I wander the YMCA to no avail, asking people if they’ve seen her or know her. Nobody seems to know anything about her.
I am passing the front door of the YMCA when I hear noise, the sounds of children. I hurry outside and see a group of them on the sidewalk. And then I spot Mikaela, at the back of a disorganized and rowdy line.
A woman is clapping her hands, raising her voice above the noise. “Kids! Kids! One line, please. You know the drill. The bus will be here in a moment to take us back.”
Mikaela is busy writing in her journal. She glances up and the cute boy she likes is passing her by. She smiles shyly at him. “Hi there, David.”
She’s so cute! The perfect amount of flirt in that smile. But the boy bumps her shoulder and walks by without even a glance or an acknowledgment. I watch the joy in her eyes fade and she turns her attention back to her journal, her face nothing but a sad mess of emotions.
I’m going to cry.
I hurry to her, like she needs rescuing or something. As I come up beside her, she looks up, startled. Then she looks toward the crowd of kids, her expression a little sheepish.
I cast my attention toward the line of kids. “So, you’re not my neighbor?”
“I merely live down the street with 112 brothers and sisters, minus one crush. Can’t call him a brother, citing the ick factor.”
I suddenly realize it. She lives in a group home, the one I walk by every day on my way to the subway.
I swipe hair out of her face. “Are you still mad at me?”
“Is Jake?”
“Yes.”
“Then yes. Yes, I am.”
As you’ve probably gathered so far, I’m impulsive. I snatch her journal out of her hand like I’m the little kid.
“Hey!” she says, reaching for it.
“Then what can I buy off your Christmas list?” That’s right, now I’m buying a kid’s love. I quickly scan her list titled MY CHRISTMAS LIST. “True love. Pencil set of all colors. More time.” I look at her, holding the pad away from her as she tries to snatch it back. “More time? What does that mean?”
She crosses her arms. “You’ll figure it out. If it’s not too late.”
The bus lumbers to the side of the curb and the kids burst with excitement as they load in the exact opposite way the lady in charge is instructing.
I look at Mikaela. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those kids who’s sick and going to die on me.”
“I’m not sick.”
“Then what does this mean?”
“Come on, kids! Load up! Mikaela, that means you!” The lady is waving her hands, trying to corral the masses.
While I’m looking at the woman, Mikaela snatches the journal back. She hurries into line and disappears into the sea of kids. I watch the bus roar to life and leave.
More time. What could she possibly mean by that?
More time for what?
11
Mindy sat there for a moment and then slung her bag over her shoulder. “Listen, Jake, I’m going to leave you with that, okay? If you need me, let me know. Take all the time you need.”
“Oh um . . . thank you . . .” Jake said but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the cards.
The room became very quiet and he held them in his hands for a long time. But it still felt like a mirage.
The envelopes were addressed to him and sent to the shop’s address. The handwriting was barely legible, like there was hardly a hand attached to write it. In the return address was the word Hope, and under that, only the words Poughkeepsie, New York.
Inside the envelopes were typical greeting cards, with beautiful pictures of mountains and streams and rainbows. Inside the cards were messages of hope, offering Scriptures about God’s strength and love. But most of the text on the inside was scratched out and rewritten into some kind of punch line. And strangely, each card was signed . . .
By Hope.
But how? How could she possibly send him cards, five of them to be exact, while she’s in a coma? He clutched them and closed his eyes, praying to the Father that he sometimes—most of the time—didn’t understand. He loved the Father’s promises and hoped very much they were true, but deep in his heart he wasn’t always sure. All he knew was that he wanted people to have hope and the best chance of hope he ever knew was in God.
And only God knew how a woman in a coma could send him greeting cards.
“Oh, God!!!”
Jake’s head jerked up as CiCi rushed into the room.
“Oh dear God!!”
“CiCi . . . shhhh, there are other patients—”
“I’m not talking to you!” Her eyes were fierce, which surprised him, because she didn’t really seem capable of fierceness. “Oh dear, dear God . . .”
Jake hurried to shut the door. He turned around, his back against it, trying to figure out what in the world was going on. He cautiously approached the bed where CiCi was splayed out over her daughter, her arms trying to reach the width of the bed in what looked like a gigantic hug.
“CiCi . . . are you okay?”
She turned her head to look at him, still resting on top of her daughter. “I was in the chapel and I was praying and I got a message from the Lord.”
Jake felt equally alarmed and curious. “Uh huh . . .?”
CiCi stroked Hope’s face. “She is about to do something that is going to cost her everything.”
Jake cautiously stepped forward. “CiCi, what could she possibly do? She’s in a coma.”
“Do you think I understand this?” CiCi snapped. “Of course she’s in a coma. But I specifically heard from the Lord, that I was to pray that her path is set right.”
“You’re not making any . . .” But his words trailed off as he glanced at the stack of cards sitting in the chair. He swiped them up and put them behind his back before CiCi noticed them.
“Something very strange is going on,” CiCi said, her voice low and cryptic. “Some things that can’t be explained.” She was standing over her daughter now, both hands spread wide over Hope like cat claws.
Jake didn’t know what to say. She was right, of course. But CiCi was crazy . . . wasn’t she?
