The Beginning of Hope: The Highly Anticipated, Mind-Blowing Sequel to the Killing of Faith (The Killing of Faith Series Book 2)
Page 1
The
Beginning
of
Hope
by
William Holms
TABLE OF CONTENTS
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– CHAPTER 1 –
– CHAPTER 2 –
– CHAPTER 3 –
– CHAPTER 4 –
CHAPTER 5 –
– CHAPTER 6 –
– CHAPTER 7 –
– CHAPTER 8 –
– CHAPTER 9 –
– CHAPTER 10 –
– CHAPTER 11 –
– CHAPTER 12 –
– CHAPTER 13 –
– CHAPTER 14 –
– CHAPTER 15 –
– CHAPTER 16 –
– CHAPTER 17 –
– CHAPTER 18 –
– CHAPTER 19 –
– CHAPTER 20 –
– CHAPTER 21 –
– CHAPTER 22 –
– CHAPTER 23 –
– CHAPTER 24 –
– CHAPTER 25 –
– CHAPTER 26 –
– CHAPTER 27 –
– CHAPTER 28 –
– CHAPTER 29 –
– CHAPTER 30 –
– CHAPTER 31 –
– CHAPTER 32 –
– CHAPTER 33 –
– CHAPTER 34 –
– CHAPTER 35 –
– CHAPTER 36 –
– CHAPTER 37 –
– CHAPTER 38 –
– CHAPTER 39 –
– CHAPTER 40 –
– CHAPTER 41 –
– CHAPTER 42 –
– CHAPTER 43 –
– CHAPTER 44 –
– CHAPTER 45 –
– CHAPTER 46 –
– EPILOGUE –
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Hope Brunick
“To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose, under heaven. A time to be born, a time to die, A time to plant, A time to reap, A time to kill, a time to heal, A time to laugh, a time to weep.”
— The Byrds
….and a little child shall lead them
—Isaiah 11:6
– CHAPTER 1 –
T he alarm rings over the speakers waking me (and everyone else) from my sleep. It doesn’t sound like any alarm clock you’ve ever heard. It’s more like the chimes your doorbell makes when someone’s at the front door. Seven-thirty on the dot – always seven-thirty. I’ve been waking up to those same bells every morning for the last seven months. You see, sleeping in late is not part of the program.
My roommate (and now my best friend) and I roll out of bed, get dressed, and quickly wash our faces. Breakfast starts at eight. We get forty-five minutes to finish, which gives us plenty of time. After breakfast, I go back to my room, make my bed, and straighten things up. Keeping a clean room is a big part of the program so I always clean it first thing in the morning. “This starts your day with a positive feeling of accomplishment.”
After I’m finished straightening up my room, I go outside for my morning physical activity. Some girls jog or go on a hike, bicycle, rollerblade, or swim. When I first arrived, my roommate was really into yoga so I gave it a try. Now I love it and go every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning.
On Thursday mornings, I work in the fruit and vegetable garden I planted about a month after I arrived. It’s full of strawberries, eggplants, zucchini, lettuce, carrots, tomatoes, cantaloupes, and a handful of spices. After growing all summer, my little garden now helps feed everyone here. I’m especially proud of my strawberries. They’re bigger and sweeter than anything you can buy in the store. Several girls have gone out of their way to tell me how great they taste. It made me feel good knowing I actually created something other people like.
Lunch starts at 11:30 a.m. There are lots of choices, and everything is pretty healthy. We always have plenty of time to eat and talk with each other. We never get tired of the talking part.
After lunch, everyone heads out for their normal, daily activity. We can choose whatever activity we enjoy, but we’re encouraged to find one thing and stick with it. I try to paint once or twice a week. Otherwise, I play volleyball, canoe, or go horseback riding. I’ve developed a special bond with Daisy, the palomino paint I always ride. I’m happy just spending time alone with her. Every chance I get I bring her carrots from my garden and brush her mane and tail.
Every evening after dinner everyone meets for group therapy. This is just like it sounds. We all sit in a circle of chairs with a counselor guiding the discussions. After we break, we’re free to do whatever we want until bedtime. Sometimes I watch television, write letters, play games, or just hang out. Most of the time I just hang out.
Today is Tuesday. Every Tuesday I go to my one-on-one counseling sessions with my therapist, Curtis Chastain. I walk into his office and sit in the same chair I’ve sat in since I first arrived. It’s a dark blue, cloth chair with a matching blue and white pillow. I usually squeeze his pillow in my arms when things get tough. The deeper we dig, the tighter I squeeze.
