“What do they need to hear?” I ask him.
“Write this down,” he says. And then he kind of slips into a weird trance. He stares forward, his eyes a little more open than normal, and he goes monotone on me. “‘Your hand is mine to hold for years. I’ll never leave, through smiles or tears. And when mountains move our way—together we’ll climb each step, each day.’” He turns to me, wistfully. His expression drops. “You’re not writing.”
“You’re not serious,” I say, but instantly I know otherwise. “You’re serious? You want me to use precious and limited company ink in the midst of unpredictable finances to write that down?”
I bite down on the pen because instantly I know I have hurt him. Ugh. Why do I have to open my mouth so much, say exactly what’s on my mind?
“You really don’t like it, do you?” He gazes at me with eyes so vulnerable I’m afraid that they might fall right out of their sockets. I’ve already got a bloody emotional mess on my hands. I don’t need this.
“Jake, no . . . seriously, I do . . . I love mountains . . . it’s just—”
“You don’t have to feign.”
But I can’t help it, I continue to gush out a heck of a backpedal. “Not many people can rhyme on cue. And you . . . you have the biggest heart. It’s the clue department that needs a defibrillator.” Wow. That didn’t come out right. “Look, not every guy is ready to climb that mountain with a girl. Even if he buys her the card that says he will.”
I’ve said too much. I know he can see it in my eyes. There is a place deep in my heart where that is true and it’s just come right out in my words. I’m forced to divert. “Ah . . . yeah, see that couple over there?”
Jake looks.
A girl and a guy, in their twenties, stand nearby. They appear to be feuding. I try a playful approach. “Go recite what you think they need to hear in a card. See how they respond. If it works, I’ll give you a dollar.”
He smiled a little. “A whole dollar?” He pretends to think. “Hmm. You’re on.”
Wow. Didn’t see that coming. I was just trying to avoid a conversation about who didn’t climb what mountain in my life. But I like the bet. Jake needs to see in real time what happens when he spouts off one of his poems, one of his grand proclamations of love.
He strolls over. I can hear the guy’s voice rising as the couple argues. “I’m not trying to be insensitive. I just can’t win with you!”
Jake approaches. I want to duck and hide behind something, but the only thing available is an elderly couple I’m bound to spook if I huddle at their legs.
“Excuse me,” Jake says.
The couple stops arguing, looks at him, both with sour and pinched expressions.
Jake is very casual, not the least bit nervous. “If there were a card shop up here, he’d buy one for you that expresses his love.”
They glance at each other. I know they’re probably expecting him to pull out flowers to sell.
“This place symbolizes your love,” Jake continues.
“Oh brother . . .” I grumble. This is going to be disastrous.
“Its height. Its strength.” Jake is gesturing like this is Shakespeare. “Its firm structure to draw on in times of trouble.” He looks at them both. “Because the value of your love is worth the pain of challenging times.”
I hang my head. Half of that didn’t even make sense. Besides, where was the rhyme? I glance up, just in time to see the guy say, “Yeah. What he said.”
The girl gazes at him. “Really?” She reaches out and embraces him. They hold each other—and right behind them is Jake, smiling at me.
I grab him while we have a chance and whisk him to the other side of the deck. Jake is still smiling. He sticks out his hand.
“Fine,” I grumble. I dig in my pocket for a buck, probably close to my last, and slap it in his hand. “I think it was a lucky break. I mean, I can’t believe they fell for that. Height? Structure? It sounded like an architectural tour.”
Jake continues walking. I catch up with him. We stroll along the side of the deck where we can see the view. “I’ll admit . . . I can be resistant to change. But that back there, it’s shown me something. It’s shown me what we need for Valentine’s Day.”
“Break-up cards,” I say.
“Exactly,” he says.
“Really?”
“Yes! Yes! Make-up cards!”
“I said break-up cards.”
“I thought you said make-up.”
