Greetings from the Flipside (5 page)

Then I jolt awake even though I did not think I was asleep. I am on an airplane. I can feel the plane touching down. “Welcome to Idaho, folks!” says the flight attendant.

I sit up straight, blinking away the fog, and peek over the heads of the rest of the passengers.

The flight attendant, holding the P.A. mic, has a plastic smile—and a head that is shaped like a potato.

Literally.

I slide back down in my seat.
What
have I gotten myself into? And why does my head hurt? At least I don't seem to be bleeding anymore.

Three days later I begin to understand there might be hope that I'm going to make it through this mess.

I am sitting on the veranda, overstuffed from my breakfast of hash browns, sweet potato fries, and cheddar mashed potatoes. Carol, the nice lady that runs the place, said I'd be in a coma for a while, and she wasn't kidding. With this much carb consumption, who wouldn't be? I like the outside because inside there are a lot of animal heads nailed to the walls. Deer. Moose. Lots and lots of antlers and beady eyes. Wasn't doing much for my creativity.

Outside, it's actually quite beautiful and the weather is gorgeous. A light breeze lifts the edge of my drawing pad every so often. The lodge sits atop a mountain and overlooks the breathtaking Kootenai Valley. Next to my pad are my five colored pencils, newly sharpened. So far I've sketched out twenty-seven cards on this trip. But it is the twenty-eighth that manages to catch my attention.

In a stroke of genius that began with the caption
Boy Meets Girl, Boy Loses Girl
, I realize I have discovered an untapped market for greeting cards.

I kind of bolt backward in my chair, standing, staring at it, gesturing at it like it might give me a response. I know I have a winner. Carol comes out to the veranda, asking if I'd like sweet potato flavored tea.

“I've just struck gold, Carol,” I say, gesturing in wild strokes toward my pad of paper. “Right now! Right here!”

Carol smiles vacantly. “Wonderful, sweetheart. Did you say yes to the tea?”

“I'll pass.” I put my hands on my hips and grin widely enough to think there might be some Cheshire in my ancestry. “Now I just have to help you find your way,” I say to the little card.

I stare at it with reverence and deep emotion. This is my ticket out. Right here in front of me. Tears drip into my hash browns.

First, I must return to Poughkeepsie and finish some business.

4

N
othing else in the world made Jake more uncomfortable than hospitals. The smells, everything from the cafeteria food to the floor cleaner, nauseated him. And he didn't think of himself as a germaphobe, but in a hospital, sometimes it felt like things were crawling off the walls and right onto him. Every place there was a foam disinfectant dispenser, Jake used it.

But this particular visit was growing increasingly uncomfortable for other reasons that had nothing to do with the hospital. First, he was ushered to the hospital with Hope's family and closest friend. He was definitely the odd man out. He hadn't explained he knew her from school. He hadn't explained anything. Her friend, Becca, had insisted he come, and then stay, calling him a hero for finding Hope. On and on.

Jake didn't do anything extraordinary. He was just in the right place at the right time. Unfortunately for Hope, it seemed she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

As they stood in the hallway now, just outside Hope's room in the ICU, Becca explained everything in a very hushed tone, patting her pregnant belly to underline certain important facts.

Hope was dumped at the altar.

She had plans to leave Poughkeepsie.

She never saw this coming.

None of them did.

But even weirder than Becca's trust in him, was Hope's mother. Jake had met her a couple of times, when she came in to order the flowers. She never seemed particularly odd, though Mindy had mentioned she was a bit . . . off. Perhaps she was outdated but that was all he noticed. Now, though, she was wailing. And not in a crying or grieving sense, although she was obviously sad. But it was more in uncontrollable bursts of . . . prayer? He wasn't even sure. But he heard God mentioned a few times. Jesus twice. She wasn't swearing. Just . . . praying.

Becca was able to handle her, but Jake was afraid to say or do anything. Mostly he just wanted to sink into the wall and keep an eye on Hope.

