Greetings from the Flipside (25 page)

“I can cook tuna.” Mom eyes me. “You've lost weight.”

“He doesn't cook it, he heats it in the—”

“Maybe you will get to meet Hope's father! In fact, why don't we just agree in prayer right now—”

“Mom, no!”

Jake startles. It's because I'm shouting at my mother. Anybody would be startled by this who doesn't know my mother. She's standing there holding soup. How can I yell at her?

I dial it waaayyy back. “I mean, Mom, please . . . Jake doesn't want to pray here in the office. Isn't there a federal rule against displaying acts of begging God for things that won't happen?”

“Put down your soup, Jake. Come now, come now. Gather round.”

Jake looks like this is the most normal thing ever. And my heart kind of softens because there doesn't seem to be a judgmental bone in this guy's body. I like him even more. I step forward and we clasp hands. My knees grow a little weak. His hands are nice and strong. My heart must be extremely healthy because it's been through a lot in the last twelve hours, you know? If I were my heart I would've given up back at the soup tray discovery.

“If we all stand in agreement, the Bible says if two or more agree . . .”

I peek and see Jake looking at me. Mom's the only one with her eyes closed. He smiles and winks at me, like he “gets” her and it's okay, I can relax. He's not going to judge me for it. The humiliation just washes off me like a mudslide.

“You ladies over there, you need to pray, too, for this to work,” my mom says.

I glance behind my shoulder. Pearl and Ruby, who are normally way more conspicuous about their eavesdropping, are standing in the doorway gawking. Once caught, they sheepishly join in our prayer circle, taking careful steps, I note, to make sure Jake and I are still holding hands.

“Lord!”

Everyone but me ducks because nobody ever expects someone's first word in a prayer to sound like the shriek of a vulture.

“Lord, please bring Hope's father back to us in time for Thanksgiving. You said we can move mountains with faith like mustard. Lord, move the mountain that stands tall between us and—”

“Amen!” I say.

Ruby and Pearl stare, eyes wide. When old people get shocked you know it's bad, because they've lived a long time and have seen a lot of things.

“So lovely . . .” I'm smiling, nodding, trying to look as serene as possible after having shouted in the presence of old people. “Well, listen, we better get to the Social Security office so we can get this all cleared up.” I take Mom's wrist, pull her through the circle, out the door.

“Thanksgiving, my house,” she calls out to Jake.

“Mom, he has plans. He was just being polite.”

“I don't,” Jake says from his office. Pearl and Ruby nod in agreement. “It's true,” Pearl says. “We boycott Thanksgiving on account of how they seem to target turkeys for this holiday, which we find to be prejudiced.”

“Why not eat peacock?” Ruby says.

I glance at Jake. I'm not the only one who has weird relatives? He smiles helplessly. I run into my desk smiling back at him.

That's going to bruise.

I hurry and usher Mom to the elevator and outside as quickly as possible. I'm walking fast and realize my mom can't catch up. It's the first time I notice her age. She's nearly being swept away by the sidewalk crowds. I hurry after her and try a slower pace, but I'm anxious to get to the Social Security office.

“Have you heard from Sam?”

I strike, and I mean it in the killer-lightning sort of way, a sideways glance at her. “What do you mean?”

“Just wondering if you've heard from him. I've been praying.”

I stop right there. People part and go around us. “Mom . . . why would you ask for that?”

“Never lose hope, sweetie, never lose hope.”

“The thing is, Mom, typically—and I realize that term doesn't apply to us—but typically, when a girl gets dumped at the altar by a guy, it's the mother who goes all psycho and wants to make him suffer and stuff. It has happened. I watched it on
48 Hours
.”

“Sam is just such a nice boy.”

I keep walking, not bothering to keep her by my side. She keeps up anyway. I knew she wasn't that old. “If Sam's so nice, why invite Jake to Thanksgiving dinner?”

“He's very nice too!”

Thankfully we arrive at the Social Security office. There is no line. It is so baffling. Inside, a few people mill about, but nothing that keeps us from getting to a window right away.

Immediately I notice the bun, wound so tight that I can already peg the personality. This woman is a rule-follower. It sends a shiver down my spine, but I proceed forward. After all, I have my documentation. All of it. What could go wrong? Besides my mother, of course.

