“Jake,” Everett continues, “it’s either we try this or we sell. Your choice. What do you want?”
At that moment, I feel complete regret for what I’ve done. Yes, I believe in my cards. Yes, I think the company needs an update. But I realize now I’ve done this in the most horrible way imaginable. I’ve embarrassed Jake in front of his coworkers, his brother. I’ve made him look stupid and backed him into a corner.
“Jake, I’m—”
But he storms out.
The accountants slip out, happy, I’m sure, to return to their predictable world of numbers. Everett leaves, but not before lightly tapping his hands together in what I guess is a congratulatory clap. Pearl and Ruby move slower, pushing themselves away from the table, helping each other stand.
I hear Pearl whisper to Ruby as they walk out, “I haven’t seen him that upset since he lost his wife . . .”
They continue to chat but I can’t hear what else they are saying as they leave.
I’m left alone standing by my cards and only one question occupies my mind . . .
Jake had a wife?
10
Jake watched silently as Bette unsealed the envelope. She pulled the card out, looking over the picture he’d affixed to the front. It was a picture he took in Kansas . . . a sun rising over a field of golden wheat. An old wooden, one-room church sat in the foreground, long-ago abandoned but still holding strong the steeple that pointed to the heavens. She paused at the picture, a serene expression softening her features. Jake watched her eyes move back and forth across the text as she opened the card.
“‘I look up to the mountains—does my help come from there? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth! He will not let you stumble; the one who watches over you will not slumber.’” Bette gazed at him over the top of the card, tears shiny in her eyes. “Jake, this is exactly what I needed to hear. How did you know?”
Jake just smiled and shrugged.
She closed the card and held it to her heart. “Well, I am keeping this forever, I will tell you that. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Now, what about this girl?”
“What about her?”
“Why don’t you write her a card?”
“Oh . . . I don’t . . . I mean, nothing has come to me . . . and plus, she can’t really read a card . . .”
Bette laughed, tossing him a look that said she wasn’t buying any of his excuses. “I bet you can think of something.” Jake looked at the floor. “It can’t ever be wrong if it comes from the heart. Read that in a card once.”
Jake laughed a little. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You eating enough, honey? Man can’t live on tuna alone, you know.”
“It used to be ramen noodles. I’m moving up in the world.”
“Let me know if I can bring you anything. We’ve got stashes of cookies and juice like you wouldn’t believe.”
“Okay. Thanks, Bette.”
Bette left and Jake checked his watch. CiCi would be arriving soon, as she always did around six or seven in the evening. He dreaded it. The poor woman just couldn’t get a grip and tended to ramble about crazy things, like Hope’s father. He didn’t know the story behind that one, but it didn’t seem likely that he would return soon, whatever the history was. If a daughter in a coma wasn’t going to get him home, there wasn’t much else that would.
Jake studied her, still sleeping peacefully, but she didn’t look as healthy anymore. Her skin was sallow, the color gone from her now gaunt cheeks. He’d overheard the doctor talking to the nurse that they’d soon have to begin looking at putting a feeding tube in. Her vitals, he’d noticed, were not as strong as they once were.
“Hope,” he said, his finger tracing the metal safety bar that seemed useless, “you’ve got a lot to come back to. A lot to live for. Just . . . just open your eyes. I promise, everything is going to be okay.”
A quiet and slight knock came at the door. He wasn’t sure who it would be. Becca and CiCi normally came right in when they visited. A few other friends had stopped by for visits, but nobody stayed long. It was, he thought, probably too painful to look at her like this.
It wasn’t his room and he felt a little awkward saying “come in” but he did anyway and the door opened a little. It was Mindy, his assistant at the shop. She carried a beautiful vase of flowers.
“Mindy, hi! What are you doing—I’m so sorry, I know I haven’t been at the shop very much and you’ve been having to work extra hours and—”
Mindy set the vase down. It was one of her finest works. “Jake, please. Don’t apologize. This is a difficult time and I completely understand why you need to be here.”
Jake smiled, but honestly, he didn’t really understand it himself. “The flowers are beautiful.”
“Thanks,” she said, touching the petals. “I’ve been studying a new technique I saw on Pinterest.”
“It’s working.”
“Listen, Jake, I can’t stay. I wanted to come by and tell you I’m thinking about you and Hope and praying that she will wake up. I also wanted to tell you to take as much time as you need. The sisters and I have everything under control at the shop. Everyone has been able to come in and work more hours so we’re good.”
“Thank you.”
“But there’s one more thing I need to tell you. And I . . . I hesitated about this . . . I wasn’t sure if this was the right time, or if you needed to know this now . . . it’s just so . . .”
“What is it?”
Mindy drew a deep breath. “Maybe you should sit down.”
“I am sitting down.” By Mindy’s increasingly startled expression, he decided she was the one who needed to sit down. He stood and grabbed the chair nearby, pulling it closer. “Here, sit.”
Keeping her attention on him, she sat, then reached into the bag she carried on her shoulder.
She pulled out a stack of greeting cards.
Greetings from My Life
“Thank you. When the guys can cut my first paycheck, I’ll pay it back, I promise.”
