Hope for the Tarnished

By Ann Chiappetta

Young Abbie struggles to cope with the traumatic experiences in her life. Ripped from everything familiar after her parents’ divorce, she is dropped into an unknown neighborhood and is emotionally abandoned by her mentally unstable mother. Abbie is caught up in the cruel nature of one sister’s addictions and is often rescued by her other sister’s love and sense of familial responsibility.

The story reveals family secrets and the shift of cultural norms as it leaves the 1970s and enters the 1980s.

Surrounded by uncertainty, Abbie struggles with being able to open herself to the other, more stable adults in her life as she seeks guidance through difficult circumstances. School and competitive sports offer escape, new physical confidence, and friendship.

As Abbie matures, her ability to take chances and trust others is challenged. Some chances play out to her advantage, and some do not. The path to self–reliance is often lonely or disorienting for her. She discovers whom to trust and whom she can’t depend upon for support.

It’s a long, hard fight for Abbie to break free of what she dubs the "three–ring circus" of her tumultuous emotions, but greater maturity and love with the man she has always wanted liberate her at last.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ann Chiappetta
• Release date: Feb 22, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005346720

Ann Chiappetta

Ann Chiappetta is a writer, poet, and essayist. Her writing has been featured in dozens of small press poetry, fiction, and nonfiction journals and anthologies including the Pangolin Review, Poesis Poetry Journal, Dialogue Magazine, Magnets and Ladders literary magazine, and Breath and Shadow, a magazine of disability Literature. Ann hopes to make meaningful connections with others through writing.

Book preview

Hope for the Tarnished

Ann Chiappetta

Copyright 2022 by Ann Chiappetta

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re–sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

Cover photo by Cheryll Romanek

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Editing, print layout, e−book conversion, and cover design by DLD Books Editing and Self−Publishing Services

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, and events are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2022902704

One of the perks of being a book reviewer is receiving advance reading proofs before the general public reaches for a copy from a shop’s New Books display or a book lover places an online order. That perk becomes a pleasure when the book I review is one that captures my interest. I know I can recommend such books to potential readers who are on the lookout for good stories by talented authors.

Such is the case with Hope for the Tarnished, by noted author Ann Chiappetta. Well known in disabled writers’ circles, Chiappetta is that rare novelist who is able to incorporate a character’s disability into her story without making it the focus of her narrative. She lets her audience realize that a disability, like hair color or a personality quirk, is merely one aspect of a human being, not the person’s defining feature.

That brings me to Abbie, the visually impaired teenaged protagonist of Hope for the Tarnished, Chiappetta’s debut novel.

The youngest of three daughters living a hand–to–mouth and emotionally bleak existence with their divorced, mentally ill mother, Abbie has to grow up quickly in order to avoid becoming trapped in the quagmire of family dysfunction.

Fortunately for Abbie, she is an intelligent and resourceful teen who has a supportive array of extended family members and friends—and, as the plot unfolds, young men whose attention marks her transition from a shy, awkward adolescent into a self–aware and loving woman.

The secondary characters, often flawed, manage to grow in Chiappetta’s capable hands. Even those like Abbie’s heroin–addict sister and their mother’s predatory boyfriend escape coming across as stereotypes. In many ways, it is difficult to believe this is a first novel, since it is an engaging and polished effort.

Having honed her skills in four previous books of poetry, memoir, and short stories, Ann Chiappetta has written, with this fifth work, a novel that young adults and perhaps adults will read for its realistic story and the talent of someone I hope continues to keep readers waiting eagerly for each new novel.

Sally Rosenthal

Author of Peonies in Winter: A Journey Through Loss, Grief, and Healing (2021)

Books by Ann Chiappetta

Upwelling: Poems (2016)

Follow Your Dog: A Story of Love and Trust (2017)

Words of Life: Poems and Essays (2019)

A String of Stories: From the Heart to the Future (2020)

Hope for the Tarnished (2022)

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

—Maya Angelou

Chapter One

Abbie followed her mother into the apartment building, towing two industrial–sized garbage bags stuffed with clothing. They entered a short hall, then climbed a steep, hollow– sounding staircase with a worn, wooden railing on one side. Rose gestured for Abbie to go first. Abbie stopped once to adjust her grip on the bags, which she humped up the concrete steps— first one, then the other, as she climbed. Rose followed Abbie up the stairs with two more bags filled with clothing.