She'd been unconscious since he'd found her. They'd taken her immediately to get a CT scan. Now the doctor and two nurses were in the room examining her. Jake watched CiCi while listening to Becca talk about how sad she was for Hope. Jake understood that sadness. If he'd only been there a few minutes earlier, maybe he could've stopped the attack.

Just outside the ICU, through the small windows in the automatic doors, two cops waited to see if she would wake up. They wanted to try to get a description of whoever did this to her. Jake had already told them everything he knew, which was nothing.

“JESUS!” CiCi belted. Jake jumped toward Becca.

Becca patted his shoulder. “You'll get used to it.”

He doubted that.

The sliding glass door that led to her room opened and the doctor emerged, his expression not betraying a hint of what he was about to say. He held a chart in his hand, scribbled something down, and handed it off to the nurse before approaching CiCi.

“Doctor, please tell me she is going to be all right. Please. She's my only child!” CiCi clung to the doctor's arm. He didn't look like he was used to being touched. Becca gathered her into her arms.

“The wound is deep. She's definitely going to need stitches and we're going to need to take care of that immediately,” the doctor said. “The CT scan shows swelling on the brain. She is in a coma.”

“What?” CiCi looked like she was about to collapse. “A
coma
?”

“There is no way of telling how long she'll be in the coma.” The doctor shifted his weight from one leg to another and then took a step back. “Or
if
she will come out of it.”

CiCi began to cry. She turned and clung to both Jake and Becca, taking an arm from each of them. Her fingers dug into the flesh of his bicep.

The doctor's attention focused on Jake, since CiCi had turned away from him. “Traumatic brain injuries are tricky, and they don't follow a pattern or formula. We'll keep an eye on her vitals.” His expression dropping into solemn stillness. “And hope for the best.”

He left and they all turned toward Hope's room, staring at her. She looked like she was asleep. She had no ventilator in. A few IVs dangled from her arm. Otherwise, she looked like she was napping on a rainy day. Jake wondered if he should stay or go, but CiCi turned right to him, her eyes locked into him like a deadbolt. “Are you coming?” She nodded toward the room.

“I, um, wasn't sure if I should stay or—”

“Honey, we need all the prayers we can get in there.” She reached for his hand, which he'd stuffed in his pocket. “We're goin' in like a college marching band and we're going to blow our faith horns like it's bedlam!” She stepped toward him. “You do pray, don't you?”

“Sure. Of course.” Not really. His prayer life wasn't all it used to be. Luckily, it didn't sound like he was going to be the one leading the pack of three. He glanced at Becca who seemed all at once sad and startled.

CiCi turned and actually marched right in. All she was missing was a baton. She pumped her hand into the air.

“I'm just warning you,” Becca said out of the side of her mouth, “that it could get interesting. Don't get me wrong. That woman loves Hope with all her heart. But she's got her own way of doing things, and—”

Becca's words were cut short by a loud wailing that sounded like a shofar he'd once heard in church.

“Enough said,” Becca said with a tense smile. “Let's go.”

Jake took a moment to catch his breath before stepping into the room, but was then nearly knocked to the ground by a nurse going in at the same time. She elbowed her way into the room, gasping and looking around.

“It's okay,” Jake said. “Everything's okay. It's just her mother. She's very . . . upset.”

“Lord! Heal her! Heal her, Lord Almighty! Bring her back, Lord! Bring her back!”

The nurse froze, listening for a moment. Then she nodded and turned toward Jake. “Gotcha,” she said with a warm smile.

When Jake saw her face, she was way older than he expected, with sagging skin and wiry gray hair that looked as if it hadn't been tamed a day in its life, though it seemed she probably gave it a good try every morning. She wore no makeup except a thin line of red lipstick that was barely inside its border. She touched his arm, a kind touch, like a grandmother about to dispense advice you might carry with you for the rest of your life. “Just remember, there is evidence that coma patients can hear what's going on around them.”

“Bring her back,” CiCi wailed, “from the clutches of death!”

The nurse gave him a knowing look and then left.

Jake needed to stay. He wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, but maybe it was to insert a little bit of reality into the situation.

