Hope

Until now I'd lost all hope for survival. My choices were another year dumpster diving in Vancouver's inner city or trying the woods of the Sunshine Coast - I chose the woods. I didn't know the first thing about the wilderness when I spent my last twenty on the Horseshoe Bay ferry. Some things came easy: building a driftwood lean-to on the rocky beach, bathing in the ocean, catching the salmon that spawned that time of year. After the salmon stopped, however, food wasn't easy to find. The fish and small game evaded me, Red Tide infected the shellfish, and the only safe berries I knew were blackberries. My lighter ran out of fluid. I wore rags.

I managed to get by until autumn. That was when I started to worry. Winters in Western Canada were mild compared to the Prairies I grew up in, but you could still freeze. British Columbia has a deep cold - not Alberta's where you can warm up after five minutes indoors. This cold was damp and thorough. I was pretty sure that I'd caught something that day. I climbed into a tree and waited for the illness to kill me. That was when the hippie found my sorry ass.

"Namaste," she said, brushing aside straight grey locks that fell past her hips. "You look like you've been out here a while. Not with the peace campers?"

"What are peace campers?"

"They protest logging. Let's get you something to eat."

She led me to an old van. I crowded in with the two German Shepherds in the front seat and tried not to laugh as their sniffing tickled my neck and sides. The small towns I'd passed through on my way here wouldn't welcome me, I was sure. Nobody else had - I had spent five years being spat on, avoided, or told to get a job when every business I walked into kicked me right back out. I didn't deserve their sympathy. I'd done unspeakable things for heroin to ease the pain until I went to rehab. I couldn't bear being around other addicts - I had to run away from civilization.

We stopped at the top of a steep hill. A boxy building stood with water bowls out front - everyone had a dog here. The canines looked longingly at the door or leaned against smoking men. The two in the van barked their greetings to the others. The scent of coffee permeated the air and mothers stood behind a huge glass window, talking while their children played in the lobby. I looked at a familiar red shield above the door and then to the woman.

"They'll only try to pull me back in. It happens every time I go to a food bank or shelter. They'll wait 'til the staff aren't listening and offer me some dope. I can't start using again."

"No they won't, hon. You get kicked out for that kind of stuff. I volunteer here all the time. Just one meal - you can make it through that, right?"

Reluctantly, I followed her inside.

Lunch was simple. Rice and chili with store-brand cola to drink. They even offered a vegan option to those who preferred it. I didn't feel so sick after getting a small portion of the real meat down. Afterward, I was given a hamper, a voucher for clothes from the thrift store, and a cup of coffee. The man in the office entered my name into a database and told me where all of the local free meals were. The hippie waited outside.

"Here," she said to me, handing me a tattered book. It had the look of self-publishing, with an amateur photo on the front and no raving reviews or bar code on the back. It was about outdoor survival in the Pacific Northwest. "This helped my father when he came to dodge the draft. Come to the address on the inside of the cover when you're ready to live, instead of just surviving."

I read the small map scrawled in the cover. It was a marina, with the name of a boat and a list of outdated prices for fish scrawled on it.

"They'll hire someone like me?" I asked.

"I will," said the woman. "I'll take you there today if you want."

"Sure. What's your name, by the way?"

"Hope."

The white casket shook Rob's faith. It cemented the death of his niece. He wished that he knew she was suffering. He had prayed for her, but if she'd only told someone, then he could have acted as well. The pastor always told his congregation that prayers should be a request for help, not a request for God to do it for you.

Brenda was always so quiet. During family get-togethers, she crept out of the room and played with the cats. She kept away from the other knots of children at her high school when he picked her up on the way to get Suzan. Rob never questioned it - she always gave monosyllabic answers about how school was. He should have seen it. He shouldn't have dismissed her teen angst as if it were nothing to worry about. Guilt twisted his gut, and he hoped he wouldn't vomit during the ceremony.

Had Facebook and smartphones existed when they were kids, the smiling girl in the selfie flashing by on his laptop screen could have been his sister. That smile looked hollow now, and he noticed that Brenda was alone in all of her photos. He'd talked people out of suicide before. It was part of his job. Why hadn't he seen the signs? Rob scrolled past the images, triple-checking that the PowerPoint was still in order, praying that his next service would be a stranger's.

"What kind of loving god would let this happen?" the voice of doubt whispered.

Suzan wondered why she bothered with makeup today. At least she thought to skip the mascara. Through her tears, she watched her father scroll past all the photos of Brenda and felt a lump form in her throat. Why hadn't her cousin spoken to her about this? She would have transferred schools, stayed up all night texting, done anything to ease her cousin's suffering. They shared a car ride every day, and yet she just texted her own friends, never wondering why Brenda's phone only ever played Aunt Noreen's ringtone.

"Promise me you'll call or come over if you ever feel suicidal." She sent the text to everyone in her contacts.

Noreen was convinced that it was her fault. Her husband had left two years earlier. That was when Brenda started to change. Her daughter threw out her dolls and started writing things in files she kept password-protected, then hidden on the hard drive in some way that Noreen couldn't understand. The sleepovers and shopping trips stopped - grey sweatshirts and ragged jeans replaced a former fashionista's wardrobe. The expensive clothes from the mall still sat in a dusty box labelled "DONATE" - Noreen had hoped that Brenda would come out of her funk and change her mind. It was only after they found Brenda washed up on the riverbank, having jumped off of a bridge, that Rob managed to excavate Brenda's hidden files - dark poetry, gory artwork, and myriad drafts of suicide notes detailing the bullying that started as soon as Brenda showed signs of depression.

She wished fervently that this was all a nightmare as she waited outside. The world went on, sunny and warm, ignoring her pain. She wanted to cut the bright yellow tulips down and shoot anyone who smiled at her as they walked by. Suzan offered a hand and led her into the sanctuary when the service began. Noreen barely heard the words her brother spoke for the next half hour. Rob had to nudge her elbow when it was her turn to throw a handful of dirt into the pit outside the church.

Instead of returning to an empty house, she drove to the hospital after the service. She asked to be put on suicide watch. She wouldn't make her family go through this again.