Greetings from the Flipside (22 page)

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

J
ake 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?

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.

“You again,” he says.

I cover the mouthpiece of the phone. I don't want him to hear my mother. He's already looking alarmed and she's sort of shouting through the phone.

“I'm fine,” I say, before he asks if I am or not.

“You're outside the Social Security office again, behaving . . .”

“Emotionally?”

“Fine. We'll go with that. What seems to be the trouble now? They're open. There's not even a line.”

“I know.” I nod, my head bobbing up and down so hard that the horse is getting startled. “Yes, it is. I've been in there already. My morning is not working out as I had planned. I prayed for a parting of the Red Sea at the Social Security office and indeed, the sea was parted, but I wasn't specific enough, I guess, and I should've asked that he also raise me from the dead.” I know, I know . . . total wrong choice of words and metaphors and, accompanied by my gestures, body language. That statement alone has probably put me on a federal watch list.

“Ma'am”—he uses the kind of tone that makes you realize he has a badge and a gun and the authority to use both—“I am going to need you to leave. Now.”

I can hear my mom, she's calling my name, wondering what's going on, thinking we've got a bad connection. There's a metaphor in that, too, but now's not the time for metaphors, obviously.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk. I glance back once and he's watching me, so I take the first corner I can to get out of his line of sight.

“Hope? Are you there?”

I sigh and turn my attention back to my mother. “I'm here. Sorry. Listen, what I was saying is that the Social Security office told me a passport and driver's license isn't enough. I need my birth certificate. Can you please overnight it to my work address?”

“Well, um . . .”

“What? What??”

“. . . I'm going to have to find which souvenir box that might be in.”

“What? You put my birth certificate in a souvenir box? Mom, that belongs in something like the safe-deposit box. Look, never mind. Just please find it, as soon as possible, and overnight it to me, okay?”

“I'm praying, Hope. I'm praying. And I will keep praying until you come back to me.”

“Mom! This is important! I am going to lose my job if you don't help me.”

“Does that mean you'll come back? That's what I'm praying for. I still got your couch bed.”

Tears are stinging my eyes. I cover my eyes as I talk. “Mom! For once in your life, can you listen to me? I know you don't care about my cards, but Dad did.” And then I do a despicable thing. I know it's wrong, but I do it anyway. I play to Mom's delusions. “If Dad comes back, don't you want him to know you supported me in this?”

There is silence. Silence is uncomfortable anyway, but when it's coming from my mom it can be utterly terrifying. Silence is usually followed by a shout to the Lord in the most socially unacceptable way possible. I brace myself. At least she's not here in person.