Hope Arrived on a Thursday

Hope arrived on a Thursday.

Yellow Converse.

Flowy skirt.

The kind of smile that suggested she knew something the rest of us didn't.

I hated her immediately.

Which was unfortunate, because she was there to replace me.

Not that I had anything against Hope personally.

Well.

That's not entirely true.

I had plenty against Hope personally.

For starters, no one should be that cheerful before coffee.

Second, she arrived carrying a mason jar full of wildflowers.

Who brings wildflowers to a reassignment?

A funeral, maybe.

A birthday party.

Not a reassignment.

Especially not mine.

I took a long sip from my coffee and pretended not to notice her smiling at me from across the kitchen table.

I knew this day was coming.

The notice arrived in my inbox months ago from the Sidekick Assignment Agency. I can still see the letterhead as if it were right in front of me: Lifelong companions. No returns. No refunds.

The Sidekick Assignment Agency always gave plenty of notice.

Three months.

Twelve weeks.

Ninety-two days.

Not that I was counting.

I spent the first month pretending I didn't care. The second month making sarcastic comments every time the reminder notifications appeared. And the third month reorganizing my desk at least six times.

I'd like to say I handled it with grace. I handled it with coffee and sometimes that coffee had a shot of Bailey’s in it.

As soon as I read it, I slammed my laptop shut, rolled my eyes and took a gulp from my “Not today” coffee mug. Hope will arrive at 9:00 am sharp, it read.

I didn’t tell Nora right away but I knew she would be happy. The human barely tolerated me. Most humans think sidekicks are assigned to help. While that's technically true, it's also technically true that raccoons are woodland creatures.

Both descriptions leave out some important details.

Helping isn't always pleasant.

Sometimes helping looks like encouragement.

Sometimes it looks like yellow Converse and optimistic life advice.

And sometimes it looks like sitting beside someone on the worst day of their life and refusing to leave when they tell you to.

You see, 12 years ago today, I received a letter from the department saying I was going to be reassigned to Nora. And reassignments almost never happen. It has to be a pivotal event for a sidekick to be reassigned.

And through the years, I knew Nora had written many letters to the department asking for her old sidekick back-Certainty. I don’t blame her. Certainty is one of the most loved sidekicks.

I can almost see certainty’s judgey eyes looking at the work I’ve done.

And honestly? It wasn’t easy stepping into her shoes.

How could it be.

Certainty always knew which road to take.

Which condo to buy.

Which person to trust. Blake, for example.

Certainly never checked the weather report before a hike and never read the restaurant reviews.

Nora loved her. Nora also trusted her in all of life’s decisions.

***

Blake wasn't the kind of man Certainty usually picked. He cussed too much, showed up late, and had a habit of collecting hobbies instead of paychecks. But he could walk through a Civil War battlefield and tell you who stood where. He could spend three hours explaining why the Treaty of Versailles planted the seeds for another war. And somehow, he knew every bartender, mechanic, mail carrier, and crossing guard in a fifty-mile radius.

The thing about Blake was that he loved people the way some people love history: completely. He paid attention. And once you had his loyalty, you had it forever.

The night Nora met him, Certainty practically glowed. I knew immediately we were all in trouble.

Blake listened when people talked. Really listened. The kind of listening that made strangers tell him things they hadn't planned on saying. By the end of the evening, he'd learned Nora's favorite book, her coffee order, and the name of the dog she had when she was nine. Three months later, he remembered all of it.

Blake's greatest flaw was that he loved as if everyone and everything would be there forever.

But that didn’t happen, did it.

Loss is the one thing Certainty can never survive.

Because once something unimaginable happens - like Nora losing Blake in a freak accident- Certainty has nothing left to off.

That's when I got reassigned to Nora.

So here I am, 12 years later, at Nora’s kitchen table waiting for my replacement.

Officially, my name was Grief. But I am much more than that. I like to think of myself as the terrible older sister, full-time sidekick. At least that’s what’s written on my business card.

My weapon of choice: eye rolls and inconvenient truths.

Nora calls them “Phe’isms.” Phe is short for my name, Ophelia. Or, Oh-FEEL-ee-ah if you're not from around these parts.

I have a few isms I like to throw out to Nora when she’s cocooned in her bed for days on end and smelling like a 5 day old chinese take out.

And in the beginning, I had to use all the tricks up my sleeve. You see Blake was her first love. Nora would say, he was her family, her everything. Nora was an only child and Blake was not only her family but her best friend.

