Hope

I should have known better than to think I was going to make it out before the clock struck 5. 

The moment the door swings shut behind our last patient, the phone rings. 

Looking at the wall over our hazy office fish tank, I groan. The white and black clock reads 4:55. Still technically business hours. If I let it go to voicemail, I’ll get a judgemental comment from the Therapist and just have to deal with it first thing in the morning, and I can already tell by the way my lower-back aches and my eyes pulse in front of a pounding headache that I’m not going to appreciate one extra thing to deal with at 8am.

As the phone gives a second ring, I check the caller ID and roll my eyes.

 ‘Hope.’ 

No last name. Squinting beneath crappy fluorescent lights, I check the patient database as the phone gives its third ring. No ‘Hope’ in the system.

“Great,” I sigh, grabbing the receiver and waiting for the fourth ring. This is probably someone doing a cold-call trying to schedule a new appointment, and those take twenty minutes at least. Looks like I’m not getting home till late. Again.

I pull the phone to my ear and try not to growl.

“Terre Haute Physical Therapy, this is Ellaine speaking, how can I help you?” 

As I wait for a response, I try not to cringe at how my voice pitches upward without a second thought. My overly sweet greeting does not match the scowl that’s become a permanent resting fixture on my face whenever I’m sure no one else is watching. I didn’t answer the phones this way when I started six years ago, and the increasing dichotomy makes me want to walk through the smudged glass office doors, straight across the parking lot, and into Wisconsin Avenue traffic.

“Hello?” I ask the silence as I pull the program back up and key in the name ‘Hope’ one more time. Again, nothing populates, so I close out the program entirely and bring up my clockout window and punch in my credentials with lightning speed, eye on the clock in the bottom corner of my monitor that says 4:57. 

I give the phone the benefit of the doubt and am rewarded with more silence. 

“Helloooo? Nobody there? Alright then, you had your chance.”

Relieved, I’m about to hang up when I see the therapist come striding in from the clinic, and I keep the phone pinned to my ear with my shoulder and quickly bring the internet browser back up. 

“-You’re looking for an afternoon appointment?” I ask, nice and bright and fake and loud so Dr. Darmin can hear. I see him smile and nod, pleased that his perky worker-bee is buzzing away with a smile.

“Alright, let me see what we have available. Just so you are aware, we are booked about four weeks out, but I can add your name to a short list and give you a call if anything earlier opens up…” 

Dr. Darmin gives me a thumbs up and takes his jacket off the hook. His truck keys jangle loudly from the pocket (I think he got a loud keychain on purpose. He dragged us out of the office last month to show us all his new rig, which made the geo-metro I’m borrowing from my mother look like a gas-station drug addict by comparison.) 

“I'm out!” he whispers at me with a smile, mouth full of teeth the color of copy paper. 

“Don’t stay too long, you’ve already clocked too much over-time and the company won’t like that.” 

I press my mouth into a forced smile as I nod, remembering all too well the four hours of over-time I had to sacrifice last pay period because the company threw a fit and threatened to hold a mandatory training if things didn’t change. I would rather kick-start a landmine than take mandatory training. 

“See you in the morning!” 

The therapist mouths those words to me and disappears. Moments later I hear the back door shut as he leaves the lights on, the front door unlocked, and the radio going in his wake.

“Ghaaa!” I collapse limp into my stupid wheeled office chair and sink down like a tantruming toddler. For a moment I just sit there, staring at the heaps of paper scattered in deliberate piles all over my desk. Faxed records requests and authorization denials sent over from desk-monkeys like me who have no idea what care they are denying or why doing so would be detrimental to the patients who so desperately need it. I have a rainbow of sticky-notes on every surface, reminding me that one of the therapist assistants is going on a month-long vacation and her dozens of patients need to be moved or canceled. Somewhere in all of this mess there is a resume, dropped off this morning by a girl about my age who has office experience. I’d shown it to Dr. Darmin, full of hope and reminding him with a smile that he’d promised me he’d hire a second person to handle scheduling and patient intake so I can focus solely on insurance verification, obtaining authorization, and un-shambling the billing department after one of the owners bought into an un-tested AI program that ran rampant in our system for a week and royally screwed everything it could before they had to desperately pull the plug. But from over the top of his brand-new company laptop, Dr. Darmin told me that we don’t have the budget this quarter to take on another employee. 

We’ve made record numbers this year. I’ve been alone up front for four. 

