{"id":151257,"date":"2021-03-04T11:51:49","date_gmt":"2021-03-04T16:51:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=151257"},"modified":"2021-03-04T12:14:48","modified_gmt":"2021-03-04T17:14:48","slug":"hope-docx","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/03\/04\/hope-docx\/","title":{"rendered":"~Hope.docx"},"content":{"rendered":"

Sabrina Orah Mark\u2019s column,\u00a0Happily<\/a>, focuses on fairy tales and motherhood.<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

An illustration from Jack and the Beanstalk, Elizabeth Colborne<\/p><\/div>\n

I am cleaning my house when I receive a Facebook message from the manager of Project Safe that a volunteer has found my plague doctor<\/a>, or someone who looks like my plague doctor. The baseboards are thick with dust. I spray a mix of vinegar and lavender, and run a rag across them. The plague doctor, or someone who looks like my plague doctor, has been put aside in the office for me. I write back, \u201cOh! oh! I hope it\u2019s him.\u201d The rag is black. I am on my hands and knees. \u201cI hope it\u2019s your doll!\u201d writes the manager. \u201cFingers crossed,\u201d I write back. \u201cIt has to be him,\u201d I say to no one. \u201cIt just has to be.\u201d<\/p>\n

I text my mother, \u201cI\u2019m cleaning the gustroom.\u201d I notice the mistake before I hit send, but I send it anyway. She calls. I pick up. \u201cShouldn\u2019t you be writing?\u201d she asks. I should. \u201cI can\u2019t move,\u201d says my mother. She received her second dose of the vaccine yesterday and now she\u2019s having a reaction. I tell her I\u2019m writing about hope. I tell her the reaction means the vaccine is working. \u201cI feel like I\u2019ve been hearing about this essay on hope for weeks,\u201d she says. She\u2019s impatient. \u201cI can\u2019t lift my arm,\u201d she says. I tell her I\u2019ve read every version of \u201cJack and the Beanstalk\u201d I could find because I thought if I followed the hunger and the despair and the cow traded for a pocketful of magic beans and the beanstalk that grows overnight through the clouds and the boy named Jack who climbs the beanstalk and robs a giant of his harp and hen so he and his mother could live happily ever after I could make a beautiful map of hope because isn\u2019t that what we need right now? \u201cIsn\u2019t what what we need right now?\u201d \u201cHope,\u201d I say again. \u201cA map of hope,\u201d I say again. \u201cHope?\u201d says my mother, like it\u2019s the name of a country she\u2019d never pay money to visit. \u201cWhat we need is a hell of a lot more than hope,\u201d she says. We\u2019re both quiet for a minute. \u201cHow\u2019s the essay going?\u201d asks my mother. \u201cTerribly,\u201d I say. \u201cNo surprise,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n

I tell her the manager of Project Safe just messaged me that a volunteer thinks she might\u2019ve found my plague doctor, or someone who looks like my plague doctor. \u201cHere we go again,\u201d says my mother, \u201cwith the plague doctor.\u201d I lost him months ago, and now he\u2019s coming home. \u201cWhy couldn\u2019t she just send you a photo?\u201d I was wondering that, too, but I don\u2019t admit it. If it\u2019s not my plague doctor I want to at least postpone the time in between the darkness and the figure who emerges. \u201cThere\u2019s no way it\u2019s your plague doctor,\u201d says my mother.<\/p>\n

\u201cFee-fi-fo-fum,\u201d I say. \u201cWhat?\u201d she says. \u201cI said \u2018feel better,\u2019\u2009\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

In some versions of \u201cJack and the Beanstalk,\u201d each time Jack climbs the beanstalk his mother grows sicker and sicker. And in other versions, each time Jack climbs back down and shows his mother his gold and tells her he was right about the beans after all, his mother grows quieter and quieter until it\u2019s impossible to know if she\u2019s even there anymore.<\/p>\n

I go to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention\u2019s website. I click on the IF YOU PLANT THEM OVERNIGHT BY MORNING THEY GROW RIGHT UP TO THE SKY<\/small> link. I want a vaccine, but what I want even more are magic beans I can plant in my arm that will grow into a beanstalk my sons can climb if they ever run out of hope. I click on the link but it just leads me to a page on \u201cadjusting mitigation strategies.\u201d I try to click back, but I can\u2019t. My computer freezes. I have to restart, and when my computer turns back on, and I return to this essay on hope, I realize it wasn\u2019t properly saved. Most of it is lost. Only a few old notes, like branches, are scattered across the page. I start to cry, and tell my husband I\u2019m giving up writing forever, and then I kick the air, and then I watch tutorials on recovering documents that advise me to search for \u201chope\u201d with a \u201c~\u201d in front of it. What is that called? A tilde? It looks like a downed beanstalk.<\/p>\n

A tilde means \u201capproximately\u201d and it also means an exhausted sigh, like being almost not there, which is the hopeful state I am in when I type the tilde next to hope<\/em>, which is the name of the lost document. In Hebrew hope<\/em>\u00a0is tikvah<\/em>, which means a braided rope or a cord or something you could climb up or climb down, I suppose, like a beanstalk. The tilde could be mistaken for a cutting from a tikvah<\/em>, a cutting I can\u2019t imagine being long enough to ever get me anywhere. If I could pinch it off the screen and throw it out the window I would.<\/p>\n