Every time I walk into his office, Mr. Chastain stands up from his desk and welcomes me in like he’s inviting me into his house for dinner. “Good morning Hope,” he says with the same cheerful voice he always has. It doesn’t matter if it’s rain or shine, cloudy or clear, summer or winter, he always greets me with the same voice and the same smile. I used to hate it because it sounded so fake – it had to be. No one can be that cheerful all the time. Surely he has bad days. He must argue with his wife, get angry at his kids, get stuck in traffic on the way to the office, or just be in a bad mood sometimes. Maybe he does or maybe he doesn’t, but you’d never know it in here. He always sounds like the best part of his day is me coming in, sitting on his blue chair, and telling him all about my problems.
Mr. Chastain closes his office door behind me. This blocks out all outside noise and keeps all my secrets safe inside. His office is soft and warm with art on the wall and a bust of Sigmund Freud on a beautiful marble stand. He has diplomas hanging on the wall behind his desk from this and that university, different awards and certificates, and more psychology books on his shelves than I could read in my whole life. I once asked him if he’s actually read all these books. He looked at the shelves and said “most of them.” I didn't really believe him – it’s just too many books. I think most of these books are only here to convince us that he’s some big shot who can solve all our problems.
There’s just one thing missing from his office – a couch to lie down on. On television there’s always a couch but not in here. On my second visit, I asked Mr. Chastain if he doesn’t have a couch because he’s afraid we might fall asleep. He laughed a little and wrote something down on his notebook pad. He’s always writing on his pad.
Now, seven months later, we’ve talked about everything. He knows more about me than anyone else in the world.
I’d die if someone got their hands on his notebook pad and got to know the real me.
Believe it or not, I’m really going to miss this place. I have friends here who I love. Now it’s hard for me to see my life without them in it. I’m even going to miss Mr. Chastain. That’s right, I’ll even miss my therapist.
This day might look like just another day but it’s not. This is the first day of the rest of my life. “So, this is your big day?” Mr. Chastain begins after I’m settled in.
“This is my big day,” I agree.
“How long has it been?”
I sit up tall, smile, and say, “Seven months, two weeks, four days, nine hours, and forty-two minutes.” I made up the hours and minutes part, but the rest is spot on.
He laughs, gives me a little wink, and says, “Forty-two minutes huh?”
I laugh back and say, “Well, forty-three now.”
“I’m proud of you Hope. You’ve come so far in that time. It takes some people years to come as far as you have in a matter of months. Some people never get there.”
“When I first came here I hated this place. I hated my dad for sending me here. I even hated you.”
“Me?” he asks with a puzzled look.
“Well, maybe not you,” I tease back.
“It’s no big surprise,” he says, “Most kids your age hate it at first.”
“You know,” I say getting a little choke up. “I’ve made some great friends here. I’ll really miss them.”
“Hope, you’re going to be great. You have a personality that everyone loves. You’ll make new friends at school faster than you think.”
“I know,” I say closing my eyes and shrugging my shoulders, “It just sucks starting all over again.”
“Yes, but it’s also exciting. You have your whole life ahead of you.”
“The old ‘one door closes and another one opens,’” I joke.
‘Exactly!” he agrees. “Hope, it’s impossible for you to understand, to fully grasp, how magnificent that really is. The world is waiting for you. Go out and embrace all it has to offer.”
Mr. Chastain is full of these words of encouragement. I’ve committed many of them to memory. “I haven’t told you this,” I say, “but I’ve been thinking about being a therapist just like you.”
“Really,” he says showing his surprise. “How long have you been contemplating this?”
“I don’t know…over the last few weeks.”
“Hope, you have your diploma and your grades are great. You made an excellent score on your SAT. You’re a smart young lady and you can be anything you want to be.”
“That’s what my dad says.”
“Well, he’s right,” he says. After looking down at his notebook pad he looks up and asks, “Have you heard back from any of the universities you applied to?”
“So far they’ve all been acceptance letters. I’m waiting to hear from Stanford. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.”
“I’m sure you’ll do fine,” he says.
“I should hear something any day now. The fact I haven’t heard anything yet is good news. They’ve already sent out rejection letters. I haven’t received one of those so no news is good news.”
“So tell me, Hope, what’s your biggest fears going forward?”
Here we go again. How’s that make you feel? What are you thinking right now? What’s your biggest fear? He asks these questions all the time. I was hoping on my last day that we would skip the, “What’s your biggest fear,” question. I lower my head and think about his question although I already know the answer. “Honestly, my biggest fear is telling my boyfriend that we have to end things.”
“That can’t be easy,” he agrees with a sympathetic look. “But you’re strong enough to do it.”
I look down at my lap as the thought of seeing my boyfriend again runs through my mind. He’s all I wanted for years, and now it’s all over? “It’s going to be so hard,” I mumble. “I know it’s right, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be easy.”
“I’m really proud of you Hope,” he says looking directly at me and then back down at his pad. “What about your mom?” he asks.