I sigh. I thought for a moment we were on the same wavelength but we weren’t even on the right frequency.
“Make-up cards . . . ?”
“Because people do fight. Case in point back there.”
“No kidding. But you’re overlooking someone.”
“Who?”
“The one without a valentine. The one whose idiot boyfriend chose to end their relationship.”
“I can see this is personal,” he says, stopping to look at me.
“It’s an example. I don’t even have a boyfriend.” Ugh. I think I’ve just made his point.
“I like where you’re going with this . . . we can write cards for them about how their true love is on the way!”
“That’s exactly what I wasn’t thinking.” Oh my goodness, this guy is totally not getting it.
Suddenly we hear a burst of emotion. We turn and there is a woman, maybe thirty, by herself. She is tearing a photograph. Ripping it to shreds. Letting the paper fly into the wind, tossing the rest off the edge. Tears are streaming down her face.
Jake glances at me and I shrug. “I dare you.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. He walks next to her. This time I don’t even try to hide. I want to see this whole thing play out. Jake gently pats her shoulder. She looks at him, embarrassed but seemingly comforted that someone sees her pain. She smiles a little, shakes her head, wipes away the tears.
“There’s another out there for you. Do not lose hope, the future will bring a love that’s real. Because God sets the lonely in families.”
“Huh?” she says.
Wait, that was me.
The woman’s expression drops right there in front of him. It’s so dramatic that Jake actually takes a step back. I think that’s probably a good idea.
“The last thing I need is someone shoving me toward someone new! If I didn’t think he was the best, I wouldn’t have been with him in the first place! Jerk!”
It’s unclear who the jerk is here . . . Jake or the boyfriend . . . but she’s made her point and she stalks off.
Five seconds later Jake is slapping the dollar bill back into my hand.
“One to one.” I smile.
“This isn’t over.”
We walk again. “Jake, do you seriously believe what you told her? That it’s really as simple as someone better coming along?”
“The foundation of our company, when my father built it, was for the purpose of encouraging people . . . that in times of pain, something good will come of it.”
I glance at him. “Do your cards come with a money-back guarantee?”
“It’s not like we came up with that message on our own. It’s in the Bible.”
“And you believe the Bible?”
“I do. My dad, he never wavered, no matter what was going on in our lives or with the company. He always believed something good would come, even in the midst of some tough circumstances. It’s been hard since he retired because my brother doesn’t exactly . . . believe. But Dad put him at the helm. My dad sees the good in everything and everyone . . .”
I stop. Something gets me, kind of strikes right into my heart. I’m taken by surprise. I hadn’t really felt my heart do much of anything lately.
“What? Did I say something wrong?”
“No, it’s just . . . I don’t know. I wish I could be like
you, trusting that everything will be okay.”
He touches my arm. “What’s not okay for you right now, Hope?”
I look up at him. I know my eyes are shiny with emotion. But I’m tempted . . . so tempted to spill everything.
And then, suddenly, I can’t.
I start walking again. “Well, for one thing, you heard Candy. I’m still dead according to the government. Until I’m alive, you can’t pay me.” I glance at my watch. “I need to get to the Social Security office.”
“Give me a couple of more hours. I have a few more places I want us to go.”
I follow him, but I’m dragging my feet.
9
I brought you a little something to eat,” Bette said, carrying a food tray into the room.
“Bette, that is so kind. You didn’t have to do that. I brought some tuna.”
“I know you did. And trust me, I want you to keep on using it. The guy next door woke up from a traumatic brain injury yesterday and I’m halfway convinced it was your tuna.”
Jake laughed. “That smelly, huh?”
“That’s what we need. We can’t make loud noises so we’re forced to keep the needles and the tuna up. But I figured you’d like something else.” She set the tray down on the ledge with the cards. “Not promising it’s any good, but there’s some Jell-O and a nice, buttery roll there.”
“You seriously don’t have to bring me food. I feel like I’m in the way half the time.”
