* * * *
I’m actually asked to sign autographs. If my dad could see me now. On the way back to the office, Everett is fielding phone calls, one after another. I sit in the car silently, staring out the window, the buzz from the attention wearing off like lipstick at the end of the day. I decide I must find Jake when we return, set some things straight. First of all, no kissing. Second of all, I respect him. I want him to know that. We just have different views, that’s all.
Everett puts his hand by the small of my back and guides me into the Heaven Sent office building. The news is indeed spreading fast. Heather waves excitedly and I’m finally not annoyed by her undying optimism expressed daily through the color yellow.
“The public is going to love your humor,” Everett says as we step onto the elevator.
“Thank you. Thank you for giving me a—”
“I want you to take over being the voice of this place. Replace Jake.”
“Wait . . . what? Jake, he’s your brother, and he’s still—”
“Forget Jake. Let’s head out on my boat this afternoon and talk about you.” His hand caresses the small of my back as he steps closer.
“Everett,” I say as smoothly as possible in a situation like this, “guys like you . . . they don’t like girls like me.” Just a casual observation, but Starla has fire-red lips. I’m the lip balm girl. Things aren’t adding up. “What’s your game?”
“I don’t have one,” he says, charm sizzling like a 4th of July sparkler.
“I won’t go out with you.”
“Why? Because of Jake?”
“No. Not Jake.”
The elevator doors open. I practically dive out—and right into the path of Candy. Today, it’s intense fuchsia, the kind proven to trigger migraines.
“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Candy sighs, putting her hands on her hips. “Here’s the deal, sweetheart. We’re going to have to ask you to leave.”
“What?” Everett says.
“If I don’t get the U.S. government the proper paperwork on you by one week from Thursday, you will no longer be employed by Heaven Sent.”
“Candy, she’s our potential gold mine. She’s not going anywhere.”
“We don’t have a choice, Everett. I’m sorry.”
“One week from Thursday?” Realization hits me. “That’s Thanksgiving.”
“I don’t make the rules, Ms. Landon. Just fix it.”
“I’m trying! It’s just that I can’t seem to . . . the Social Security office is always—”
“Prove you are who you say you are, or your life here is over.”
Candy walks away. I turn to Everett, but he is walking away too, his hands thrown into the air. I’m left by myself.
The one who can’t prove she’s alive.
* * * *
It feels like I’m living in one of those nightmares you can’t get out of. Everett tells me to leave immediately and go get this taken care of. “You should have plenty of time to get through the line today,” he said. And he’s right. Usually, I’m there in the late afternoon and the line is always wrapped around the block. But if I leave now, I’ve got four hours. So I grab my things, rush out of the building, and power walk straight to the Social Security office.
Now, if you were a total stranger and you walked by, observing this scene, you’d think I’d lost my mind. But since you know the whole story, you’ll understand why I’m clinging to the glass of the front window, my left cheek pressed against it, pounding and wailing. “No! No! You can’t be closed!”
But a sign on the front door clearly says Closed. “Why? Why?? How??”
A mounted police officer rides by, the horse’s hooves clacking loudly against the concrete. “Ma’am?”
I turn, my back and palms now against the glass. I look like an oversized window decal.
“Are you okay?”
I’m aware of the tears streaking down the side of my face and the fact that my hair is clinging to my cheeks the same way I’m clinging to this glass window. “They’re closed.” I manage to get the words out like a normal person, but then I sob.
He remains expressionless. “Yes, they are.”
“Why?” I wail. “I mean, why would they be closed on the one day I can get here on time?”
“It’s a federal holiday.”
“What?”
“They’ll open again tomorrow, ma’am.”
“What federal holiday? There’s no federal holiday!”
“Move along.”
I notice his hand has moved to his taser. Awesome. Yes, please taser me. That would be the perfect end to my day.
He waits. I sigh, grab my bag, and walk away. I don’t even bother going back to work. Not looking like the mess that I am. I wander the New York City streets for a while, hoping to be inspired by the vibe. I’m not. I’m hopeless. I’m going to end up losing my job because I’m dead. And then I’ll die, for real, from a broken heart.
Speaking of broken hearts, I find myself thinking of Jake a lot. Especially . . .
The kiss.
Why would he kiss me? As surprising as it was, I don’t regret it at all. And that surprises me even more. My life has been plagued with regret, so it just seems like that would be natural order of things now.
I must make things right with Jake. But before I do that, I have to get my life back. Literally. I decide I’m going to get up at the crack of dawn and arrive first thing at the Social Security office. That will ensure me a spot. Then my life can go on.
I’m in bed and the hopelessness returns. I’ve tried not to think of my wedding day. The busyness of the new job has helped. But alone in the darkness, atop lumpy old Murphy, I find myself dwelling on it. Then crying about it. I can’t sleep. But I must.
Then there’s a knock at the door. I almost don’t answer it, but there’s a little optimism in my heart that says this could be opportunity knocking. Silly things like that pop into your head when you’re mourning your pathetic life.
“Hi.” It’s Mikaela.
