smell. My feeling is scared. So scared that my mouth cannot stop the squeak from coming out. And then another squeak. And I’m telling myself, no noise. Stop. But my mouth is squeaking again.

  ‘Is someone there?’ This is what I hear, but it sounds like one word – like ‘ssomeonethere’. With no silences between the words. And I’m pushing on my head with both my hands and I’m telling myself: not a sound. And I’m pressing my lips together.

  ‘Whosfuckingthere?’ The wee has stopped, so there’s no more splashing or water noise, but I can still smell it. And the sick smell. ‘Whothefuckishthere?’

  And then there’s no more talking from the man, but I can hear his breathing, and I can hear my breathing too, like the loudest breathing in the world. And I’m thinking he must definitely be able to hear me too. There’s a squelch, and another squelch. And he’s coming even closer, right up to the bench itself. And it’s the hardest thing ever not to do more squeaking. My whole body wants to make itself tiny and go away right now. And the squelching stops. I don’t look up. My eyes are still squeezed tight against my knees, but I can feel breath on my hands, and I know he’s bending over the bench and he’s above me. And I think if I put my arms up straight then I would touch him. And I really want to make a noise. But I’m pressing and pressing my hands onto my head, like I’m trying to make myself really small. And the smell is like fingers pushing into my nose: and it’s like sick and wee and sweat when you’ve forgotten the rule about deodorant under your armpits. And it’s making me want to be sick too – and to squeak with being scared at the same time. But I’m telling myself about being silent, because I can still feel the stinky breath on my hand.

  Something touches my cheek. And I can’t help it. I put up my head and open my eyes. And its scraping on my face. On my cheek. Cold and hard against me. And I nearly scream because of thinking it’s a knife. I have to take my hands away from my head and press them over my mouth instead, because otherwise the scream will come. But then it’s wooshy and soft. And it smells like the smelliest, sweatiest, sickiest thing ever. And it’s smooth and a bit squeaky, like my anorak that I wish I was wearing. It’s too dark for me to see properly, but I can feel that it’s pressed against me, and that it’s coming through the space in the back of the bench, where there are the spaces, between the wood bits. And there is a noise like a zip and now I know what it is, because of working it out in my brain but not knowing the word yet. And it’s not a knife, but I’m still scared and I’m still hearing my breathing. And feeling it on my hands too. And there’s another zip noise. Sleeping bag. That’s what is pressing against my face through the bench space. And there’s more swearing, but not who the fuck is there, but instead back to just fucking bastard fucker. And I’m listening to my breath, and trying to count in my head, even though I can’t sit on my hands because of them being over my mouth still, with my eyes still open and looking at the dark. And I don’t know how long I’m there but the swearing stops a bit and then there’s snoring instead.

  The sleeping bag is pressing just under my nose, and onto my hands, where my mouth is. And I don’t like the feel of the sleeping bag. It’s scratchy. And it’s so stinky. And it’s squeaky, like my anorak, except my anorak is softer. The sleeping bag isn’t soft. It’s itchy. And my skin feels hot and it feels cold too. On my face, and my arms, and everywhere. I’m hungry and my legs are like they’re screaming because of wanting to move. My legs hurt and my tummy hurts. It’s not growling now, which is good, because maybe it would have woken up the smelly man, but now it’s pulling tight inside me to show how empty it is. And I’m trying not to think about the pizza – the one I didn’t have – and about the pepperoni on it, because of it making my tummy hurt even more.

  And the snoring is carrying on but I’m too scared to try and go away in case of waking up the smelly, swearing man. And I don’t want to even be here. But I’m telling myself how pleased my mum, Jenny Nicely, would be, because of me not trying to go away, because of thinking very carefully about consequences. And that is an important rule. Because of people, like the ones at the party, wanting to do things that are bad, like running into a bus or jumping out of a car or letting a man touch you under your clothes. So I’m thinking that my mum would be proud that I’d remembered it. Except actually not if she’s dead, and in a box. Because how can she be proud then? And mostly I’m thinking about how this is the worst night ever, and about not wanting to be here, scared and cold and hungry in the dark, which is wet, but wanting to be with my mum, Jenny, and her be alive, and giving me a big hug, and saying: ‘Adopting you was the best thing I ever did.’