Bette’s expression turned serious. “Jake, I don’t mean to get personal here, but I think you’re the only thing keeping this girl from sinking so far away that we lose her. A mother’s love can go far, but this mother’s love is far out. Lovely lady, otherwise, but if she screams “hallelujah!” with no forewarning one more time, I’m going to be moving some people to the cardiac unit, if you know what I mean.”
Jake laughed. He watched her take Hope’s pulse and blood pressure, writing down her vitals in a chart that was getting thicker by the day.
“Bette?”
“Yeah?”
“You look tired.”
She glanced at him, tried a quick attempt to smooth out the ponytail that seemed like it probably never even came down. Two mismatched clippies held a few stray hairs, but mostly everything fell in her face anyway.
“I don’t mean to pry, but you take care of everyone around here. I see you helping the patients, other nurses, and now patient visitors.” Jake glanced at the food tray she brought in. “Who takes care of you?”
Bette didn’t answer for a long time. She tightened some tubes, used a syringe to put medicine into Hope’s IV. Jake looked down. Maybe he’d said too much.
“My mother.”
“Your mother takes care of you?”
“No. I take care of my mother.” She didn’t look up. It was like she felt ashamed to even mention it. She kept busy, changing the bed pan and tucking the sheets, as she spoke. “She’s got the beginning signs of dementia. Not sick enough for twenty-four-hour care, but sick enough that she can’t live alone anymore.”
“What a noble thing to do.”
Bette looked at him. “Honey, it’s not noble. She’s my mother. How could I not? And this is my job. How could I not care about this sweet woman in this bed?”
“Not everyone has a Bette in their lives, but I know they wish they did.”
She went to the sink to wash her hands. “It’s been hard. I’m a single mom. My son is sixteen. I worry about him all the time. And now I’ve got my mom living with us. Sometimes it’s hard to find time to just go to the store or the money to buy the extra things we need.”
“I’m really sorry. My dad once told me to try to look at everything in terms of seasons . . . that it won’t always be this way. And it’s been true. The good seasons don’t last forever. But neither do the bad.”
Bette grabbed two paper towels and looked at him. “That’s very wise.”
“Nah. Just life.”
“I have to go check on Mr. Warren, but I have a favor to ask of you, Jake.”
“Anything. I’ll start eating anchovies if that will help.”
She laughed. “It’s actually for me.”
“Sure. Anything at all.”
“Would you make me a card?”
“What?”
“A card. For me. Whatever you feel like you should write. I want a card, something to encourage me, something to get me through the day that I can go back to and look at when the day seems like it’ll never end.”
Jake was so touched he didn’t know what to say. “Of course. Yes. Sure, I would love to.”
She smiled. “Thanks. Now I must go. Compacted bowel in Room 4. It’s going to be a long night.”
She left and Jake couldn’t stop smiling. He grabbed a pen and one of the envelopes that a card had come in and began jotting down ideas.
Then the door burst open and CiCi came in, wailing with her arms in the air. She flung herself over the bed, her head resting on Hope’s shins. “My baby girl, my baby girl. You are in the fiery furnace! It is scorching your soul! But believe! Believe that you will be delivered!!”
Jake sighed. Bette was right.
It was going to be a long night.
Greetings from My Life
I’m literally biting my tongue and having quite a heated conversation with myself on the inside. I’m following Jake all over the city . . . Central Park, Times Square . . . every place he thinks a romantic moment might spur him into free verse or a limerick or something. I’m jotting down every idea, every word. He’ll spontaneously shout “butterfly!” or “star gazing!” and then we move on.
I’m biting my tongue because I’m a smart girl and I realize this is a job that, if I can ever prove myself alive, is going to pay the bills. But if Everett is right, and the business is going to tank, then it’s not going to pay the bills for long. I know I can save it. I know I’ve got the right kind of card, the card that nobody is printing but everyone wants to read.
