Greetings from the Flipside (15 page)

He walks into his office and I also wonder why he keeps calling me Hope. I've specifically asked him to call me Landon. Even if he's seen my real name, he should call me what I want to be called. I'm going to have to address the issue but now is not the time.

I grab the list I've typed up and hurry into his office. Then I'm slammed with the smell of tuna. Again. I assumed he went out to eat, but no—there is that ominous small dish with the cheap metal fork. The tuna has been consumed yet it lingers like a jealous lover. A jealous lover who needs to bathe in something less oceanic.

“Tuna for breakfast and lunch . . . wow . . . some people prefer peanut butter and jelly . . .”

“Some people, when coming to work for a new boss, tend not to galvanize him within the first week. Hope.”

“Yes, about that. Not the galvanizing—interesting and ancient word choice there—but Hope. Hope with a capital
H
. I prefer to be called Landon.”

“Not a hope kind of girl?”

“Not lately, no.”

Just then Everett swings in. I wish I could say he's a breath of fresh air, but I've found that not to be the case.

“It seems,” he says, acknowledging me with another wink, “that we've been making enemies. Our first set of hate mail.” He throws part of the stack in his hands onto Jake's neatly arranged desk. The letters slide into a line, stopping right at the edge. Everett holds a couple in his hand. He reads the one on top out loud:

“‘Dear Heaven Sent People. Your cards are far from heaven sent. After my marriage ended, I received a card that said life will get better. It hasn't. If you're going to lie to me, you could at least make me laugh. Sincerely, the Former Mrs. Teasley.'”

My eyes widen so much my eyeballs start to hurt. Wow. I didn't know Mrs. Teasley had it in her. I glance at Jake. He looks genuinely pained. I'm kind of regretting the plan now, but Everett begins the second letter:

“‘Your cards make me mad. When the love of my life left me, people gave me your generic sympathy cards, as though they would help. They didn't. Miss Lonely.'”

Jake is thumbing through the envelopes. Everett continues with a third. I've bitten every single nail off every single finger on my hand. Now I'm about to bite through my lip as I watch Jake, his eyes dark with worry.

“‘When my husband died, my family sent me cards saying everything would get better. That I'd find love again. I haven't and I'm still a spring chicken! I should sue you for your empty promises!'”

I didn't have to guess who that was.

“‘Signed, Miss Gertie.'”

There's no way for me to leave. Everett is blocking the doorway. The room grows very quiet, so quiet that I wonder if guilt is audible, because if it is, I'm toast. But then I calm myself down, realizing there is no way they can know my plan or figure out who sent these. I remind myself this is a gentle nudge—though it turned out to be a bit assaulting—to help Jake see the light.

“We've never received feedback like this before.” Jake's voice is quiet.

“Oh, well, you know . . . I mean, take the constructive parts, see what you can do with it . . .” My hands are clasped behind me, pressed forcefully into my butt.

“It's interesting, they're all about lost love.”

There is something lost in his expression just then, something that dwells deeper than what I have access to. He's been hunched over his desk but suddenly stands up, a couple of envelopes in his hand. I think he's about to declare the humor department reopened when he says, “Hey . . . these are all from the same address.” He looks closer at them. “From Poughkeepsie.”

Turns out
guilt
is audible—it wheezes. Didn't I tell Gertie
not
to put the addresses on them?

Everett laughs. “Seriously? Poughkeepsie? What good thing ever came from Poughkeepsie?” Everett turns his attention to me. The tuna smell is now masked by the musky stench of my own guilt. “I'd ask you what you think, Lan, but I already know Jake won't listen.”

Lan? Seriously?

But Jake is looking at me like he might listen. So I try to seize the moment. “Maybe we should help people through the pain of lost love with humor, you know, instead of telling them they'll get over it. You guys have an entirely vacant department over there. Nice, roomy desks. Firm chairs.” I smile like I've just struck gold with the best idea ever.

I notice Jake glance at Everett and Everett glance at Jake. Something passes between them, something I'm not privy to, but sense nevertheless. “What?”