The fluorescent lights in the hallway nearly blind me. I put my hand over my eyes to shade them.
“Mikaela, what . . . what are you doing here?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Kiddo, it’s late.”
“It’s 8:30 p.m.”
“I . . . look, I’ve had a really hard day. I’m sorry, I just can’t . . . maybe tomorrow? Okay?”
She doesn’t say okay, but I smile and nod as if she did, and I shut the door.
It seems weird that being in the dark sparks thoughts of God, but this seems to be the place that I begin to remember him. Despite the nonsense that my mom brings to the table in the religious realm, I’ve always sensed God and known he loves me. It’s just that more often than not, I don’t pray. And I can’t really think of a good reason why that is so. It just is.
Maybe I’m a little mad at him that I got dumped at the altar. But then again, he wasn’t the one who dumped me. Maybe I’m a little mad at him that my dad disappeared. But then again, he isn’t my dad. I run out of excuses at some point and as I stare up into the dark, trying to find the ceiling. I say the first prayer I’ve uttered since coming to New York City. I ask for help proving I’m alive. He parted the Red Sea. Surely he can get me to the front desk of the Social Security office.
The next thing I know, it’s morning and my alarm is sounding. I shut it off, dress quickly, and forego breakfast. I grab my bag and hurry, walking faster than the already frenetic crowd of the NYC sidewalks.
I round the corner, bracing myself for a long line at the Social Security offices. I gasp.
There’s one person in line. The door hasn’t opened yet. It opens in five minutes.
I hurry to check to see if there’s a sign declaring a federal holiday. There doesn’t
seem to be. The man in front of me is old, using a cane. I don’t stand too closely for fear of knocking him over, but I’m about to burst with excitement. Finally!
I remember my little prayer to God and I silently thank him for making a way.
A woman walks to the door and unlocks it from the inside, opening it for the old man. I follow closely behind, flashing her a wide grin. I don’t really expect her to smile back, but she does.
Wow, this day is getting better. I glance behind me. There’s not even a line forming! Please tell me this isn’t a dream!
I expect to stand and wait, as the old man was there before me, but there are two windows and a friendly looking woman beckons me over to her window. I slide past the old man and quickly take a seat. There is a lump of happiness and relief in my throat.
“Hi,” I say.
“What can I do for you today?”
I explain my dilemma. By the look on her face, I can tell this isn’t something she sees every day. I take my passport and driver’s license out of my bag and slide it toward her. “So, as you can see,” I conclude, “it’s very important that I get this resolved today.”
“Oh yes. What an ordeal.” She’s looking at me with some pity, so ordeal might be referring to being dumped at the altar, but no matter, I’m just happy this horrible nightmare is almost over.
“Yes, it has been.” I nod. “It really has been.”
She picks up my passport and driver’s license, examining them both. Then she looks at me. “Unfortunately, we have a problem.”
12
Jake didn’t know what to do. CiCi continued to pray, though not as loudly and boisterously as before. She was praying about Hope not being fooled. It was absurd. How could a woman in a coma be fooled? He wanted to leave because it was all making him feel uncomfortable, but it also felt wrong to leave Hope with her mother draped over her body praying prayers that didn’t make any sense.
There was not a seed tinier than the mustard seed, so was it a trick question? The next level after faith as big as a mustard seed was no faith at all. And that certainly wasn’t him. He had faith. He’d written dozens and dozens of cards about faith during the dark times, faith that the sun would rise tomorrow, that God is good, that God has a plan. He’d written about all of it. So why couldn’t he join CiCi at Hope’s bedside, lay his hands on Hope’s arm, and try to pray her out of this coma?
Instead, he sat glued to his chair, staring at a woman who believed with all her might that her prayers were working and moving mountains. There was no such thing as faith by proxy. You either had it or you didn’t.
The door opened. Jake shot out of his seat, for no particular reason except he was being caught off guard in so many respects it just felt like he should be ready for anything.
Relief flooded him as Becca walked in carrying a teddy bear. She noticed CiCi flung across Hope and shot Jake a questioning look. Jake quickly took the bear, tucked it at the end of the hospital mattress, and guided Becca outside. CiCi never looked up. She was still praying.
He closed the door behind them as Becca whispered, “What is going on in there?”
“You don’t want to know. It’s the kind of thing that can send a woman into early labor.”
Becca smiled, patting her big belly. “At this point I wouldn’t mind. Four more weeks.” She glanced toward the room. “Is CiCi going nuts?”
Jake cleared his throat. “Well, um, she’s been very . . . what’s the word . . . enthusiastic about praying Hope out of this coma. But honestly, most of the time, I don’t think she’s making sense. Today she was rambling on about Hope taking the wrong path. I just think the stress is getting to her.”
Becca nodded. “That is very strange.”
“The thing is, Becca . . .”
“What is it?”
Behind them a flurry of chaos erupted. Someone was coding behind a curtain. Doctors and nurses rushed by them with a crash cart. It was a grim reminder of how serious Hope’s condition was, no matter how peaceful she looked. He didn’t know how much time she had. Nobody did. And here he was, dragging his feet, trying to come up with a way to express what he was feeling in a way that felt safe. He glanced over to the room where all the staff had flooded. Maybe they didn’t have time for safe.