My personal phone buzzes and I dig it out of my pocket. An email notification hints that I’ve got mail from the department of student aid waiting for me. I already know what it’s about without even having to unlock my phone. I got the paper letter yesterday, saying that my low-income repayment plan was canceled due to some governmental bullshit. 

“I studied art history!” I shout in a rage, dropping my cellphone to the floor and covering my face. 

“My work was in galleries! And I had buyers lined up! This is bullshit- I am sick! Of this bullshit!” 

From the echoing silence in my ear, I hear a sympathetic hum. 

“Mmm, I’m so sorry dear! That is really quite unfortunate, you were so talented!” 

I scream and sit up, wiping the moisture from my eyes that leaves black smears of makeup on my white collar. 

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry! I- I forgot I was still on the phone-I didn’t think anyone was there! Erm, uh- my name is Ellaine, uh, thank you for calling Terre Haute Physical Therapy, how can I help you?” 

An elderly woman chuckles over the fuzzy phone line.

“Oh, my dear Ella, no need to apologize! I dare say, I had my fair share of corporate crash-outs when I was your age! Except, I got to do them in front of a type-writer, and one must admit that there is a bit more style to tear-smudged typeface. Crying on a keyboard must be so boring!”

I give a half hearted laugh as I hurry to pull back up the patient database and hit the button that says, “New Patient.” 

“Well, thank you for your understanding! Is there something I can do for you?” 

I check the wall clock again. 5:02. 

“Indeed there is!” The old lady says, voice full and clearer now as if she’d started out conversation from across the room and was getting closer and closer to the receiver as we spoke. 

“I’m afraid I have a problem, you see… Well, it’s rather hard to explain over the phone, back in my day we would do this kind of thing in person, but technology! One must admit that while it has its conveniences, it denies us quite a bit of creative freedom!” 

“Well, if you’d like I can give you our office hours, and you are more than welcome to come visit me in person and set up your first appointment then?” I offer, trying not to sound too hopeful or desperate to get her off the phone. 

“Oh no, dear! I don’t need physical therapy! I’ve done a bang-up job keeping spritely in my old age! Dare-say, I might be more fit than the average kiddo your age!” 

She chuckles again, high and grandmotherly. I’m about to ask her why she called then, but almost as if she knows I’m about to try it, she clears her throat in a rather official sounding way and starts back up again. As she speaks, I stand and reach over the counter to flip the clinic lights off.

“No, no, dear Ella. I’m afraid my problem has to do with you! How are you holding up? I understand Dr. Darmin is a month late on your yearly employment council. You’re due a raise, are you not?” 

My mouth falls open. Is Hope from corporate? Is she checking in on whether or not the Dr. is following proper administration protocol? Did I just have a mild mental breakdown on the phone with someone who can get me fired?

“Uh- well.” 

“No need to answer deary, I know. I know. He’s forgotten again, just like he did last year.” 

I sigh, letting my rigid posture melt again as I close my eyes and nod.

“Yeah. I’m still coasting on fifteen dollars an hour. I was promised at least twenty by year three.” 

“Oh dear, that is frustrating. And how about PTO? Have you been able to take any this year?” 

“Just a half-day back in March,” I stutter, feeling stupid as I admit it but also strangely unable to resist. 

“M-... my cat Lucifer died and I didn’t take it well…” 

“Oh! My dear, sweet thing! Creatures are as good as family, that must have been very difficult, my condolences! But other than that, you haven’t been able to take any time off? Because there is no one who can cover the front desk?” 

I shake my head, feeling a lump in my throat as I remember the birthday I missed in June and the family trip happening in Glacier National park as we speak.    

“Nope.”

“Well that simply won’t do! Now you hang on just a moment.” 

On the other side of the line, I hear Hope begin to rustle through papers. It almost sounds as if she’s dragging me through a filing cabinet and I check the clock again- 5:07. 

“Ah! Here it is!” she clears her throat again and then reads in a stiff and official voice, 

“Ellaine Cinders is without hope! Per our report received on Wednesday, August fourth, two-thousand twenty-six, at sixteen-hundred hours, Ellaine is no longer operating with a Spark of Hope, and has reached the critical intervention threshold- as stated by protocol three! Two! Five! Six! Do you acknowledge?”  

“Uh…” I don’t answer because my brain is still trying to decide if it remembers telling her my last name and hasn’t quite processed the rest of the jargon she just spewed at me. 

“I’m sorry dear, but I do need verbal consent to continue. Do you acknowledge that you are, indeed, living without hope?” 

I sigh and blink my eyes, staring at the wall as I ponder her question. 

