* * * *
They say a new day brings hope. It doesn't. It feels as bad as the day before. And all you can think about is how bad it's going to feel every day from now on. I thought I might feel some relief leaving behind this tiny room with its hazardous bed, but I don't. I guess it's because where I'm headed is far worse.
The tiny trash can in the corner is overflowing with all my cards, which I ripped up last night. I throw one last card away, my favorite. It was the one I always laughed at, no matter how many times I read it.
It doesn't seem the least bit funny anymore.
I zip up my bag. The truth is I want to kick the daylights out of Murphy, because I'm mad and desperate and pathetic and Murphy seems like he could handle it. But I don't. I've already made a scene. No need to make another.
I open the door and he's standing there, leaning against the wall of the hallway, waiting patiently.
“I really appreciate you doing this, Jake. I'm sorry I had to call you. There's just no other way I could afford to get home.”
“I don't mind at all. We'd be going anyway, for Thanksgiving, right?”
“You still want to have Thanksgiving dinner with the meanest girl in town?” I shake my head. “I'm so sorry for what I've done to your company.”
He starts to say something, then notices my bed. “You left your pencils.”
I look at him. I don't have to say anything. He understands instantly it's intentional. He sighs and walks in to get them.
“I don't want them anymore.”
“Maybe Mikaela will.”
I look at the concrete floor. It's like I can feel its coldness through the bottom of my shoes.
“Thanks for . . . this thing with Mikaela . . . thanks for understanding. She doesn't get that I'm not coming back here, you know? She doesn't quite get the ways of the world. So when it's time for you to return, you will probably have to take her kicking and screaming. I'll try to say my good-byes as best as I can, okay? But I know you'll take care of her. I know she'll be looked after, because that's the kind of guy you are.”
“She adores you.”
“Don't remind me.”
“Hey!”
We turn and Mikaela is making her way toward us, dragging behind her a tiny suitcase she could probably better carry. “Who's ready for a Thanksgiving road trip?”
I try a smile, but it's like the corners of my mouth weigh a hundred pounds each.
Jake picks up the slack and grabs her suitcase. “Come on, let's get this trip going!”
They walk together and I follow along. My suitcase makes a horrible scraping sound along the concrete floor, like a wheel is stuck.
There is a sudden sharp pain, the one that always hits my heel. I don't even flinch. Pain is relative.
We load into Jake's town car and I tell Mikaela to sit in the front. As she buckles her seat belt, I realize she's really too small for up there. The whole seat kind of swallows her. But she is lit with excitement and jabbers all the way out of the city. She finally settles down, decides to work on her journal. I can see Jake glancing at me in the rearview mirror.
“Hope . . .”
I must look really pathetic. “I don't want to talk about it.”
About an hour goes by and then Mikaela turns and looks at me from the front seat. “I should have invited Matthew to join us. I want you to meet him before you leave me.”
“I'm not leavingâ”
“Who's Matthew?” Jake thankfully interrupts what was about to be a lie straight to her face. But somehow I get the feeling Mikaela already knows.
“The new boy, he just moved in. He's got these weird glasses, but I kind of like him.”
“You move on fast,” I say.
“Lose one, find another. Isn't that how it works?”
“According to Jake's cards, yes.” I sigh, wishing I weren't so mean when I get upset. But Jake doesn't seem to be rattled by this defect in my personality. I point ahead. “Turn here, on the right.”
But Jake turns left. He glances at a set of directions he has sitting beside him.
“I said
right
.” But he ignores me.
I slouch in my seat and stare out the window, a hot mess of grudge.
Just as fast, I slide back up, my spine totally erect as I stare out the window. This can't be happening. We've just pulled into the nursing home parking lot. I roll down the window to make sure I'm seeing this right.
I'm trying to find something to say, some way to get out of this. Jake and Mikaela hop out of the car.
“Uh . . . wait. You know, my mother, she's neurotic. She likes people to be on time.” This may be the only time my mother's neuroses save me.
Jake opens the back door, offers his hand. I realize instantly I cannot refuse a chance to put my hand in his. It's probably going to be my undoing.
