Greetings from the Flipside (17 page)

“Give me a couple of more hours. I have a few more places I want us to go.”

I follow him, but I'm dragging my feet.

9

I
brought you a little something to eat,” Bette said, carrying a food tray into the room.

“Bette, that is so kind. You didn't have to do that. I brought some tuna.”

“I know you did. And trust me, I want you to keep on using it. The guy next door woke up from a traumatic brain injury yesterday and I'm halfway convinced it was your tuna.”

Jake laughed. “That smelly, huh?”

“That's what we need. We can't make loud noises so we're forced to keep the needles and the tuna up. But I figured you'd like something else.” She set the tray down on the ledge with the cards. “Not promising it's any good, but there's some Jell-O and a nice, buttery roll there.”

“You seriously don't have to bring me food. I feel like I'm in the way half the time.”

Bette's expression turned serious. “Jake, I don't mean to get personal here, but I think you're the only thing keeping this girl from sinking so far away that we lose her. A mother's love can go far, but this mother's love is far out. Lovely lady, otherwise, but if she screams “hallelujah!” with no forewarning one more time, I'm going to be moving some people to the cardiac unit, if you know what I mean.”

Jake laughed. He watched her take Hope's pulse and blood pressure, writing down her vitals in a chart that was getting thicker by the day.

“Bette?”

“Yeah?”

“You look tired.”

She glanced at him, tried a quick attempt to smooth out the ponytail that seemed like it probably never even came down. Two mismatched clippies held a few stray hairs, but mostly everything fell in her face anyway.

“I don't mean to pry, but you take care of everyone around here. I see you helping the patients, other nurses, and now patient visitors.” Jake glanced at the food tray she brought in. “Who takes care of you?”

Bette didn't answer for a long time. She tightened some tubes, used a syringe to put medicine into Hope's IV. Jake looked down. Maybe he'd said too much.

“My mother.”

“Your mother takes care of you?”

“No. I take care of my mother.” She didn't look up. It was like she felt ashamed to even mention it. She kept busy, changing the bed pan and tucking the sheets, as she spoke. “She's got the beginning signs of dementia. Not sick enough for twenty-four-hour care, but sick enough that she can't live alone anymore.”

“What a noble thing to do.”

Bette looked at him. “Honey, it's not noble. She's my mother. How could I not? And this is my job. How could I not care about this sweet woman in this bed?”

“Not everyone has a Bette in their lives, but I know they wish they did.”

She went to the sink to wash her hands. “It's been hard. I'm a single mom. My son is sixteen. I worry about him all the time. And now I've got my mom living with us. Sometimes it's hard to find time to just go to the store or the money to buy the extra things we need.”

“I'm really sorry. My dad once told me to try to look at everything in terms of seasons . . . that it won't always be this way. And it's been true. The good seasons don't last forever. But neither do the bad.”

Bette grabbed two paper towels and looked at him. “That's very wise.”

“Nah. Just life.”

“I have to go check on Mr. Warren, but I have a favor to ask of you, Jake.”

“Anything. I'll start eating anchovies if that will help.”

She laughed. “It's actually for me.”

“Sure. Anything at all.”

“Would you make me a card?”

“What?”

“A card. For me. Whatever you feel like you should write. I want a card, something to encourage me, something to get me through the day that I can go back to and look at when the day seems like it'll never end.”

Jake was so touched he didn't know what to say. “Of course. Yes. Sure, I would love to.”

She smiled. “Thanks. Now I must go. Compacted bowel in Room 4. It's going to be a long night.”

She left and Jake couldn't stop smiling. He grabbed a pen and one of the envelopes that a card had come in and began jotting down ideas.

Then the door burst open and CiCi came in, wailing with her arms in the air. She flung herself over the bed, her head resting on Hope's shins. “My baby girl, my baby girl. You are in the fiery furnace! It is scorching your soul! But believe! Believe that you will be delivered!!”

Jake sighed. Bette was right.

It was going to be a long night.