When they finally entered their new apartment, Abbie walked in and thought about crying but held back the tears. She was shocked to see an empty room. The only thing she liked was the big picture window overlooking the trees near the parking lot. The birds flittered and chirped, which filled the empty space. The bare wooden floors were stained and dirty. There was nothing in the room, not even a rug. It was sweltering and stuffy from the closed windows. The echoing was louder here, and she winced when Rose dropped the bags onto the floor.

She pushed her own bags aside and stood, wiping the sweat from her face. She thought of how they got here and wished it had never happened.

Shortly after Abbie’s eleventh birthday, Rose announced she wanted a divorce. Ross, tired of fighting and Rose’s moods, agreed. He helped them move out of the rented house and into an apartment, then put his tools and most of his personal belongings in storage and bought a used, 35–foot boat to live on while he adjusted to being a reluctant bachelor.

The three girls were enrolled in public school. Abbie would start fifth grade at Primrose Elementary, Darlene would be a sophomore at Harbor High, and Cathlyn would enter her senior year there. Kender, the dog, and Kiki, the Persian cat, had come with them, but it was hard on them, being used to the indoor and outdoor life afforded them by living in an actual house.

Abbie and her sisters had to say goodbye to most of the material things, like all the furniture. It was sold by Rose to buy a used car because Ross sold the Malibu wagon to get a down payment for the boat. Rose sold everything but their clothes, books, some toys, and the kitchen stuff. She also borrowed some cash to buy four twin beds. The worst for Abbie was finding out she was to share a room with her mother. Rose barely slept, and when she did, her nightmares awakened Abbie. She would learn to resent Rose’s absences due to what would later be called second shift syndrome: working eight hours a day and then going to a second job, only to return home with nothing left to give her children but orders and inconsistent parenting.

But this was the future, and for now, at least, Rose and her three daughters had moved out of the house and its security and comforts to start a new life in Patricia Gardens.

Abbie wrinkled her nose at the musty odors lingering in the apartment, faint smells of rotten garbage and moth balls. The lingering chemical smell was unfamiliar, but she would soon learn it was the unmistakable tang of a roach bomb. She kept this to herself, not wanting to upset Rose, who dragged the stuffed trash bags into the room she shared with Abbie. Abbie grabbed the other bags and followed Rose into the first bedroom.

Once she hung up the blouses and skirts, most of which were Rose’s, Abbie was free to go outside to explore.

Rose looked tired and rubbed sweat from her forehead with the back of a hand. I still have to get things settled, she said. Why don’t you take a walk around outside? There are two buildings. We live in the back building, not the front. Our building is the Old Post Road building, not the one on the Post Road, near the high school. Our apartment number is 1G. It says it on our door, and it says it on the intercom, too.

Rose showed Abbie the speaker on the wall in the hallway and pointed to it. This is the intercom. There’s a big one out front where the glass doors are. If the side doors are locked and you can’t get in, go to the front and press the button near the 1G. I’ll buzz you in, okay?

Abbie was a little nervous about all the new information but acted like she absorbed all of it, not wanting to make Rose worry. The house was simple; this was like remembering everything for school in one big lump. Yesterday she’d gone to bed in her own bed, and tonight she would be sleeping in a strange place, in a strange bed, listening to her mother’s strange whimpering. There was nowhere to go. She had to do what Rose said and help the best she could.

Abbie explored the inside of what she would learn to call the back building. She visited at the elevator first, deciding not to use it yet, not remembering ever having used one except when in a department store. The front doors were opposite it and made of glass, like the bank on Main Street. She found the intercom and the telephone handset, pushed her glasses higher on her nose and squinted, reading the tiny numbers and letters beside the row of little buttons. She found the 1G button and noted its place in case she needed it later. She didn’t want to delay going outside, not used to being inside so much over the summer.

Beside the house, it was so hot that Abbie burned the bottoms of her callused feet more than once on the frying sidewalks and asphalt driveway. The heat and humidity kept most people inside or in the shade.

The walk to the beach, while it took only five minutes, was like walking through hot lava. Abbie’s resulting sun poisoning triggered a house call and a warning to Rose from the doctor about protecting her daughter from heat stroke. After that, Abbie was banned from being out in the sun.