Jake enjoys pointing out all the love around us . . . old couples holding hands. Young couples dreaming of futures that have endless possibilities. Even dogs look to be canoodling.
Sure, I think. It’s easy to love and dream when you’re in the greatest city in the world. It’s real life that makes everyone trip and fall. That’s what I want to try to convey to Jake. Rainbows and mountains and butterflies, sure. But what about cliffs and flash floods and dungeons. Dark, certainly. But am I lying?
By the time Jake finally runs out of ideas, I’m exhausted. My calves are killing me. We’re sitting on a bench and I’m packing up my notepad and pencil. “I’ll get these typed up for you and have them ready in the morning.” I smile like the good assistant I’m trying to be.
“Thank you,” he says, grinning. “I really think we’re on to something here. I’m excited. I should’ve done this years ago.” He gives me a playful punch in the arm. “Thank you.”
“Sure . . . whatever I can do to help . . .” All sarcasm must stay in my head as much as possible. “Well, I should probably go get in the Social Security line before they close. You don’t mind if I take off a little early?”
“Not at all. I understand you’ve got to get that resolved.”
“Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow.” He walks off with a little bounce in his step.
I grab my bag and head the other direction, feeling a little bad. I feel I’m like the person that tells a little kid there aren’t real unicorns. He really feels triumphant. He feels like he’s nailing it. He wants to write make-up cards. I want to write break-up cards. We’re the yin and yang of the greeting-card world.
I walk a few blocks to the Social Security office and am dumbfounded to a standstill. A line. And as far as I can tell, it actually wraps around at least a block. I check my watch. It’s four. The office close
s at six. Is there any chance I can get in before it closes?
The truth is, what choice do I really have?
It’s already a little chilly. Now gray clouds are gathering atop the skyscrapers and it looks like rain. But I take my place in line, sit with my back against the wall of the building I’m standing next to, and pull out my sketchbook. Like clockwork, the cats appear. They sit near a pole, watching me.
It is an hour and a half before I check my watch again, but in the meantime I have designed and written ten new cards. Some of them are super darn funny too, if I do say so myself. I’ve covered a lot of topics . . . breakups, stupid men, lousy relationships that are stuck and going nowhere. My favorite joke comes with a little play on words, where the dude loses his e and becomes a dud. You have to see the picture to get the full effect, but let’s just say I’m envisioning a catfight in the card aisle if this is the last one left—women are going to eat this up.
I chuckle reading it for the fourth time. Above, the faint sound of thunder gets my attention. I look up and it’s the first time I notice the old man. He is watching me with interest.
“Whatcha been working on, woman? I seen you sitting here for a while now, barely lookin’ up once.”
“I’m a card designer.”
He blinks. Blankly.
“A greeting card designer.”
A small nod of slight recognition as to what I’m talking about.
My ten cards lay on the concrete and I smile at a job well done. “I’m working on a plan to save the card company I’m working for.” I gesture broadly to my pile of cards. Inside my head, a loud, angelic chorus proclaims its greatness.
“Never heard of saving anything through a card.”
I’m about to explain, very thoroughly to this old man, the power of a greeting card when a woman wearing a navy suit steps near our line and yells, “We’ll be closing in thirty. Anyone behind this point, come back tomorrow.” I’m at least twenty people from where the woman’s cutoff line is. A loud, collective groan comes from the crowd.
Then, as if God spoke his displeasure at the situation, thunder rumbles loudly overhead, rattling the nearby windows. In unison, everyone looks up. And as we do, a torrent of rain the likes of which nobody has seen since the movie The Perfect Storm, pours out of the sky, drenching everything in its path. People are actually screaming, running this way and that. I quickly reach for my cards, but a boot smashes into one, and then someone’s tennis shoe runs right over my hand. I look up, hoping the old man sees my plight and might be willing to help, but he is gone. By the time I manage to gather my cards and stuff them in my bag, I’m drenched and so are they.
Greetings from the Flipside Page 13