He knows I don’t like talking about my mom (my real Mom), but he always finds a way to bring her back into the conversation. I take a deep breath before I answer. “My mom…I know you want me to find my mom, but ––”
After I stop without saying more, he looks at me and asks, “But what?”
“I don’t know,” I shrug putting my face down in my hands and shaking my head.
“What are you afraid of, Hope?” he asks.
“It’s just…. it’s just that it’s so hard. I haven’t seen her since I was six. I don’t even remember her. I never really knew her.”
“Hope, I know you have a lot of anger towards your mom––and that’s natural.”
I raise my arms like I’m surrendering to the police or something. “I just don’t see how any mom can walk out on her own kids. Who runs off with some guy and just disappears?”
“It hurts when our mom or dad abandons us, doesn’t it?” he asks. I nod my head in agreement. I wish he would change the subject, but I know he won’t. “Hope, so much of the hurt you feel today goes back to your relationship with your mom.”
“It makes me angry,” I admit. “It all makes me angry.”
“Anger is normal, but holding on to anger is like –“
Just more of his words of wisdom. “I know, I know,” I say. “Holding on to anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.”
“That’s right Hope,” he says. “Have you had any luck finding her?”.
I slowly shake my head still showing my anger. “Honestly, I haven’t really tried. I was hoping I could skip that part.”
“I think that would be a mistake,” he warns me for the third time in less than a month.
“I know almost nothing about her. Maybe my dad can help me when I get back home.”
“Very good. This will be your homework, okay?”
“Sure,” I say pretending to write with an imaginary pen on my imaginary pad. “Homework number one… break up with my boyfriend. Homework number two... find my mom who walked out on me when I was just a little girl.”
“Hope, when you get back to Austin I want you to meet with a therapist once a week at first then we’ll taper it down.”
“No problem,” I say and pull out my imaginary pad again. “Number three, go to more therapy.”
“It’s not a permanent thing. Just to help you transition back into you're your new life.”
“No problem,” I repeat.
“Well….what time is your dad picking you up?”
“I wanted some time after lunch to pack my stuff and tell everyone goodbye.”
Our sessions are always fifty minutes - except for the few at the beginning when I walked out early. Today he stands up from his chair almost twenty minutes early and says, “Well, you should probably get ready.”
As he comes around his desk I follow his lead, but instead of leaving out the door like I’ve done every time before, I meet him at the corner of his desk, reach out, and give him a hug for the first time since we met. I lay my head on his chest as my eyes fill with tears. What the hell! I did not see this coming. As the first tear spills down my cheek, I hold him close and say, “Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”
“You did it Hope,” he says. “I just helped a little.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I just wanted you to know how grateful I am.”
“Hope, this is why I chose this job. To see someone like you come such a long way makes it all worthwhile. You’re going to be great.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes and pull away. “I think I got your jacket wet,” I joke.
“You’re not the first,” he says giving me one last hug. “I'm sure you won’t be the last.”
Back in my room, I sit on my bed and look around. My bedroom here is small with two beds and a nig
htstand along each wall and a tiny bathroom that I share with my roommate. It’s not nearly as big as the large, beautiful bedroom I have all to myself at home. That bedroom has a large bay window overlooking the swimming pool, a walk-in closet, and my own bathroom.
I pack everything I own (which ain’t much) and take my paintings off the wall. I plan on hanging them in my bedroom back home. Next I clean out my desk. Sitting on my desk is a 5x7 photo of me and my mom and dad standing side-by-side on the Brooklyn Bridge when I was sixteen years old. Inside my desk, hidden in one of my favorite books, is a picture of my boyfriend and me. He’s wearing his football jersey, and I’m standing beside him in my cheerleader uniform with the giant corsage he bought me for homecoming pinned to my chest. I’m leaning against him with his arm around my shoulder. Mr. Chastain once talked to me about getting rid of it, but it’s my only reminder of him, and so I can’t let it go. When I’m finished packing, I put all my belongings in a nice little stack on my bed and walk down the hall to the center lounge area where we all meet every evening for group therapy.
– CHAPTER 2 –
S hortly after I walk in and sit down, all my friends come out of the kitchen carrying a chocolate cake (my favorite) with one large candle in the middle. I’ve laughed with, cried with, and shared things with these girls that no one else knows. I love most of them as much as I love my own sister, Grace. Every time someone leaves the program we bake them a cake and bring them cards and gifts. I knew it was coming, but I still get emotional.
Things weren’t always like this. When I first came here I refused to say anything. I was so angry at being taken away from my boyfriend who I loved. I couldn’t make phone calls, text, or send emails because they took away my cell phone on the first day I arrived. I felt like I was somewhere between a prison and a mental hospital. Everyone seemed crazy. I hated being forced to listen to a bunch of strangers talk about all their personal problems so I sat here without saying a word. I wasn’t one of them, and I didn’t belong here, so I waited and I planned for the right time to bolt.