What are we going to do if you can’t even go out? Rose said, her voice full of something that made Abbie feel bad.

She was happy to just play in the tepid water in the bathtub or run around on the grass in the sprinklers when it got too hot. She disliked the beach, from the grit in the sandwiches to how it chafed the tender skin between her thighs when walking home. If Abbie complained about being too hot or asked to go home, though, Rose would say she was whining and point to the water, suggesting that Abbie go cool off.

One day at the beach, the tide was out, dank and ripe with the overpowering smell of brine, the sand overtaken by a muddy substance. The result was a messy, gooey collection of silted bottom exposed to the air. It was, at least to Abbie, both interesting and disgusting.

Abbie found a horseshoe crab flipped upside down and righted it with a piece of driftwood, fascinated by how it crept away, its barbed tail held high, until it was lost under the murky water. She stood near another kid, a boy about the same age, both of them dirty from the slick, dark sand not normally exposed during low tide. She heard Rose calling for her, and she trotted to her mother, who stood above the wet sand, a sun hat shading her face.

Abigail, where have you been? She grabbed Abbie’s arm, her nails hurting the soft flesh of the girl’s underarm.

Ow! Abbie said, pulling away.

You’re filthy. Go shower off, and then we can go home.

Abbie walked to the outdoor shower and rinsed herself off, then joined Rose at the exit gate.

Most days were like this. Abbie was relieved to get home, rinse off in the tub, and eat something without sand in it. Afterward, she slipped into bed with damp hair, the fan cooling her hot body until she fell asleep.

The heat reminded Abbie of the beach in July. She left the building by the front, noticing that the lawns bordering the paved path were neat, and the patios brimmed with potted plants, flowers, and even herbs and tomato plants. She recognized the oregano, basil, and mint. She loved plants and would miss the big garden they’d kept, with all its abundance. Their apartment didn’t include a patio or balcony. She circled the back building and found another back door closer to the courtyard and playground. The benches bordered a large, rectangular area lined with slate. Upon closer inspection, she saw that the slates were numbered and ready for hopscotch. Abbie smiled, thinking, Maybe it won’t be so bad living here. Farther along the path she discovered the pool, and beyond it, a basketball court and more benches. Then she recognized the parking lot and the stairs going back up to her apartment. She decided to go back to the playground but stopped to watch the people at the pool through the fence, her original destination forgotten.

She recalled Ross teaching her how to swim when she was four years old. She remembered summer being one of her favorite times of the year when she was a younger child because they used the county pool, not the hot and sandy local beach. Abbie and her father used to swim together on the weekends when he wasn’t working, before Mom got sick and went away for treatment. Abbie remembered thinking that the chlorinated water was better than the saltwater. You could even open your eyes under water and see the silver bubbles and how it puffed up the bathing suits.

Ross said, Okay, Abbie, hang onto my shoulders. When we go under, kick your feet like I showed you.

Then he counted to three, took a deep breath, and went under, pushing off from the side of the pool. The first time, Abbie forgot to kick and wrapped her legs around Ross’ waist when she felt like sliding off. It was hard hanging onto his shoulders while they moved. On the third try, she lost her grip and almost panicked but paddled her way to the surface. Ross was right there next to her, helping her to the side of the pool.

You know the best part about a pool? he’d asked. She wished the water didn’t burn her nose so much.

You always know how deep it is, and there’s always something nearby to hang onto. He had grinned and slapped the hot deck, splashing a spray of sun–heated water on their faces. Abbie remembered looking down into the clear water and realizing he was right. From then on, she relaxed.

Over the next few weeks that summer, Ross and Abbie went swimming. He’d been laid off again, and on Friday mornings, he took Abbie and Darlene to different places. Most often, it was the county pool. Cathlyn had to work her first job, so she didn’t go. But by the time summer ended, Abbie was jumping off the springboard while Ross watched, treading water and giving her directions and a big grin. Darlene never did like the water touching her face and hair. She used nose plugs, saying the water burned her nose too much to learn how to blow out a little air to keep the water from entering. Abbie learned this, though, and a score of other tricks, like treading water and looking at which way the bubbles rose to find the surface after being under and being a little dizzy from underwater somersaults.