Jake ignores the question. “People who receive our cards already know they're in pain. They need encouragement to get past it, a reminder that even in the midst of trouble, they're not alone. That things will get better.”

Everett smirks. “Yeah. That'll save us. Your best intentions are going to sink us. Don't blame me when this fails.” Everett walks off, but his words still hang in the air.

Jake sits down in his chair, gazing at all the mail. There's at least a dozen letters there. I feel shame for what I've done. It's hurt him and I'm sorry for it. I take a few steps toward his desk.

“Have you ever received a card and gotten past your pain?”

A flash of pain temporarily freezes his expression but is gone as fast as it came. Then he grabs one of the envelopes and taps the return address with his finger. “I want to get these ladies on the phone.”

“Whh . . . . at? I'm sure a letter that lets them know you heard them would surely be . . .”

He's not listening to me. He's Googling the address. His hands drop from the keyboard. “A nursing home? Old ladies are complaining about lost relationships?”

“It's probably some kind of exercise they're doing to help improve memory. Like bingo.”

“I've got to talk to these ladies.”

“I am your assistant,” I say hastily. “Right? Let me take care of this. I'll reach them.”

“Okay, make initial contact and we'll go from there.”

For the second time today, I rush to the bathroom.

8

H
e'd gained a lot of favor from Bette, and was allowed to stay past visiting hours now. She felt strongly that the Coma Arousal Therapy would work for Hope, but she needed help. Jake was encouraged to talk to her, squeeze her hand, even eat his tuna fish. It all felt a little preposterous but here he was, despite it all.

It was getting harder and harder to leave her side.

At exactly 8:19 p.m., Jake took her hand into his, scooted the chair closer to her bedside and whispered, “Hope, where are you?” He was shaking as he said it. But she needed to know that nobody really knew where she was.

He looked down at his feet. No. What she needed to know was that, no matter where she was, she had something to come back to.

But he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. He popped open a can of tuna and stood, stretching his legs. With a plastic fork, he ate it bite by bite.

The door opened and CiCi slid in, glancing behind her like her life was in danger, and then she shut the door as carefully as if it were made of paper. She yelped as she noticed Jake.

“What are you doing here?” Then she smiled, pointing a finger at him. “You snuck in too, didn't you?” She plopped down in the chair at the end of Hope's bed. “That nurse . . . Bette? . . . she is something else. Real strict about those visiting hours. Always lecturing me about how to get Hope out of this horrible mess she's in.”

“It's not a mess, it's just what—”

“It's all a mess! Her whole life's a mess!”

Jake set his tuna aside and sat down. “CiCi . . . yes, something bad happened, but we can't let Hope believe that her life is a mess. She has a lot to live for. She's very . . . driven. Very . . .” The words were stuck in his throat but she needed to hear it. “. . . pretty.”

CiCi glanced at her daughter. “She could use a hair washing.”

“I think what Bette is trying to say is that we need to be encouraging.”

Suddenly tears streamed down CiCi's face. “But look at her . . . she's so . . . lifeless.”

Jake tried to find the right words. He was so bad with speaking words and so much more comfortable when he could write them down. “It's not true. She's in there. We just have to figure out a way to get her back here.”

CiCi wiped the tears with a tissue that looked like it'd been through a war. “Do you know where she was planning on going after she was married? To New York City. She wanted a career writing greeting cards. Who has heard of such a thing?”

Jake's gaze snapped to Hope. For real? Sure, he remembered how much she liked to write cards, but he never imagined she wanted to do it for a living.

“She's got real talent,” Jake offered, his attention back on CiCi. “She has to believe in herself.”

CiCi blotted her face. “The truth is, Jake, that I didn't believe in her. I thought the whole idea of moving to New York City was a huge mistake.” Her hands shot in the air and she shouted out a hallelujah. She looked at the ceiling, waving her hands. “Oh, Lord, Lord! How I wish now that she was there! Oh how I wish she was there right now!”