“Jake, what’s wrong?”
He looked down at the cards he was still clutching in his hand. “It’s just that . . . things are getting kind of strange.”
“What do you mean? Hope? Is she not doing well?”
“I got these . . .” How could he even explain this? He was getting cards from someone in a coma. He was going to sound as crazy as CiCi.
“Yes? You got what?”
And then it came tumbling out of his mouth, partly because it was time to say it out loud and partly because it was easier to say than trying to explain the cards: “I love her.”
Becca’s mouth parted slightly. It didn’t drop clear to the ground, but there was shock there. Her expression backed that up. Her eyes were enlarged like she’d just seen some sort of meteorological phenomenon.
“I . . . I know that sounds crazy, doesn’t it? I mean, we hardly know each other. We know each other. Gosh, we’ve known each other since we were kids, but . . . sometimes she’d come into the shop and order those flowers and she was just so . . . and I couldn’t ever say anything to her. I could barely say hello. I thought about writing her a card once, but that’s all it was. Just a thought. And now she’s here, and I was there on that day, and I’m just thinking that . . . well . . .”
“It’s not a coincidence?”
Jake looked up at her, catching his breath after a long-winded explanation that tried to capture what Becca said in four words. “Right. Maybe we’re meant to . . .” He shook his head. “It sounds so stupid. I get that.”
Becca placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Jake, you’ve been here nonstop since this happened to Hope. You’ve been at her bedside. You’ve shown total dedication. I think she’d be lucky to have a guy like you.”
Jake smiled. It felt good to be affirmed. “The thing is, Becca, I can’t . . . I mean, I’ve sat there and tried to tell her. I even tried to write her a card. I just can’t get it to come out. I’m too scared.”
“Don’t you think she senses you’re there?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s hard expressing feelings. I get that. But there’s probably no safer place to try out what you’re trying to say than when she’s in a coma. I mean, what’s she going to do? Laugh at you? Storm off? Tell you you’re crazy?”
Jake smiled. “True enough.”
“I know one thing about that girl in there—she needs to be loved. She needs the kind of love that transcends from this life into whatever place she’s in now. Sometimes I’m afraid she’s in this dark, cold place, with nobody there for her. Maybe if she heard you tell her how you feel, she’d somehow find her way back to us.”
“But she’s just been through the thing with the wedding. Isn’t it too soon? Aren’t I treading on some kind of timeline boundary or something? Isn’t there a rule that you can’t go for the girl who gets dumped at the altar for six months or something?”
Becca laughed. “You and Hope . . . you two kind of think alike. I don’t know what the rules are, but I think we’re under special circumstances here.”
Suddenly the door to Hope’s room flew open. CiCi stood there for a moment, breathing hard, glancing between the two of them, her knuckles ghost white as she gripped the doorknob.
“We must pray she doesn’t go with him!” CiCi said.
Jake and Becca exchanged glances. Jake asked, “Who, God?”
“No!”
“The devil?”
“Stop making this spiritual!” CiCi barked.
If this wasn’t spiritual, then what was it? Who in the world would Hope go with?
&n
bsp; Becca stepped forward, her face the picture of calmness, her voice smooth and low. “CiCi, maybe you should walk around the building.”
“What?” CiCi’s attention snapped to Becca.
“Around the hospital building. Isn’t there something in the Bible about walking around a building seven times?”
CiCi’s expression indicated this was registering.
“Is it seven?” Jake asked. “I thought it was seventy?”
“Oh, gosh, maybe you’re right. I think it is seventy,” Becca said.
CiCi looked to be counting something on her fingers. Then she nodded. “Yes, it’s seventy. Seventy. Seventy.” She walked away nodding, her hands lifted in the air, completely oblivious to the room down the hallway with all the activity. She walked right past it without even noticing.
Becca had moved into the room to see Hope. Jake let her have some time alone. He stood in the hallway a long time, staring at the cards with Hope’s name as the sender, with her handwriting on the inside.
Then he noticed everyone filtering out of the room down the hallway. Doctors pulled off their masks. Nurses peeled off their gloves. Monitors were unplugged. Whoever was in there was gone. Jake closed his eyes. He’d written cards for people who were blindsided by tragedy. He knew firsthand that nobody knows what is waiting around the corner, so everyone should seize every moment.
He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and prayed for even a half of a mustard seed’s faith in himself.
Greetings from My Life
Remember when I told you that my life is like a poorly timed step on to an escalator? You’ve probably already seen several examples of that, but here’s another. I am on the phone with my mother and, as you already know, this is an exercise in patience. And when I’m impatient and frantic and frustrated out of my everlasting mind, I pace and gesture. Pace and gesture. Pace and gesture.
I’m all of the above times ten, so you can imagine I’m quite a sight to behold. And the mounted police officer confirms this as he pulls his horse to the curb and gets my attention.
Greetings from the Flipside Page 17