You’re a fish, not a kid, Ross would say, laughing, as Abbie popped up from the deep end and used her breaststroke to swim to the ladder. Breaststroke became her best, other than swimming underwater, which had also become a favorite.

Abbie stood beside the chain link fence, memories of Ross and the fun she’d had in the community pool whirling in her mind, watching the kids and families enjoy the sun and water, wishing she could go back and have fun like that again. Now that she had no choice but to remove her glasses to swim, whenever she returned for a towel and put on her glasses, the tunnel–like, blurry world snapped into focus once again, and she marveled at the crisp, blue water divided by the black racing lanes and the bright blue and yellow nylon rope sectioning off the shallow end of the pool. Later on, she referred to the blurry, myopic intake of her surroundings as Monet vision, disliking the Impressionist’s pastorals because they reminded her so much of her own visual limitations.

Abbie turned away from the apartment complex’s pool and walked down the terraced steps to the basketball court and the parking lot. The court was empty, probably because it was so hot. The sun beat down on her head.

Back inside, she retraced her steps to the new dwelling and closed the apartment door.

Rose called from the bathroom, Abbie, is that you?

Yes, Mom.

Did you have fun? her mother asked.

Yes, Abbie said, even though it was boring, and she wanted to go swimming.

Mom, when can I go to the pool? she asked, finding Rose on a stepstool, hanging the shower curtain.

Maybe tomorrow. I’m busy right now, she said, not turning around.

Do we have anything to drink? asked Abbie.

No, just water. I have to go to the store, Rose said.

Abbie wasn’t sure if her mother realized she hadn’t had lunch, and her tummy was growling. In the house there had been milk and a jug of refrigerator–chilled water, not the cloudy, tepid tap water that came from the faucet in the apartment. The house had nice cabinets, not dark, tall ones filled with skittering roaches.

Abbie learned that the kitchen was not a good place for food. Roaches got into everything, and they all had to learn how to avoid them. Abbie got very good at killing them. The kitchen light stayed on, the cups were turned upside down, and boric acid and roach traps had to be changed each month. Garbage was taken to the incinerator twice a day. Abbie learned to open the door a little, then slam it to scare the bugs before trying to open the chute or risk a few falling on her legs and feet. Roach bombs and visits from the exterminator were also regular occurrences.

Cathlyn and Darlene were supposed to help Rose with the chores, shopping, and other tasks. Darlene, though, often avoided her chores, and Abbie ended up covering for her and assumed the chores the older girl ignored. The dishes, for instance, were washed but not put away. That was Darlene’s job, and she seemed to be out all the time. Changing the cat’s litter box was also Darlene’s job, but Abbie ended up getting the job for the same reason: Darlene wasn’t home to do it. When Darlene was home, she was entertaining her friends, sleeping, or ignoring them.

Cathlyn was sixteen. She attended high school, then went to accordion practice or to work in the local grocery store. Then she met Rose where she worked, and they picked up dinner before going home. Rose worked a second job a few nights a week as a hostess in a fancy steakhouse, saving up for furniture and a television set. Until then, the living room was empty, and they read books, listened to the radio, or went to the movies.

Abbie decided she liked public elementary school and became an even better student. She loved her English teacher, Mr. Ankowitz, and her science teacher, a Black woman named Mrs. Robinson. The crabby nuns in the parochial school had complained about Abbie being nearsighted and needing to be seated out of alphabetical order nearest the chalkboard to see it better. The wool uniforms had made her itch all the time, too.

Fifth grade flew past. Abbie’s good grades and making new friends lifted her spirits. She was in the first wave of latchkey kids, walking home from school, letting herself inside, and locking the door until Darlene, Cathlyn, or Rose came home. She read and listened to the radio or played records on Darlene’s stereo. Rose’s new boyfriend gave them a repaired black and white console TV, and Abbie spent the lonely afternoons in the living room watching cartoons and movies. She even got used to the occasional roach that crawled across her lap as she sat on the floor, cross–legged, engrossed in what was portrayed in grayscale flickers across the glass screen. When the same boyfriend repaired and presented Rose with another console TV that was a color television, Abbie almost ran home from school every day so she could sit and lose herself in the action and colors of life beyond her empty living room.

Chapter Two

Each week Rose and the second new boyfriend, Dutch,