“No worries,” Everett says as he slides a wad of cash across his desk toward me. His office is unusually playful, like a twelve-year-old set up shop. Basketball hoops hang off the doorways and closets and candy jars, rubber toys, marbles, and a slingshot line his desk. “So weird how you can’t prove you’re not dead.”
“If I could just get through that stupid Social Security line. It’s like a living nightmare down there.”
“Well, it’ll get sorted out eventually. For now, we’ve got to focus. But first, I need lunch.” He stands, grabbing his jacket off his chair. “Want to come? I’m buying.”
I squeeze the roll of cash in my hand while trying to casually dismiss the invitation. “I better not . . . got lots of . . . need to prepare and start to work on . . . get the ball rolling—”
“So that’s a no.” He smiles briefly.
“Yeah, I mean . . . it’s a—”
“So, he’s paying you to take down the company?”
I whip around and Jake is standing in the doorway. Looming, really. He seems taller. His shadow stretches long and lean against the office floor. He is eyeing the wad of cash in my hand.
“No, no . . . gosh, no . . .” I’m laughing the kind of laugh that is drenched in guilt. You’re hoping it sounds like a giggle but really it sounds like a witch’s cackle with hints of psychopath.
Everett is standing near me. Too near. I want to step away but there’s nowhere to go. “You should be thanking God you might have this final opportunity to keep your precious card company. Because of her.” He points right at me, though there’s not another “her” in the room, so it’s redundant. Everett looks at me with the warm smile of decade-long friends. “After lunch, we’ve got work to do, Landon.”
I look at
Jake, trying to squeeze out some kind of genuine expression but I don’t know what to do or say. I’m feeling genuinely guilty, that’s for sure. But I’m also feeling sure that I have his answer, if he only wouldn’t be so blind to my ideas.
“I have a question for you.”
I brace myself. My mind neatly forms five bullet-points to counter his stance, whatever it is. “What?”
“What size skate does that little girl wear?”
“Little . . . who?”
“The little girl with you the day we met.”
“Oh, uh, Mikaela.”
“Yeah, what size does she wear? I saw a pair of skates at Macy’s she might like.”
Admittedly, I’m thrown. I vaguely remember hearing her mention skates or skating or something like that. I hadn’t thought about it since that day. He’d obviously been putting a lot of thought into it.
“I’m sorry, I don’t really know.” I step toward him. “Listen, Jake, I—”
“I’m happy for you.” He takes two steps back. Then another for good measure. “I’m sure this is what you wanted.”
He turns and leaves.
Yeah . . . this is what I wanted. I just didn’t picture it feeling this way.
I spend some time walking. New York City is made for walking. Lots to see and do, but lots of noise to drown out thoughts you don’t want to think about. So I walk until the sun sets, absorbed in pretend conversations justifying my actions.
When I arrive back at the YMCA, I’m cold and hungry. My appetite suddenly returns with a vengeance. Even though I know my food is gone, I decide to check the community fridge anyway. Sometimes people will put a sign on a box of yogurt that says, “Please take one.” As I round the corner into the kitchen, I immediately spot Mikaela. She’s on her tiptoes peeking inside the freezer that is above the refrigerator. I’m about to call her name when I see what she pulls from the freezer.
A blue Popsicle.
She pulls the cellophane off and the imaginary flavor bursts into my mouth. I slowly back away, shivering at the weird coincidence and all the memories that the Popsicle brings to the surface. I hurry to Morris’s office, drop an envelope of cash through his mail slot, and rush to my room.
But before I can even unlock the door, there is another alphabet letter stuck to my door. K. I rip it off and get in my room as fast as possible. Instinctively, I look for the bride and groom that pops up on my desk every time I throw it away. But it isn’t there.
I drop the K in the trash and dig around a little for the statue, but it is gone.
“Well that’s a relief!” I say to my Murphy bed. We’re on a first-name basis now.
I sit and dwell on the day. I sleep fitfully that night, but in the morning I feel strangely energized, ready to tackle the tasks at hand, hoping I can prove to Jake that my cards will win back his company.
I arrive before anyone else and begin to clean and tidy the Humor Department. I dust. I vacuum. I change lightbulbs. Basically, I resuscitate it. It looks pretty good. It needs some colorful decor, but I can work on that. For now, I have a desk, I have my drawing pad and pencils, and nothing—finally, nothing!—to stop me.
It’s around ten a.m. and I’m in the middle of sketching a bride behind the bars of a jail cell when Pearl and Ruby walk into the Humor Department. I feel uneasy because their expressions are serious. They are probably very fond of Jake—who wouldn’t be? And this is their family business, now infiltrated with an outsider.
They stand in front of my desk for a moment, gazing down at my drawing. I hate for them to see the sketch without the punch line—it feels a little like it’s being observed in its underwear.
Then Pearl says, “Can we try?”
“Try?”
Ruby’s shoulders drop along with her voice, which is now very low and barely audible. “We’re so sick of drawing puppies.”
“And kittens,” Pearl adds.
“Truly, how many puppies can you draw in a lifetime? I mean, I’ve covered every breed with every expression known to the canine world. But each year I’m expected to make them cuter and cuter, so I keep making the eyes bigger and bigger.” Behind her thick glasses, her eyes widen.