So, I shoved up the sleeves of my Led Zeppelin sweatshirt and when she asked for the 100th time, when I was leaving. And why hadn’t the committee answered any of her letters for me to be reassigned? I just rolled my eyes and gave her an inconvenient truth.

“Nora, I’d say, I’m here to protect the memories from fading, the parts of you that loved deeply, and to carry what you can’t carry yet.

Nora would just yell at me to “leave her the fuck alone.”

She was a tough nut but I was up for the challenge.

You see, I can shape shift. In the beginning I was the crash landing, I was there even when Nora didn’t want me. Then I was the shadow. I followed her everywhere and knew all the buttons to push. I suppose we'd moved into the widow phase after a few years. I’ve carried a lot of weight. No wonder why my jeans have so many holes!

Over the years, I got to be what she needed me to be. I think I’ve shape shifted at least 8 times!

I don't mean to brag, but let's see Certainty do that!

And here we are, at Nora’s kitchen table on reassignment day-the day I’ve been dreading for 3 months. I’ve been beside thousands of humans on the worst day of their life but this human, I actually like.

That wasn't supposed to happen.

Sidekicks aren't assigned to get attached. We're assigned to do a job: show up, carry what needs carrying, and move on. The agency handbook is very clear about that.

But somewhere between the crash landing and the widow years, Nora stopped feeling like an assignment and started feeling like family.

Which was unfortunate.

Because family is a lot harder to leave.

* * *

Nora walked into the kitchen and stopped.

Two coffee mugs sat side by side.

My chipped black mug sat beside a bright yellow one that read “Every Day Be Hustlin’.

The new mug was obnoxious.

Hope smiled.

“Morning.”

Nora blinked.

Who’s that?”

The newcomer grins.

“I’m Hope.”

I groaned.

“Oh, we’re really doing this.”

Hope ignored me and reached for her mug.

Nora looked from Hope to me.

Then back to me.

“What is happening?”

I took a long sip of coffee.

“Apparently I’ve been promoted.”

“You’ve been what?”

“Reassigned. Retired. Fired. Depends who’s writing the paperwork.”

Hope snorted.

“I prefer transitioned.”

“Of course you do.”

Nora’s eyes filled.

“No.”

The word came out small.

Quiet.

Barely louder than a whisper.

For the first time all morning, Hope stopped smiling.

“You don’t understand,” Nora said.

She looked directly at me. Not through me. At me.

“I don’t want you to go.”

I nearly dropped my coffee.

“You don’t?”

“I mean, I thought I did but I actually need you. And I think I’m starting to understand why you've stayed all these years.”

I remember the yellow tape," Nora said quietly.

"What?"

"The tape you put across my bedroom door."

I winced.

"In my defense, you'd been in there for six days."

"Five."

"Six."

Hope took a sip from her mug.

"I like her."

"Nobody asked you."

Nora laughed.

A real laugh.

The first one I'd heard all morning.

"You were awful."

"I was magnificent."

"You made me walk laps around the kitchen."

"You were starting with indoor cardio."

"You confiscated my blankets."

"You were becoming one with the mattress."

Nora shook her head.

"And every time I tried to send you away, you stayed."

For once, I didn't have a sarcastic answer.

A long silence settled over the kitchen.

I opened my mouth, closed it, then opened it again.

Twelve years of inconvenient truths and suddenly I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"Wait," Nora said.

Hope blinked.

"What?"

"You're here to replace Phe, right?"

Hope stared at her.

Then at me.

Then back at Nora.

"Oh."

She set down her mug.

"You both thought that?"

I frowned.

"That's what the reassignment notice said."

Hope snorted.

"No. The notice said I was being assigned."

"To replace me."

"To join you."

The kitchen went quiet.

"What?" Nora and I said at the same time.

Hope rolled her eyes.

"Honestly, the Agency really needs better paperwork."

She pointed at me.

"She's Grief."

Then she pointed at herself.

"I'm Hope."

"As if that explains anything," I muttered.

"It explains everything."

Hope leaned back in her chair.

"Hope doesn't replace Grief."

For once, I didn't have a sarcastic answer.

Nora looked at both of us.

Something softened in her face.

The line between her eyebrows disappeared.

After twelve years, I noticed.

Hope reached for her obnoxious yellow mug.

I reached for my chipped black one.

For the first time in twelve years, neither of us moved.

And for the first time in twelve years, neither of us had to.

I took a sip of coffee.

"Fine," I said.

"I'll stay."

Then I pointed across the table.

"But wildflower is sitting on your side."