Defending Hope

       Ever since she was born, Hope had been frail. She was a premature delivery, thirty two weeks. An ugly little thing in my eyes: squishy, pink, and bald, but Mama and Papa smiled down at her like she was the prettiest thing they had ever seen. They didn’t even seem to mind her screaming.

       Later on, Mama told me that when /I/ was born, I had cried a lot louder. She said Hope had been quieter than most babies. I asked her why, and she said it was because Hope had been born with a terrible pneumonia. I didn’t bother to ask what a pneumonia was, because Hope always seemed to have something I didn’t.

       On the weekends, Papa would go out with Hope, and a few hours later, she’d come back with an ice cream. When I asked her where Papa took her ever week and why she got an ice cream when I didn’t, she would say that Papa told her not to tell. When I’d ask Papa where he brought her, he would smile and say that it was their little secret. He often asked me if I wanted to go somewhere secret too, and I, of course, would beam and say ‘yes!’. Most of the time we went to the movies, and Papa would get me popcorn, but one time the fair was in town, and he brought me there instead. Whenever Papa did these things I would go home having forgotten that he and Hope still wouldn’t tell me where they’d gone.

       When Hope was born, I was five years old. Mama said I was just about a man. Of course, this was usually followed by her telling me that strong men look after the people they loved, and that I should look after Hope because I loved her. That really frustrated me, because I knew that Mama loved Hope more than me. She always had.

       Whenever Hope and I were out playing, every time Hope screamed, Mama would come out running. When I screamed, she would just check out the window to make sure that I was okay.

       Mama wasn’t the only one who told me to look out for Hope either. Papa said it too, and so did the ladies who came over on Sundays for Book Club. They were always cooing over Hope, and making a fuss about her, and when I walked into the living room they’d always say what a strong-looking young man I was becoming. They’d remind me that strong men looked out for their loved ones.

       When I was ten years old and Hope was just turning five, I found out that she had cystic fibrosis. I didn’t know what cystic fibrosis was at the time, I couldn’t even pronounce, it, but I knew that it was something bad. I don’t think I was supposed to know about it either.

       I’ll never forget that night. I had been going down to the kitchen to get some water, and passing by the living room, I saw my two parents talking on the couch. Mama was crying, and Papa was holding her. I know it sounds cheesy, but I stood there and strained to hear what they were saying. Why was Mama crying? And that was when I found out that Hope was sick.

       Papa told Mama not to worry, because he was going to bring Hope to the doctor again and they would make her better. That made Mama stop crying. It also answered my question about Hope and Papa’s weekend trips. A lot of things changed for me then. Suddenly I felt guilty about nagging Papa to bring me to the movies. I felt guilty for being jealous of Hope and Papa’s secret. I felt guilty that Mama and Papa and Hope were all suffering, and I was being selfish. That was a lot of guilt for a ten year old to handle.

       I remember not sleeping at all the rest of that night; I remember crying for a while before sucking it up, and I remember deciding then and there that I was going to protect Hope, not matter what.

       My resolution started early the next morning, when Hope asked me to get her a bowl of cereal. Mama and Papa were still sleeping, and there was no way my five-year-old little sister could do it for herself. Normally I’d ignore this kind of request, and Hope would go wake one of our parents to help her instead. But not today. That morning, I helped Hope get her cereal, I got her a glass of milk, and the two of us watched ‘Sesame Street’ for two hours. That afternoon, Papa and Hope went to the hospital, and Hope came back with ice cream. Papa seemed surprised when I didn’t ask where they’d gone, or if he would take me to the movies.

       It went on like this for the next few weeks, I’d help Hope with whatever she asked me to do, and on the weekends I’d stay home or go over to a friend’s house, and then I’d be there to play with her when she got home.

       As the years went by, the things Hope asked me to help her with grew too. Soon I was helping her with her homework, babysitting her on the weekends, or walking her to a friend’s house when Mama and Papa were at work. All through the years, Hope kept going to the doctor’s on weekends, and every time she’d come home with ice cream.

       Before my eyes, she grew to seven, eight, nine, and then one day, she was ten years old. I was fifteen by that time, and Hope was, dare I say it, growing into a fine young lady.