“I can’t lose her too. No . . . no, I can’t lose her too . . .” CiCi was wiping tears.
“CiCi, I’m not really one for, um, openly expressing my, um . . . you know . . . God and all that, but I know he hears our prayers. I know he is working in this situation. We just can’t see it.”
“I must pray, I must pray, I must pray,” she said, squeezing Hope’s arm. “I must pray for her to be set on the right path. She’s on the wrong path. She’s on the wrong path.” She turned to Jake. “If you have the kind of faith that’s going to move a mountain, then put your hands right here on my daughter and together we’ll pray. Yes, together we’ll pray as the Lord has instructed.”
“Um . . . I just . . .”
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “But if your mustard seed isn’t cutting it, then get out. Hope needs the Lord to come down into this room and move in one mighty miracle, just like a strike of lightning. Boom!”
“I . . . I’m kind of . . .”
But CiCi had returned her attention to Hope, crying and wailing over her daughter, quoting obscure Scriptures that didn’t even seem to apply to the situation.
Something very strange is going on.
And CiCi was the only one who had said it out loud.
Greetings from My Life
I discovered over the past couple of days that I’m not hard-nosed. Stubborn, yes. Passionate, most definitely. But putting it to Jake has not brought me the least bit of satisfaction and cost me a lot of sleep. Everett, on the other hand, seems unaffected, which is strange considering this is his brother.
I decide I must make things right with Jake. I must set him at ease, show him wit
h gentleness and care that the switch to a more modern greeting card is only going to help him keep the company he and his father love so much.
It’s midmorning when he walks by.
“Jake!”
He stops, looks at me, says nothing. There’s not even an expression on his face. Blank hurts. I’d feel better if there was at least a scowl.
“Hey, look, if the cards do well, we’ll need our next set. I want your help.”
He stands there for a moment, then shrugs. “I can’t help you, Landon. What you write—it makes fun of what I believe.”
I can’t help but notice he’s given up calling me Hope.
“There are people out there in pain because of love. Love smacks them over the head, leaves them for dead.” I’m gesturing with my black and white pencils. “They could use humor.”
Suddenly, he’s standing at the edge of my desk, having charged up to it like an angry bull. His nostrils are even flaring. He leans across my desk now, his hands flat against it, his face glowing with radioactive anger.
“Your humor, it just covers up the pain. There are many who lose love and find it again.”
I’m frozen, one pencil pointing to the sky, the other having rolled out of my hand, onto my desk, and then to the floor. It’s hard to describe how close he is to my face, but let’s just say I’m regretting the everything bagel this morning.
His hand moves. He’s reaching for one of my cards. He doesn’t take his eyes off me as he picks it up. He stands erect now and reads the card out loud. “‘The Bible says, God is not a man that he should lie. Sorry your man is not God. What a liar he turned out to be.’”
“Happens all the time. It’ll be a best-seller. But this one won’t be.” I snatch my notepad from the Central Park brainwashing session. “‘Love is patient, love is kind. Our lives will always be entwined.’”
He grabs another one of my cards. “‘The Bible says God keeps your tears in a bottle. That’s a bottle. One. Don’t fill it up on one ex. Trust me. There will be more.’” He stares at me. “You really think this helps? This isn’t even funny.”
He was right. Not one of my best, but it was a first draft.
He tosses it and it lands on the floor.
Now it’s on.
Instantly I remember the card I used to find the address of Heaven Sent. It’s still in my bag. I plunge my hand in and pull it out. I use a breathy voice, just for effect. “‘In this time through the valley, you struggle to go on. God’s hand will sustain, as you mourn one who’s gone. Memories will help this pain in your heart. Mountaintops will return as God does his part.’”
“That’s the truth,” he says.
“Yeah? Well someone gave this to my mother when she . . .” Filters fly up. Not the time to mention wedding fiasco, rumored suicide, death certificate. “. . . when she lost someone. Do you think that’s what she needed to hear?”
Dang. He’s got another of mine in his hands. “‘The best way to dull the pain from your breakup is for something really bad to happen next. I’ll pray for that.’”
I crack up. Now that one rocks. It actually doesn’t, but I have to hold my ground here with a grin that says how awesome I think it’s not. He tosses it in the air. The forced smile snaps right off my face. Now I’m gritting my teeth.
“These are mean-spirited,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “Anyone going through pain won’t be ameliorated.”
“Ameliorated?” I’m standing now. And it could be argued that I’m shouting too. Nearby I hear Ruby’s hearing aid sound off with a high whine. “Jake, do you live with your nose in a dictionary? A thesaurus? Nobody uses that word. Nobody even knows what that word means! Try the real world, where real people live.”
“Oh, so now you’re not just revising my cards, you’re rewriting my conversations?”
And then I yelp loudly, that high kind of pitch that kids describe as a girl scream. But that sharp pain is going through my heel again. “Look,” I say, trying to hold my foot and keep from crying at the same time. I grab the dictionary off my desk, but my heel still feels like it’s being poked. “Ouch!!” I wobble, off balance, and instinctively grab his arm. I squeeze.
All muscle.