Had I turned on Time Machine I could have recovered my unsaved document, but I didn\u2019t even know there was a Time Machine, and so I never turned it on.<\/p>\n

In most versions of \u201cJack and the Beanstalk,\u201d at the top of the beanstalk is not the giant\u2019s house but dust, a barren desert. There are no trees, or plants or living creatures. Famished, Jack sits on a block of stone and thinks about his mother. In Benjamin Tabart\u2019s \u201cThe History of Jack and the Bean-Stalk\u201d (1807), when Jack gets to the top of the stalk he looks around and finds himself in \u201ca strange country \u2026 Here and there were scattered fragments of unhewn stone and at unequal distances small heaps of earth were loosely thrown together.\u201d At the highest point of hope is a long empty road. At the top of the beanstalk is dirt that lies fallow so a world can regenerate.<\/p>\n

The first known printing of Jack is \u201cThe Story of Jack Spriggins and the Enchanted Bean\u201d (1734), which is ascribed to a certain Dick Merryman, who writes he got most of the story from the chitter chatter of an old nurse and the maggots in a madman\u2019s brain. What grows a fairy tale in Merryman\u2019s brain is made out of larva and babble, and what\u2019s at the top of the beanstalk is a giant named Gogmagog, which sounds like a boy trying to say the word God but he can\u2019t because his mouth is filled with dust.<\/p>\n

Project Safe is only a five minute drive from my house. It\u2019s bright and warm, and greener than it should be in February. The five minute drive feels too short. Shouldn\u2019t my hope and the fulfillment of my hope be farther apart? Shouldn\u2019t it take my whole life to drive to Project Safe? My heart is beating fast. I park and go inside. I go past the racks of donated clothes, and coffee mugs, and old couches, and books. My heart is beating faster. I can already feel the weight of my plague doctor\u2019s small porcelain body in my hand, his soft velvet coat. I want to call out \u201cI\u2019m here!\u201d because I\u2019m once again close enough to the plague doctor for him to hear me. \u201cI\u2019ve come at last!\u201d I want to sing. And then I see her. I see the volunteer who found my plague doctor or someone who looks like my plague doctor. She knows it\u2019s me. She looks like my stepdaughter. She knows I\u2019ve come to retrieve what I\u2019ve lost. \u201cIt\u2019s in here,\u201d she says brightly. I follow her. She smells like oranges, and her smile is so beautiful. She leads me to a back office filled with bags and bags of donations. \u201cWait here,\u201d she says. I wait and in my waiting I know something is wrong. She returns too quickly. There is too little dust. What the volunteer is holding is not my plague doctor. It\u2019s a mask of a plague doctor, and this mask is the size of my face. I don\u2019t know if it was wooden or plastic because I back away from it immediately and say something like \u201cno\u201d or \u201cthank you for trying\u201d or \u201che is much smaller and he has arms and legs.\u201d I wave goodbye to the volunteer as if I am in the ocean and she is on the shore instead of where we really are which is standing barely ten feet apart in the back room of a thrift store.<\/p>\n

On my way out the door, I stop because I notice a small rusted harp leaning against a ceramic brown hen with a crack running along one wing. I bring both to the register. \u201cJust these two?\u201d asks the volunteer. \u201cYes,\u201d I say. \u201cJust these two.\u201d I smile so I do not cry. \u201cThank you again for trying,\u201d I say.<\/p>\n

I leave my car in the Project Safe parking lot, and climb down the beanstalk with the hen and the harp in the pocket of my coat. My mother is waiting for me at the bottom. She is no longer feverish and she shows me she can now lift her arm. I would give her the hen and the harp, but when I reach into my pocket I realize both have turned to dust. Now my hands are covered with dust and as the dust falls from my hands it looks like the ellipses to all the stories we thought were over but are still being told. My sons come outside and ask for some dust. I give them each a handful because there is so much dust and they laugh and shout and sprinkle it all over our yard, and their sprinkling looks like ellipses, too. \u201cDid you know?\u201d says Noah, \u201cthat without dust there would be no clouds.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d I say, \u201cI didn\u2019t know that.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s true,\u201d says Eli. \u201cThere\u2019d be no clouds if we had no dust.\u201d My mother, my sons, and I all look up at the sky. It\u2019s so blue and there are so many clouds. \u201cThat one\u2019s shaped like a giant,\u201d says Noah. \u201cAnd that one, Mama, is shaped like your mouth,\u201d says Eli. And one cloud, the one hardest to see but I promise it\u2019s there, is shaped exactly like what you\u2019d always hoped it to be\u2026<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Read earlier installments of Happily here.<\/em><\/a><\/p>\n

Sabrina Orah Mark is the author of the poetry collections\u00a0<\/em>The Babies\u00a0and\u00a0<\/em>Tsim Tsum.\u00a0<\/em>Wild Milk, her first book of fiction, is recently out from Dorothy, a publishing project. She lives, writes, and teaches in Athens, Georgia.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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