       She had always been a petite thing, probably as a result of her prematurity at birth, but she wore it well. The way she spoke and how she carried herself made her a hard presence to miss, but at the same time she wasn’t loud, or overly forceful. Her opinions were always clever and well-worded, especially for a child.

       People were always cooing about how pretty and clever little Hope was, and as much as I hated to admit it, they had a point. She had these pretty little blonde ringlets, and sea-green eyes. Mama said she was dainty.

       At the time, Hope was in elementary school, and I was just starting high school. But in our little town, all the schools were squished together, and shared a little schoolyard. It got really chaotic around recess and lunch though, when kids of all ages flooded the small space.

       Hope had a habit of coming to eat lunch with me and my friends. At first it bugged me a little, but most of them had been over my house and knew her, so we learned to live with her. I was still looking out for her, and keeping her illness secret. Last year, my parents had come out to me about her condition. At fourteen, they still didn’t think I’d figured anything out.

       I figure I was protecting Hope in more ways than one. Little things, like helping her cross the street or packing her lunch, but I was also there for what I called moral support. Sometimes Hope would be scared to go to the hospital, and I’d talk to her to calm her down, or give her a hug. She looked up to me as the perfect Big Brother figure, and I didn’t want to let her down.

       The summer of my sixteenth year, I got my first girlfriend, lost my virginity, got drunk for the first time, and learned how to drive a car. It was a big year for me, in terms of social milestones, but it was a bigger year for Hope. She was eleven years old, and about to begin her first year of Middle School. I remember how she worried and panicked over the concept of Middle School, refusing to believe me when I told her it was just the same as elementary.

       She wondered about boys and dating and kissing, and I couldn’t remember if I was already thinking about things like that at her age, but I remember I didn’t want /her/ thinking of them. She may have been eleven and a Middle School girl, but she was still my baby sister. My baby sister with cystic fibrosis. We never talked about it, but between her pale skin, frailty, and continuing weekend trips to the hospital, I could never forget. I was her Big Brother, but first and foremost I was her protector.

       I’ll never forget the way Hope died, like something out of a movie. She woke up one morning just as usual, and tripped on her way down the stairs. She caught herself, but when she walked into the kitchen, she told me in a whisper that she was going to die today. She told me it was a secret, and that I had better not tell anybody. She was thirteen years old.

       She put on her favorite blue skirt and white top, did her hair and makeup, and went with me to school. I don’t remember if I believed her or not about the whole dying thing, but I remember I ate lunch with her and my friends as usual, and she didn’t eat. She told me she wasn’t hungry, but I eventually got her to eat an ice cream sandwich. We walked home because she missed the bus, and she didn’t say a word the whole way home. She had headphones in her ears, like she always did.

       We ate dinner when our parents came home, which is when Hope started coughing up blood. She was careful not to let any of it stain her clothes, but it landed on her mountain of mashed potatoes, and dripped down into the green beans and chicken. Mom and Dad panicked and tried to get her to the hospital, but she insisted that she was fine, and that it would be over in a minute. It was.

       Hope and I went to bed at the same time that night, along with our parents. Everyone was exhausted from Hope’s attack at dinner, except her. She was lively and in high spirits, and I wondered if this was really the same girl who just this morning had told me that this night would be her last.

       She was still dressed in her school clothes when she snuck into my room at eleven thirty. I was still awake and doing some last minute homework, but she came in with a copy of ‘The Adventures of Alice in Wonderland’, and I stopped working. She asked me to read to her, told me it was her favorite book. We sat together in my bed, her thin body leaning against my grown teenage frame. She felt so small.

       I read and read until the end of the book, and finished with tears in my eyes. I don’t know when she passed away exactly, but I knew she was gone without having to look. Her body was warm close to mine, and her eyes had fallen shut. She could have been asleep. I sat with her the rest of the night, stroking her hair and telling her stories about her childhood and making fun of her, just like I always had. I guess Mom and Dad could feel it too, because they came in around three in the morning, and just sat with us. Mom cried, and Dad cried, and I was already crying, but I couldn’t escape the voice in the back of my head. It was Hope.

       Hope always seemed to have something I didn’t.