“Your mom doesn't seem to be the type to get ruffled over time,” he says. “Besides, I have a few ladies to apologize to.”
I try to keep my pace in front of theirs. I'm walking so fast I look as awkward as those speed walkers you see on the jogging trails. But maybe I can thwart this somehow, get to Gertie before Jake does.
The doors
swoosh
open and a gaggle of residents are gathered in the front commons area, all wearing turkey hats and watching some black and white movie.
Gertie's in the back. She turns and I almost dive behind the front desk, but it's too late. She sees me.
“Hope!”
Jake glances at me. I hurry over to her, but I recognize my problem immediately. I can't whisper a plan to Miss Gertie. She won't hear me.
“My goodness,” she says, embracing me. “Oh my goodness, Hope! I didn't expect to see you today!”
“Hi, Miss Gertie.”
Jake steps up, offering his hand to Miss Gertie. “Miss Gertie, eh? I'm Jake. And I just wanted to tell you . . .” He glances at me, a wistful smile on his lips. “I just wanted to tell you that in life, we can feel abandoned. Alone. But our Lord above watches each of his own. You belong to him in the palm of his hand. You're never out of reach, like all the grains of sand.”
Miss Gertie melts right there in her wheelchair. “You seem like a nice man. Hope, doesn't he seem like a nice man?”
“No bet,” I say to him, “I'm completely out of ones. You two get to know each other. Also, the sand line makes no sense.”
He looks at Miss Gertie. “But how do you know Hope?”
Miss Teasley rolls up. “Did I write those letters all right for you?”
I bite my lip. I'm caught. Jake's expression says everything. I notice Mikaela. She's hurrying down the hallway. Where is she going?
“I'm sorry . . . how do you all know . . . ?” I don't hear the rest of Jake's question because I race after Mikaela. Last I saw her she was headed to the wing where my grandma is.
At Grandma's door, I spot Mikaela. She is sitting in front of my grandmother, leaning forward in an embrace with her. I notice some of the cards I've left her are gone. In her more lucid moments, she sometimes gave them away to the cleaning ladies, but she hasn't been lucid in a while. Maybe someone is stealing them because they're so incredibly funny.
Maybe
I'm
the one who isn't lucid.
“Oh my child, how I've missed you. I'm so, so sorry about what happened to your daddy.”
I step out of their line of sight, my back against the wall just outside the door. How is my grandmother talking? And how does she know about Mikaela's father? I can't imagine any of this and my mind is reeling . . . so much so that I don't see Jake walk up until I spot his shoes next to mine.
“Let's go,” he says.
I try a grin. “Ready for my mom's great cooking?”
“I'm not staying. I'll drop you off and come pick Mikaela up when dinner is over.”
I touch his arm. “Jake . . . I'm sorry. If I still had my job, I'd quit. I'd tell you to fire me.”
He looks me straight in the eyes. “After I did you a favor and gave you a job, it hadn't occurred to me you set this up to get what you wanted.”
I sigh. No surprise. It was known around the nursing home that Miss Gertie's pastime was getting in other people's business, matched only by her inability to keep a secret. She'd apparently spilled all the beans. “I never meant to hurt you.”
“This isn't just about work, Hope. You won't give me a chance because you're too afraid I'll hurt you. But all you've done since you came in my life is hurt me. Just call me gullible. Stupid. Trusting.” His eyes flicker with deep pain.
“But that's what's adorable about you, Jake,” I grin. YeahâI have a habit of throwing in a punch line when I shouldn't. That very defect has cost me my job. And more, I am seeing.
“Why? So people like you can take advantage of me? Let's go.”
He walks off. I call Mikaela's name and she appears in the hallway. Her eyes look red and a little swollen. She walks past me, not saying a word. I stand in the doorway of my grandmother's room and observe her. She looks catatonic again, like I've known her to be for some time. I can't explain what is happening. But I'll have to worry about my grandmother later. The car ride is quiet as we drive to Mom's. There's a lot I want to say to him, but not in front of Mikaela. I'm hoping he will change his mind about staying, but we pull up to Mom's house and he keeps the car idling. The gentleman that he is, he steps out of the car and opens my door for me. Mikaela gets out too, observing the house with a strange intensity.