The reality was—and he knew this firsthand—God was sometimes in the habit of not answering prayers.

Greetings from My Life

I stand at the curb of my house, fishing for cash to pay the cab driver whose cab made an inexplicable beeping noise the entire trip. Despite that annoyance, I'd handed him one of the cards I'd made while in Idaho, and to my everlasting delight, he is laughing. And not just a chuckle. I'm talking a full-fledged belly laugh. He's actually leaning over, slapping his knee.

I start to hand him the cash, but he waves me on, pointing to the card, indicating that's all the payment he needs. I grin. Yeah, I feel like it's worth a good $3.95, but a whole fare's worth from the airport?

I shrug. Well, so be it.

The cab pulls away and I stand there in my yard, my duffel bag around my shoulder and a ten-pound sack of Idaho potatoes by my side.

The high I just got off the greeting card pat-on-the-back drains right out of me. In its place comes sadness. I really, really, really thought I was off to New York City. I really, really,
really
thought I'd found a man who wouldn't leave.

Now I'm back in Poughkeepsie, and I'm back at this little old house, that leans a little to the left and whose shutters are nailed in such a way that they appear to be a good half foot off from one another. The electric garage door hasn't worked since 1992. The grass is full of weeds and the mailbox is about to fall off the siding by the front door.

I long to see my mom. I guess everyone needs their mothers when they're in a crisis, and I'm no different, even if my mom is. I guess I've learned to live with her quirks. I don't cringe anymore, because no good comes from it. There was a point, around the age of sixteen, that I thought a person could actually drop dead from cringing too often.

I am kind of looking forward to a big hug from her, and Lord knows I could use a prayer or two, which I'm certain she'll offer up straight out of the gate.

The front door is unlocked, and I walk on in. The smell hits me first. Nothing's changed. The house is dark. Mom only turns on one light at a time, depending on which room she's in. She likes the drapes pulled too, yet somehow, from somewhere, light always seems to seep in.

I pass the dining table and do a double take. Cards. Lots of them. At least fifty. They make cards saying “I'm sorry your daughter got dumped at the altar”? Wow. That doesn't seem like a lucrative market.

Or maybe they're for me. But still . . . ? I make a note to read them later. I wonder out loud about taking my new card ideas to whoever might be selling “dumped at the altar” cards. Then I notice a box. And another box. And a third, set against the far wall. All labeled “Hope's Stuff.” I'm about to go examine this when I hear movement down the hall.

My mother emerges through the darkness. I can tell it's her because her hair is backlit by the nightlight I insisted she install in the hallway. She flips on the living room lights.

And screams.

And not one of my mom's normal screams either. That wouldn't even make me blink. But this is like a blood-curdling scream, and for a moment I think we're about to both be murdered by someone I can't see. She is actually turning pale. I wait for the arms to shoot in the air and her to shout something about the devil, but nothing. She just keeps screaming.

So, instinctively, I scream too. We're both screaming. She seems to know why. I don't have a clue. We sound like squealing tires. Then she stops, so I do as well.

“What are you screaming about?” I am breathing so hard my bangs lift and fall from my forehead every second or so.

My mother rushes over to me, grabs my head, shakes it like she's listening for change in a piggy bank. “You! You, you, you, you!”

“Me, me. Me what?”

“You're here.”

“I live here.” I eye the boxes in the corner. “But you've got to give me credit. I did a heck of a job trying to move out. Almost got there, too.” I smile, hoping to break the awkwardness, though the awkwardness doesn't seem to be coming from the fact that I got dumped at the altar.

“But you're dead. Dead people don't live.”

“Funny. Yes, it felt like death. Heartbreak often does.”

“But I had your funeral.”

This is the moment when I realize that she may not be speaking metaphorically. Especially when she falls straight back and faints.

“Oh, wow . . .” I hurry to the kitchen and get a washcloth and then drag her to the couch and heave her up onto it. I drape the washcloth across her forehead and watch her breathe. “Come on, wake up.
Wake up
. I'm not dead.” I prod her a little.