But then I’m back to my heel, which continues to feel like it’s being stabbed by something, but upon inspection, there’s nothing there. I open the dictionary, flipping through the pages quickly, trying to find ameliorate.
My finger is halfway down the page when I find it. “Ameliorate. Mend. Help. Improve.” I’m about to use this word against him, explaining that I am ameliorating his company, when he puts his hands on my desk again. This time more gently.
“What’s the word when you want to kiss someone you’re really mad at?”
“Passion.” I blurt it out right as I begin to think it’s not the definition he’s interested in. I’m guessing this by the way he’s staring at me. Our eyes are locked. “Also, crazy. Cracked. Demented.” Each word gets softer because his face is moving closer to mine. I don’t get the word insane out because our lips are now pressed together.
I can’t breathe.
And right at this moment, I don’t want to.
But then I come to my senses. I pull away. “Don’t do that! I don’t kiss—I mean, I kiss, of course, but I don’t . . . what I mean is, I don’t . . .” I’ve got an entire dictionary at my fingertips and I can’t find a single appropriate word.
“You don’t risk? Chance? Gamble?”
“If you love someone, they go away. That’s life. You know it, better than anyone. And you can’t even talk about it. About her.”
The words are out before I know it. Yet again, my filter has failed. Big time.
My words hang between us and slowly he backs away, his expression wounded, his eyes filled with pain. He turns and rushes out of the room.
Behind me, I hear Ruby and Pearl gasp.
* * * *
I’m quickly putting on lipstick. It’s more like lip balm. It’s actually got no color at all. It’s the best I can do. What can I say, I’m not a makeup girl. But according to Everett, I’m about to be on camera.
Seconds after Jake stormed out of my office, Everett was calling me on the phone, telling me I needed to come with him immediately. He rambled in the car about the press release, about the phone calls, about the interest. He said his company has never seen anything like it.
“Our publicity department was overwhelmed!” Everett says as we round the corner on to 8th Street.
“We have a publicity department?”
“Just one lady. Denise. She’s also our marketing director.”
“Oh.”
“Landon, listen to me. You’ve got to exude confidence, okay? Stand tall. Be the persona of these cards, okay?” He is very wound up, his eyes large and focused, his grip on my arm squeezing tighter with every word.
“I got it.”
“You can do this.” He smiles warmly at me and I feel myself gaining confidence.
The car sweeps to the side of the street. Everett exits effortlessly. I’m a little clunky getting out, but I manage. Everett is instantly by my side, guiding me at the elbow. I look up and notice we’re at a card and gift shop. And then I see the camera crew.
The reporter, trailed by her husky camera operator, greets us on the sidewalk.
“What are we doing?” I whisper to Everett. I wasn’t prepared for reporters.
But Everett doesn’t answer. He’s too busy shaking the hand of the reporter and introducing me to “Starla.”
Starla seems fully enamored with Everett, even as she politely shakes my hand. Her eyes don’t leave him.
“Thanks for covering this for me, Starla.”
“Anything for a ride on that boat.” You have to see this—she’s stroking the microphone like it’s a toy poodle. Her voice purrs. “So this is your
writer.”
“This is Landon.”
Starla regards me for a moment. With her four-inch heels she’s a good six inches taller than I am. I hate standing next to tall women. They always make me feel small. She flips her finger in the air, makes a circular motion, and the camera operator suddenly comes to life, moving toward me. Starla steps in front of Everett, giving him a coy smile, and then is standing beside me.
“Heaven Sent cards just unveiled a new kind of card, something you wouldn’t expect from them. You heard it here first, a line of breakup cards. If you haven’t seen these, rush out to your nearest card shop and take a look.”
It’s like they spontaneously appear but I realize they’re drawn by the news truck, and the flashy guy in the suit—that would be Everett—directing them into the store. Before we know it, the little card shop is overwhelmed with customers. The cameraman is wandering the aisles, taking shots and sound bites as Starla leads the way.
“I’m buying this breakup card and I don’t even have a boyfriend!” says one customer to the camera. “It just made me laugh!”
“I tell ya,” says another lady, right behind her, “if my guy broke up with me, I’d want one of these cards. They’re hilarious! These cards tell it like it is!”
Starla manages to find the only guy browsing the cards.
“I just found out my girl cheated on me. They have the perfect card for me to end it.”
Everett smiles and winks at me from across the floor, pitching a thumbs-up. I’m enjoying the moment, there is no doubt. I’m a greeting card writer so I hardly ever get to see people’s reactions to what I write. I just have to imagine it. But here it is, right in front of me.
And then, so is Starla, with the microphone shoved in my face, asking me a question about my feelings.
I look at her. “I hope they’ll be a hit. I was so tired of the normal cards out there that promise a better life to come, especially after a breakup. Pain hurts. Might as well make it funny.”
Starla grins as she turns toward the camera. I see Everett off to the side, watching us, glee beaming off his face like moonlight.
“And make it funny she has!” Starla’s giving the camera her mega-watt smile. “Heaven Sent may have struck gold on this one, folks. Perhaps these cards—and this writer—are a gift sent from heaven. Time will tell.”
Greetings from the Flipside Page 16