Greetings from My Life

I'm literally biting my tongue and having quite a heated conversation with myself on the inside. I'm following Jake all over the city . . . Central Park, Times Square . . . every place he thinks a romantic moment might spur him into free verse or a limerick or something. I'm jotting down every idea, every word. He'll spontaneously shout “butterfly!” or “star gazing!” and then we move on.

I'm biting my tongue because I'm a smart girl and I realize this is a job that, if I can ever prove myself alive, is going to pay the bills. But if Everett is right, and the business is going to tank, then it's not going to pay the bills for long. I know I can save it. I know I've got the right kind of card, the card that nobody is printing but everyone wants to read.

Jake enjoys pointing out all the love around us . . . old couples holding hands. Young couples dreaming of futures that have endless possibilities. Even dogs look to be canoodling.

Sure, I think. It's easy to love and dream when you're in the greatest city in the world. It's real life that makes everyone trip and fall. That's what I want to try to convey to Jake. Rainbows and mountains and butterflies, sure. But what about cliffs and flash floods and dungeons. Dark, certainly. But am I lying?

By the time Jake finally runs out of ideas, I'm exhausted. My calves are killing me. We're sitting on a bench and I'm packing up my notepad and pencil. “I'll get these typed up for you and have them ready in the morning.” I smile like the good assistant I'm trying to be.

“Thank you,” he says, grinning. “I really think we're on to something here. I'm excited. I should've done this years ago.” He gives me a playful punch in the arm. “Thank you.”

“Sure . . . whatever I can do to help . . .” All sarcasm must stay in my head as much as possible. “Well, I should probably go get in the Social Security line before they close. You don't mind if I take off a little early?”

“Not at all. I understand you've got to get that resolved.”

“Thanks.”

“See you tomorrow.” He walks off with a little bounce in his step.

I grab my bag and head the other direction, feeling a little bad. I feel I'm like the person that tells a little kid there aren't real unicorns. He really feels triumphant. He feels like he's nailing it. He wants to write make-up cards. I want to write break-up cards. We're the yin and yang of the greeting-card world.

I walk a few blocks to the Social Security office and am dumbfounded to a standstill. A line. And as far as I can tell, it actually wraps around at least a block. I check my watch. It's four. The office closes at six. Is there any chance I can get in before it closes?

The truth is, what choice do I really have?

It's already a little chilly. Now gray clouds are gathering atop the skyscrapers and it looks like rain. But I take my place in line, sit with my back against the wall of the building I'm standing next to, and pull out my sketchbook. Like clockwork, the cats appear. They sit near a pole, watching me.

It is an hour and a half before I check my watch again, but in the meantime I have designed and written ten new cards. Some of them are super darn funny too, if I do say so myself. I've covered a lot of topics . . . breakups, stupid men, lousy relationships that are stuck and going nowhere. My favorite joke comes with a little play on words, where the dude loses his e and becomes a dud. You have to see the picture to get the full effect, but let's just say I'm envisioning a catfight in the card aisle if this is the last one left—women are going to eat this up.

I chuckle reading it for the fourth time. Above, the faint sound of thunder gets my attention. I look up and it's the first time I notice the old man. He is watching me with interest.

“Whatcha been working on, woman? I seen you sitting here for a while now, barely lookin' up once.”

“I'm a card designer.”

He blinks. Blankly.

“A greeting card designer.”

A small nod of slight recognition as to what I'm talking about.

My ten cards lay on the concrete and I smile at a job well done. “I'm working on a plan to save the card company I'm working for.” I gesture broadly to my pile of cards. Inside my head, a loud, angelic chorus proclaims its greatness.

“Never heard of saving anything through a card.”

I'm about to explain, very thoroughly to this old man, the power of a greeting card when a woman wearing a navy suit steps near our line and yells, “We'll be closing in thirty. Anyone behind this point, come back tomorrow.” I'm at least twenty people from where the woman's cutoff line is. A loud, collective groan comes from the crowd.

