Hope Girl by Wendy Dunham Page A

believe God will give me a new body, kind of like a metamorphosis.”
    When he tells me that, his eyes look full of hope.
    I smile at Carlos and hardly see his scars.

    Wednesday July 13, 1983
    Dear Diary,
    So much has happened. I finally met my mom. And Michael was right—it wasn’t the reunion I dreamed of, but it’s a start. She doesn’t remember me, but she sure remembered something about Dad. He blushed and got redder than a strawberry. It won’t be long until she remembers everything and we’re a family again. But I feel bad for Michael, Bennie, and Livvy. They’ll just have to understand that she knew us first. It’s only fair.
    And I met Carlos. I never thought I’d have another friend like Billy, but I think I do. If Billy were here, he’d like him too.
    I keep thinking about the red-spotted purple caterpillar. Even though Carlos knows he’s ugly on the outside, it doesn’t stop him from looking great on the inside.Maybe I’ll feel like that when I get my brace. I know I’ll look different from everyone. But at least I’ll be done wearing it when I’m seventeen or so, and then I’ll look normal again. Carlos won’t ever look normal… until he gets to heaven, anyway.
    Signed,
    River
    I tuck my diary under my mattress and turn off the light.

19

    Mailed the Letter
    D ad knocks on my door and peeks in. “Good morning, River. Don’t you have to volunteer this morning?”
    I pull my head out from under my sheet. “No, only Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays.”
    â€œSince you’re not volunteering, would you like to help paint the studio?”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œGreat. Throw on some old clothes, then we’ll eat breakfast and head to the store to buy paint.”

    When I get to the kitchen, Dad flips two pieces of French toast onto my plate.
    â€œI didn’t know you could make French toast.”
    Dad gives me a wink. “We’ll probably learn something new about each other every day.”
    â€œKind of like Mom—she’ll remember something new every day.”
    â€œRiver, just because she remembered one thing about me doesn’t mean she’ll remember anything else. Don’t get your hopes up.”
    After we eat, I set our plates in the sink and notice a newspaper clipping on the counter. I reach for it. “What’s this?”
    But Dad’s quicker and puts his hand on it. “I almost forgot,” hesays. “Remember I said I’d look for your mother’s garden bench columns?”
    I nod.
    â€œWell, I found one. But, River,” he says, “the more I think about it, the more I realize it may not be a good idea that you read it.”
    â€œIt is, Dad,” I say, carefully pulling it out from under his hand. “Just because Mom doesn’t remember me yet, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t know more about her.”
    â€œThen put it in your room for now, and we’ll head to the store.”
    I look at Dad, hoping I won’t disappoint him. “If you don’t mind, Dad, maybe I could meet you at the studio in a little while? There’s something I need to do.”
    â€œThat’s fine.” He grabs his keys. “See you when you get there.”
    I bring Mom’s column to my room, climb onto my bed, and read it—
    Thoughts from the Garden Bench
    by Margaret Whippoorwill
    May, 1971
    Strolling along the paths of our cottage garden has provided some of the fondest times for my husband and me. At the earliest signs of spring, we can be found in the still of the morning searching for that first crocus—he with his coffee in hand and me with River, our eight-month-old daughter. And when May arrives, our garden walks become even more of a sensation as the May flower, better known as the lily of the valley, pokes through spring’s moist soil and spreads its sweet aroma throughout our garden. Although its fragrance is