“It’s true,” says Pearl. “Same for the cats. Pretty soon their eyes are so big that you think something has gone terribly wrong in the breeding cycle.”
“They look deformed. How large can a pupil get before you begin to suspect you’re dealing with alien life?”
“I agree,” Pearl says. “Listen, I’m eighty-four years old. I got material. I got lots of material.”
Ruby nods. “You should’ve met her husband, Dick. Enough said.”
“Do you two mind sharing that drafting table over there? There’s two stools and a really good light.”
By the way they break into a grin, I assume it’s fine. And for the next two hours, we work in focused silence, except for a few times when one of us laughs out loud at one of our punch lines.
It’s at the exact moment when Ruby cackles, “Dick is rolling over in his grave right now!” that Jake manages to walk by. He stops and looks at the three of us. Pearl and Ruby don’t even notice, but my desk is right at the entrance of the department, so if I pretend I don’t see him it’s going to be a hard sell.
He observes Ruby and Pearl, frowning, tilting his head to the side like he can’t really process what’s going on. Pretty soon he moves along, never really acknowledging me.
Outside: For everything there is a season. A time for every purpose under the sun.
Inside: Sorry to hear it’s breakup time. Where shall I deliver the chocolate?
Behind me Pearl and Ruby are cracking up again.
“You gotta see this, Landon!” Ruby squeals. “She’s all skinny on the outside of the card and then you open it and she’s fat as a potbellied pig. Pearl is drawing chocolate drooling down her face!”
We work for a solid week on the first batch of cards to go out. It is the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I feel like my dreams are finally coming true and that this is what I’m made to do. It’s like I’ve seen the mountain, I’ve climbed the mountain, and I’ve conquered the mountain. And there’s not even a punch line that needs to go with it!
It’s Monday morning when Everett comes to my desk. “Come with me, for about thirty minutes.”
There’s not a hint that the intentions include a date, so I follow him to his car. He does open the door for me, like a gentleman would, and I watch him hurry around to the driver’s seat. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says. Dread washes over me. I’m hoping it’s not a romantic helicopter ride over the city. Or a lunch in a cozy booth. Oh boy, what have I gotten myself into?
“What is it?” I ask.
“You’ll have to wait and see!” He’s looking and grinning at me more than the road, but within ten minutes, he’s pulling into a parking garage next what looks like a large warehouse. We enter through the back door and I suddenly realize where we are.
The manufacturing plant. It’s the printing press.
I stand in the doorway in awe. The machines roar and every second or two make a precise chopping noise. The paper is going by so fast it’s blurry.
Everett takes my hand. I’m so thrilled that I don’t really care. I just want to see what’s going on. We walk to the end of one of the large printers.
Everett shouts over the noise. “Hey Ralph!”
“Hey there, Everett!”
Everett reaches for a stack of cards, sealed in cellophane. He hands it to me.
“My cards . . .” I am as breathless as I’ve imagined I might be on my wedding day, when it was time to kiss the groom. There must be a hundred of my cards in this one stack. “They’re . . . beautiful.” I look at Everett, tears in my eyes.
“They’re genius, that’s what they are!”
We watch the wh
ole process, how they’re packaged, sealed, and then put into shipment boxes. It’s a wonder to watch.
I stand there in the midst of all the noise with the realization that I’m finally a published greeting card writer.
I tackle Everett with a hug.
* * * *
I come home for the evening, thankful I can afford a deli sandwich. I’m mentally and emotionally exhausted, but still on quite a high from the excitement of the week. I lay on my bed for a while, picturing all my cards being printed, bound, shipped. I imagine them arriving at card stores, to the delight of all that work there. I imagine them flying off the shelves as women roar with laughter in the card aisle, throwing their heads back, clutching their hearts or stomachs or the lady next to them.
Time passes, maybe an hour, and I decide I should go find Mikaela. I should find out her shoe size, find out what she might want for Christmas. Jake has a kind heart, to remember a little girl he only met once, and to somehow know what she wants for Christmas.
I walk out of my room and go to Room 12. I knock and the door barely cracks open. The woman on the other side is old and hunched, a weary life etched into the deep crevices of her face. Everything on her face is turned down . . . her eyes, her hook nose, a mouth with no teeth to hold it in place.
“Hi. I’m Room Eleven . . . I mean, from Room Eleven. I’m looking for Mikaela. Does she live here?”
The door shuts in my face. Maybe when she said neighbor she meant two doors down. I knock but there is no answer. I try another, but the man grunts and huffs and closes the door.
Then I notice the janitor. She is walking, as she always does, pushing her cleaning cart down the hallway. She is about to pass me.
“Hey! Hi! Um, do you know what room Mikaela lives in? She’s eleven years old, about this high, has eyes that . . . they’re kind of like mine?”
The janitor only stares me down, but it’s after she passes me that I notice it: a Columbine flower tucked behind her ear.
I stop, pondering this, suddenly missing my grandmother very much and wishing she could see me in my element. But I refocus—I need to find Mikaela. I haven’t seen her in a couple of days.
Greetings from the Flipside Page 15