Then, as if God spoke his displeasure at the situation, thunder rumbles loudly overhead, rattling the nearby windows. In unison, everyone looks up. And as we do, a torrent of rain the likes of which nobody has seen since the movie
The Perfect Storm,
pours out of the sky, drenching everything in its path. People are actually screaming, running this way and that. I quickly reach for my cards, but a boot smashes into one, and then someone's tennis shoe runs right over my hand. I look up, hoping the old man sees my plight and might be willing to help, but he is gone. By the time I manage to gather my cards and stuff them in my bag, I'm drenched and so are they.

The cats sit there, unmoved, their eyes taunting me. I wish I knew something insulting in the cat world. I would totally use it right now. Instead, I stalk off toward the YMCA. If I had cat ears, they'd be flat.

In the pouring rain with no umbrella, I walk. The day is as gray as Stonehenge and if you could see me, you'd think me pathetic. And I am. I'm slouched, trying to protect myself from the rain. I'm wet. Angry. Fed up. I just want to get home . . . or wherever it is I'm staying. I want dry clothes and I want that stupid Murphy bed. This rain reminds me of my wedding day and so yes, my heart is a soggy mess of sorrow at the moment. It is, dare I say, a bleeding one.

I arrive at the YMCA. I stand under the small stoop, letting myself drip-dry a little bit. I don't want to track water all the way to my room. Some old person might slip and fall. I listen to the rain and decide it's rather soothing if I'm not standing in it. I try to think of a plan to get Jake to notice my cards. What can I do to wake this guy out of his creative coma?

Finally, I stop dripping. I head to my room. I pass the old lady janitor, who never seems to acknowledge I exist. Sitting on top of one of her buckets, though, is a tabby cat, who stares me down as we pass each other. I stare it down too. Bring it on, I say. Bring it on.

I reach for my key but before I get to it, I notice a note stuck to my door. It simply says
“Rent overdue”
and my gaze drops to the door knob. There is a padlock on it.

A minute later, I'm sitting across from Morris, the guy I met the first day I arrived. I figure Morris has seen plenty of people on hard times in his line of work, but I must look like a culmination of them all. He isn't meaning to, but his head is tilted to the side like I'm quite the spectacle.

I slap a credit card onto the desk in front of him. It is my last resort. I vowed I wouldn't go into debt making my dream come true, but at this point, I'm just trying to find dry clothes and a bed, so I figure this would be considered an emergency.

“Can you put the next couple of weeks on my credit card?”

“I already tried. Wouldn't go through.”

This is the kind of desperation you don't really expect in life. This and being left at the altar. I'm sitting in this chair, across from a guy with no neck, and I'm realizing I'm homeless. For real, homeless.

Homeless. Spouse-less. And also dead. I might as well jump feet first into the fiery furnace of hopelessness, because I'm not seeing a way out of this.

“I'll get cash from my boss tomorrow.” I know Jake will do this for me. He hands ten bucks out to homeless people. And I'm his assistant. I'm sure the loan will come with a card encouraging me through my homelessness, but at this point, I'm desperate enough to take it and read the thing. I look at Morris. “Will that work?”

“Yep. And as soon as I see that cash, I'll let you back in. Tomorrow.”

An hour or so passes. Maybe five. I'm not sure. All I know is that I'm against the wall next to my padlocked door, still wet. I'm cold. I'm hungry. And I'm the kind of person that takes my hunger out on other people. When my blood sugar drops, you better get me a carb and fast.

I rest my head between my knees, trying to keep a headache at bay. I realize I'm about as low as I can go. I mean, probably to encourage me you'd say, “Well at least you're alive.” But technically, according to the government, I'm really not. I wonder what kind of card Jake would send to someone like me? How do you comfort someone by greeting card who doesn't have a postal address? What serene nature picture is going to keep me from jumping off the proverbial cliff?

I hear a sound and look up. On the other side of my closed door, sitting against the wall just like me, is Mikaela. When she slipped into the picture, I don't know. But she's beginning to grow on me.

I get up off the ground. I'm vaguely aware there's a prominent wet spot on my rear.