Hope and Other Punch Lines(35)

He too will live forever.

“That’s pretty morbid.”

“So are these interviews.”

“What we’re doing is historic, not morbid. Still, if I only had six months to live, I guess I’d have two choices. Either go out in a blaze of glory, like do all the crazy things I’ve been too chicken to do before, or I could use those last six months to solidify my legacy.” Noah says. The casual lightness in his tone makes clear he is someone who has previously considered this question but only in the hypothetical.

You’d think I’d have weighed these options. That would have been a good use of those middle-of-the-night cough-inspired freak-outs. I have not. I have considered traveling—seeing what the world looks like outside of this tiny corner of New Jersey—but not much else. I’m not brave enough to take on anything resembling a “blaze of glory,” and no matter what I do, my “legacy,” whether I like it or not, is already set in stone. If I somehow manage to win an Oscar or a Nobel Prize in the next few years, which is, of course, impossible, the headline of my obituary will still read Baby Hope Dead at 20. I’ll no doubt end up in one of those news headers on Facebook or worse, one of those terrifying New York Times text alerts. I wonder what it will do to Chuck Rigalotti’s already broken heart.

“You’re so ambitious. What about, like, embracing your last bits of normalcy? You know, spending time with the people you love?” I ask, and then instantly regret my word choice. Not because I’m talking to Noah in particular, but because he’s a boy and it’s weird to use the word love in front of him. A rhetorical trap.

“That too, I guess.” He breaks off a Twizzler and spins it around like it’s a key chain, then knots it into a bow. Presents it to me like a gift.

“Except for your whole overalls phobia, you seem pretty fearless. What are all these big things you’re too scared to do?” I ask.

“Bungee jumping. Skydiving. I kind of want a tattoo,” he says. I pull onto the Garden State Parkway. Like always, I feel a catch of fear as I merge lanes. If the on-ramp to a highway feels scary, the blaze of glory route is definitely not for me.

“I don’t see you as the tattoo type,” I say.

“I don’t see myself as a tattoo type either, whatever that means, which is kind of why I want one. Also, I want to shave my head.” Now that I’m safely comfortable in the right lane, I hold out my hand for a candy refill. He drops three gummy bears into my palm.

“Do not shave your head. You have good hair.”

“Thanks. How about you? You have six months to live. Go.”

“I don’t know. I don’t really want to bungee jump or skydive or even get a tattoo. I definitely don’t want to shave my head. Maybe I wouldn’t do anything? Maybe I’d just keep chugging along until I stopped,” I say, and feel the thrum of blood in my veins. My heart pumps its reliable beat, beat, beat. I ignore the crush of my defective lungs, which I picture not unlike a collapsed bridge. I ignore the inevitable wave of fear and dread that washes over me with its creepy gentleness. “I’d find joy in the smaller, mundane stuff.”

“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It is?” I ask, unable to keep the hurt surprise out of my voice.

“It really is,” he says softly.





Sheila Brashard’s kitchen smells like lemon and sugar. She cradles a mug in the shape of a bespectacled owl and motions us to help ourselves to the freshly baked cookies laid out on the wooden dining table. Her house is the exact opposite of Chuck Rigalotti’s, and reminds me of home. Not where I live now, which has the antiseptic feel of a rich guy’s bachelor pad, but the cottage my mom and I used to live in pre-Phil. Cozy and deliberately mismatched. Joy found in cheap and cheerful kitsch.

Sheila looks like the moms at our school (though I don’t think she’s an actual mom, because I don’t see kid crap around): middle-aged and professionally dressed, the kind of person you would stop and ask for directions but otherwise ignore. When we walked in, she gave Abbi a hug, then held her face between her palms and murmured: “Oh, honey.”

This should have been awkward but somehow wasn’t.

“Let me start by explaining I have a theory that one of the healthiest ways to deal with the worst things in life is to find the humor in them,” I say, and pull out a spiral notebook.

“Makes sense,” Sheila says, like she’s game for wherever this interview will take us. I decide I like her, even if, as with Chuck, it turns out she’s a Jets fan and the whole thing is a total bust.

“He has lots of theories,” Abbi says.

“I still can’t believe you’re the real Baby Hope. It’s kind of surreal to meet you finally. I have that photo framed in the house,” Sheila says, and takes a cookie and begins to slowly break it into smaller pieces on a plate. I have my first question all primed and ready to go—What was the funniest thing to happen to you on 9/11?—but now that it’s on the tip of my tongue, now that I’m watching her desecrate what looks to be a delicious treat, it feels too invasive.

“Really? I’ve never understood why anyone would want that photo, especially someone who was actually there,” Abbi says. She’s sitting cross-legged on the chair and looks comfortable here. Like she and Sheila have known each other for years, which I guess, in a way, they have. “Wouldn’t you rather forget?”