“I'm sorry,” I say again.
“Have a good Thanksgiving,” he replies. He reaches in and grabs my bag for me. He sets it on the grass.
He's about to step back into the car when my mom comes flying out the front door, racing down the driveway like something's on fire. “Oh, hallelujah!! My daughter is home. Home, home, home!” She pulls me into a one-way hug. “I kicked out the renter in your twin bed. You'll want to wash the sheets.” She lets go of me and grabs Jake. “Welcome, welcome! Come in, come in! Jake, I made a tuna casserole, all special, just for you.”
She then takes Mikaela by the arm and leads her inside. Jake looks unsure what to do. He's too nice of a guy, I realize, to reject a tuna casserole made especially for him, no matter how mad he is at me.
He shuts off the car and we walk inside, side by side, but not speaking a word.
I am surprised that dinner seems to be ready. My mom is the kind who starts dinner at five and we eat at nine. I have vivid memories of eating carrots and potatoes, and then two hours later, getting the roast that was supposed to go along with it.
I drop my bag at the door, gawking as my mom comes in from the kitchen holding a tray, but it's not a serving tray like you'd see in a Martha Stewart magazine. It's a cafeteria tray, like I had to carry every day of my school life. And on top of it is a plastic plate with little dividers, just like my lunch was served on in school. There's green Jell-O, vanilla pudding, rice, Salisbury steak, and a large helping of tuna casserole.
“Let me help you with that,” Jake says. What kind of Thanksgiving dinner is this? It's like I've landed in the hospital and they're bringing in my dinner. I probably nearly cringed to death at some point today.
I watch as Jake puts the tray at the head of the table.
“Don't put it there,” Mom says. “We leave that open in case Hope's father shows up. We did pray, remember?” She points to the third chair on the far side of the table. “But you can have Sam's seat.”
“Sam?”
“Mom!” I bark.
“Ever since he left Hope stranded at the altar, I haven't invited him back.” And she walks off to fetch another tray. Jake follows her to help, but casts me a look. The anger is gone. I look away. I can't stand the pity that's now in his eyes.
That's when I notice Mikaela. She is sitting on the nearby couch, flipping through a photo album. Tears are in her eyes. I sit next to her, realizing she is not unlike me, in so many ways. She is hurting, this little girl with her wise ways about her.
I notice the picture she is looking at. It's one of my favorites: Dad and I are standing out in the snow together, smiling at the camera.
“Holidays are hard, huh?” I say quietly.
“Do you ever worry about what's next?”
“All the time.”
Her cheeks flush as a tear rolls down her face. I put a very gentle hand around her shoulder, as if I've never hugged someone before. Mikaela collapses into my embrace, leaning fully into my chest. We sit there for a while as I watch Jake and Mom carry in hospital food for our Thanksgiving dinner. My life is so surreal.
“Come, come! Time to eat!”
Jake smiles slightly at me as he puts the last tray down. I smile back. Could it possibly be my mother's quirkiness might reconcile us to at the very least speaking terms?
We take our places, the three of us staring down at our food like you do when you're in the hospital, unsure you should eat it because it might make you sick. You're in a hospital after all. Surely it's safe. It just doesn't look safe.
Mom claps her hands. “After dinner, I have a surprise for all of us!”
Nobody has to say it, but we're all thinking it:
This isn't it?
I glance at Mikaela. “This can't be good,” I whisper.
She laughs and swipes away a final tear.
14
I
n the darkness of the shop, Jake stood in the midst of the chaos and destruction he'd caused. Flowers thrown everywhere. All of his cards ripped to shreds. It looked like a tornado had blown through. It's exactly what his soul felt like too. At his feet, he stared at shredded pictures of rainbows and mountains and quiet streams winding into serene forests.
What a crock.
How could he have been so foolish to believe things always work out, somehow and some way? He bought into his own nonsense. He bought into carefully chosen, poetically rhythmic words that held hope up on a pedestal.