Living without hope… How long has it been since I bothered picking up a paintbrush? How long has it been since I could afford a canvas? 

When was the last time I had something to look forward to, to really look forward to, that wasn’t ruined by the inner knowledge that there was no way to swing it with my budget and shitty-schedule? 

Hollowly, I admit. 

“Yep. That sounds about right.”

“Perfect!” 

Suddenly the receiver clicks in my ear and the line goes dead. 

“What the?” I hold the phone away and stare at it, wondering if I was at last experiencing work-stress related psychosis, when the front door of the clinic bursts open. I shoot to my feet, dropping the phone so it bounces on its coiled line and smacks into the top of my foot, and an older woman with short silver hair is standing in my office, beaming almost as bright as her short and poofy gown that flounces like a fabric disco ball as she comes bustling forward and steps behind the counter. 

“”Oh Ella!” 

She pulls me into the kind of hug that would be bone-crushing if she wasn’t so perfectly padded by fabric and grandmotherly fluff.

“How exciting it is to finally meet you in person! I’ve been waiting for this moment, you know! Ever since you withdrew your application to Shirwood Gallery and took this job- oh how hard it has been to resist stepping in until now! I asked them to lower the standard for you, but one must admit that it is important to abide by guidelines! There must be a reason that it had to get this bad-”

“I’m sorry, who are you?” I ask, taking a step back and suddenly regretting not bringing the expired pepper spray I keep in my sock drawer.

“Why, I’m Hope!” She says brightly, her already wrinkled eyes practically disappearing amidst her warm smile.

“I’m your hope, specifically! I’m here to make things right for you. Take this, you’ll need it. And do you have a passport?” 

She snaps her fingers and I’m holding an envelope. She snaps them again and the pile of paper on my desk shuffles itself into a stack that scoots to the basket by my computer. One more snap, and I hear the front door lock. 

“I- I do have a passport, but what is going on? I still don’t know who you are…” 

Hope smiles sadly and sits on the edge of my desk. She’s taken my hand before I realize she’s done it, and I find to my surprise that I don’t mind the gentle way she rubs her thumb across my skin.

“There was a time when you believed in things like fairy godmothers and happily-ever-after. Through no fault of your own, that magic stopped being real to you. The creation stopped, and with it, so did your well of hope.” 

I swallow hard and nod. I don’t know why, but her being here makes sense. I don’t believe in fairy godmothers anymore, but if that’s what hope is, and if Hope is who she is, then who am I to deny? I very obviously don’t know what that looks like anymore. Just twenty minutes ago I was ready to walk out into the road and let myself get hit by a truck just to escape it all.

“Well, dear, I am here to help you get your hope back. Its a journey of discovery and honesty. I'll be taking care of you, of course, and there will be nothing to worry about in the realms of your worldly responsibility, but you'll need to be very brave and make a choice for me.” 

She raises her eyebrows severely and looks all about the office with a critically dramatic flare. I feel her tangible intention: look around you!

She was right, there really is no way to do this over the phone. 

“Are you willing to walk away from it all?"

"walk away?"

"Yes mam, If you do, then together we will go on a journey that will change your life. You will find your hope. You’ll taste culture and feel alive, get inspired again! You will remember why you chose to create in the first place, and worst of all, you will have to come back. Can you do that?” 

“Come back?” I ask with a frown, “but, I thought the whole point of a fairy godmother was to get the princess out of her torment?” 

Hope’s eyes widen and she throws her head back in laughter that sounds like bells. 

“Oh, ho, ho! My dear, Cinderella had to go back home before she could be free! That’s the trick, see? Everyone thinks that once the pumpkin turns to gold that it can’t turn back, so when it does they feel lost. But the key to happily ever-after is what you do after you walk back home, barefoot in the rain! Never lose sight of the magic that you can make for yourself! I’m just here to bring it back to life for you! It’s up to you what you do with it afterwards…” 

She drops my hand and slaps her hands on her legs as she rocks forward back to her feet. 

“Well? Are you coming? The Lourve and d’Orsay aren’t going to come to us, and our flight leaves in about two hours!” 

My mouth falls open and I look down at the envelope in my hands. Inside I see airline tickets and paperwork that looks like booking confirmations for hotels in at least six countries. 

Hope takes my hand, and the clock over the wall reads 5:15 when we leave through the back door. A resume sits on my keyboard with a sticky-note that reads:

“Out of town until October, and will not be taking calls. Let’s talk about my employment when I get back. In the meantime, this young lady seems perfectly capable.

-Ellaine Cinders”