The door opened to the room and Bette stood there like a mad bull. CiCi's arms dropped to her side and she mumbled to Jake, “We're caught.”

Bette's finger pointed straight at CiCi. “You, missy, come here right now.”

CiCi obeyed, sheepishly shuffling toward Bette.

Bette looked like she could beat an elephant into oblivion. “As I told you before, we have strict rules about visiting hours. And here you are, making all kinds of racket. What are you trying to do, wake our patients?”

CiCi looked genuinely confused as she glanced back at Hope. “Yes . . . yes, I am . . .”

Bette realized her mistake as she glanced at Jake. “Yes, well, we must contain the efforts to visiting hours.” She spoke more softly as she guided CiCi out of the room. She glanced back at Jake. “And you, sir, I'll be back for you in a second.” But she winked at him like she had no such intentions.

The door shut and the room was quiet again. Hope never moved, just breathed shallowly and softly, like she had since the day she got here.

Jake clasped his hands together, trying to come up with a plan. “Greeting cards, huh? Why am I not surprised?” He stood and touched her shoulder, very slightly, as if he were afraid she might break. “The thing is . . . Hope . . .” Why could he not say these words? “The thing is . . . I need you.”

It sounded so ridiculous. He'd only reconnected with her a few weeks ago, and she was unconscious at the time. How could he need her? More importantly, why would she need him? But he'd written a lot of cards over the years, written cards that spoke of divine moments, divine intervention, of God coming down and working something amazing out.

He had more to say, but for now, that was all that would come out. So he sat back down and took her hand into his.

Greetings from My Life

I know so far it seems as if I spend a lot of time in the bathroom for things other than what a bathroom is typically used for, but my predicament is that I don't want Jake to hear, and Everett literally seems to appear out of nowhere. So I'm in a stall, sitting on a toilet with the seat down, whispering into my cell phone to Becca, trying not to echo.

“If you could call, tell Jake your grandmother wrote the letter but her hearing aid won't let her chat by phone—”

“You want me to lie.”

My whispers are all hissy because I'm tense and trying to get my point across. “It's either that or I end up back home on a hide-a-bed, searching want ads for the next Bed Pan Queen job, while every dork in Poughkeepsie waits on my front lawn!”

“Oh yeah, that.”

“So will you call?”

“Have you met that special guy on top of the Empire State Building yet?”

My whisper drops completely and now I'm just two levels below shouting. “Becca, not you!”

“At least tell me you're closer to getting your cards published. If I can't have you here, at least one of our dreams for you should be progressing.”

“I'm working on it.” I think I hear someone come in, but it's a false alarm . . . the automatic paper towel dispenser went off by itself as it sometimes does. “We have a big presentation in two days. I'm getting my samples ready.”

“I'm so glad your boss sees your talent.”

I don't have the heart to tell her that my scheme continues far beyond the nursing home fiasco.

After Becca and I hang up, I notice Jake is out of his office, probably for a meeting, so I hurry to the dark Humor Department and begin pulling out my pad and pencils.

“Hope?” My name is called distantly.

I literally growl—so glad no one was walking by at the moment. A growl coming from a dark room could send Pearl and Ruby into early retirement via death. I rush around the corner and hurry to my desk.

Jake is in his office, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. He is excited about something, I can tell. He's grinning before he even sees me and he's not a grinner. When he turns, he says, “Come on, we've got work to do.”

I follow behind him as we head for the elevators. He is talking fast.

“Let's forget all the cards I had you type up for the presentation. We're going to do something new.”

“Okay. Cool.” I say this way more calmly than I'm feeling. Maybe the nursing home ladies pulled off a miracle. “I'll be right back. Hold the elevator for me.”

I burst to my desk like my butt's on fire and grab my portfolio bag, which contains a few of the cards I didn't put in the desk. I manage my way back to the elevator just in time, slightly out of breath. Ruby and Pearl walk by, staring at us.

He says to them, “We're going out to do some writing.”