  And it’s harder and harder to be quiet, and I can’t help it but I’m humming a bit, to try and stop the squeaking and the screaming and the shouting that I want to do. I have my eyes shut, with the stink of the sleeping bag in my nose, and, if I move, the zip is scratching me. And I hate scratchiness. I hate it. It makes me want to scream. It makes me want to shout. And the snoring is so loud, like: ZZZhhhh ZZZhhhh ZZZhhhh. And I’m going to have to scream. I can’t help it. I’m humming and I’m counting but I’m going to scream.

  But then I hear something else, and it’s more squelching footsteps, coming near in the park. And then there’s another voice. I don’t know if it’s a man or a woman, but the voice is calling: ‘Hello, is someone here?’ And the man on the bench isn’t waking up, though, he’s just going on ZZZhhhh ZZZhhhh ZZZhhhh and I can smell the wee and the sick and the sweaty smell. And then it’s again: ‘Hello. Who’s there?’ And the squelching in the leaves is coming nearer. I open my eyes, just a little tiny bit, and I can see a circle of light, and it’s coming towards me. And now I can hear myself humming, because of trying so hard to not be screaming and shouting. And I don’t want to even hum but I can’t help it.

  ‘Is there someone over there?’

  And then the snoring is more like a spluttering, like ZZZhhhh ah SHP ZZhh Shpppp. And then it’s a ZZ-ZZhhuckwhafuckinwha …

  ‘Hello …?’

  I stand up, and I scream, like the biggest scream of my whole life. With my hair in my hands and I’m pulling it while I’m screaming. And the light which is the torch is shining towards me and into my face. I have to put my hand in front of my eyes. But I can still see – though not properly see, because of the light making my eyes be squeezed, and seeing funny shapes that are orange and yellow – the man in the sleeping bag is standing up going: ‘Whathefuckinfuck …?’ And I still can’t see him properly except that his hair is very big and long.

  And, with my hand over my eyes, because of the light, I can just see through my fingers that he’s nearly falling over in the sleeping bag, but then he’s stepping out of it, and he’s still swearing but he’s starting to run away. Then there’s the other voice going: ‘Hello, is that …?’

  The light is shining at me and I hear this new voice say: ‘Stop. Wait there.’ But there are loud foot-steps going fast, like really running, and squelching because of the leaves, and going fuckfuckingfuckers.

  And I want to go away too, running, as fast as the wind, but my legs won’t move, because of hurting from staying still so long, and because of them being too scared to do a thing. And I’m screaming, no words just a massive sound and the light in my eyes.

  ‘Hope? Is that Hope?’

  I keep on screaming, and in my head, I’m trying to think about how this person with the light even knows my name, but mostly I can’t even think about it because all I can think is about this huge fear in every single part of me. And I don’t even care if this is a bad person or a good person, I just want to not to have to scream and be so scared anymore.

  ‘Hope, it’s OK, I’m a police officer. You don’t need to worry. You’re safe now.’

  I’m still screaming. My brain is listening, just a little bit. But it can’t stop straight away.

  ‘Hope. It is you, isn’t it? I know this is difficult, but I ne
ed to know if you’ve been harmed in any way.’ And then she talks some more, but quieter, and she’s saying: ‘I’ve found her, in the park, there was an unknown man with her. He’s run away.’ And then to me again: ‘Can you confirm that you are Hope Nicely?’

  And my head manages to tell my mouth to stop screaming, but it’s not ready to say yes. I’m just watching her with my mouth open. But I nod. Yes, it’s me. It’s OK to speak to people in uniforms, like police and nurses and firemen, even if they are people that we don’t know. That is a rule because of them being the people who have a job to help us and so we can trust them.

  ‘Hope, sweetheart, my name is Police Constable Nicola O’Brien. I’m sorry to ask you again, but that man …’

  ‘He was only sleeping.’ This is me. ‘And swearing and weeing on the wall. But he didn’t know about me being here. He didn’t do any touching. Only snoring and swearing. He didn’t know about me.’

  ‘That’s good.’ And then her voice is quieter again and she says: ‘Confirming this is Hope with me. She says she is unharmed.’ And it’s very dark but my eyes are seeing a bit now, because of her light not shining right at me but now down onto the floor and lighting it around us. And when she is talking quietly she is bending her head to her neck. But really she is talking into a radio, not a phone or just to herself like the sweary man. And she says: ‘We’re coming out now.’ And she holds out a hand towards me and says: ‘Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you into the dry.’

  It’s OK, because of her uniform, even though it’s one of the important rules to not go with strangers. So I come out from behind the bench and my legs are still not wanting to move because of having been bent for so long, and I say: ‘How did you know about Hope Nicely being my name?’