“Mom,” I whisper as we sit down. “Just don't talk, okay? I'll do all the talking.” We slide into the seats. For the hundredth time, I explain my dilemma. “So as you can see, I've been trying to get this fixed forever. My employer has to hold my wages until I get the certificate proving I'm alive.” And then I notice it. It's a bright yellow E taped to this woman's computer monitor. It looks just like the letters I've found on my door.

“No problem. I'm sure we can clear this right up.”

I melt into my chair with relief, forgetting that stupid
E
. “I've got my birth certificate, just like you—”

I realize suddenly it's not in my bag. I frantically punch my hand into its depths, feeling around with every finger. “. . . it was here . . .” Did I put it in my bag? I was in such a hurry to leave . . . oh no . . .

“It's right here.” My mother smiles and hands it over.

This single moment makes me almost forgive the potato farm.

“Thanks,” I whisper softly to her. We have a mom/daughter moment I will always cherish.

We watch the woman unfold the paper and lay it flat against the desk. I see my two tiny ink footprints at the bottom. It makes me a little sad. Nobody knows when they're that little what their life will end up doing to them.

I glance up to see my worst nightmare.

The Bun is frowning.

“This is really all my fault. I had her declared dead,” Mom says.

It's true, but that doesn't seem to be why the woman is frowning.

“Hmm . . .” the Bun says.

“Hmmm? Hm? What?”

“Not good . . .” She's slowly shaking her head back and forth. My fingers grip the bottom of the chair because I have this sense that the bottom is getting ready to fall out.

“But, in my defense, she did crash my car into the Hudson. What was I to think?” Mom's voice sounds echo-y. Maybe it's a defense mechanism kicking in. Or maybe I'm about to faint.

“This is the hospital birth certificate.”

“They gave it to me after we stamped her feet there. I like souvenirs,” Mom says.

“Last time I was here, that's what they told me to bring.” The sentence reads way more calmly than I'm saying it. My words are spiking high notes in weird places.

“No. We tell you to bring the county birth certificate.”

“It is!” I tap the desk with my finger. “Poughkeepsie County Hospital. See? Right there on top.”

“That was a nice hospital. Except for the blood pressure.”

I glance sideways at Mom. She is not making sense, more so than usual.

“No dear,” the woman says. “The one with the county seal. You order it from vital records.”

“The vitals are showing signs of stress,” Mom says. I glance
again
at Mom, give her the look that says
please stop talking,
the one that never registers with her.

“You guys never said anything about county or anything else.”

The woman looks sympathetic even as she is pushing the certificate toward me. “You'll have to come back when you have the right paperwork and a urinalysis. Next!” She waves to an old man waiting behind me.

“I have to pee in a cup?” I shout. Through the window I notice the police officer and his horse. I can only see their legs. He moves on and I realize I must too.

I walk outside, Mom trailing me.

“I'm sorry, I thought it was the right one.”

Her apology is one of the most lucid things she's ever said to me. And the truth is, it isn't her fault. Anybody could've made the mistake.

I smile because moms need to see their daughters smile. “It's fine. I'll get it taken care of. Listen, I have to get back to work. Where did you park your car?”

“I took a taxi.”

“To the train station?”

“All the way here.”

My throat swells with emotion, so tight and bulbous I can't manage a word. I hug her and that seems to be all she needs. I flag a taxi for her, my heart soft at the idea that she would be so concerned I get the birth certificate she would spend what little money she has to come all this way to deliver it quickly to me. I load her into the taxi and watch as it drives off.

Mom is turned, staring out the back window, with an expression I can't quite pinpoint at first, but it's like she thinks she'll never see me again.

* * * *

I'm learning some things from Jake, and it's that doing nice things for others keeps you from dwelling on your own pain. I'm dead broke, so I can't do much, but I manage enough change to buy a small box of blue Popsicles for Mikaela. I stash it in the freezer for her.

I find her in the atrium. I watch her for a moment, working hard in her journal, probably her Christmas list. It must be a hard thing to make a Christmas list you know won't ever be fulfilled. I wonder why she works so diligently on it. She doesn't hear me walk up behind her. I manage to glance at her latest entry:
An answer about

That's all it says.

“Got plans for Thanksgiving?”

She whips around, her hand sliding over her list. “Oh yeah. Turkey. Yams. Cranberry sauce. Four kinds of pies.”

I walk around to the chair sitting across from her. “Let me ask you something. Do you think they'll let you get away? My mother, crazy woman that she is, invited Jake, so . . .” I anticipate a squeal of excitement from her.

There is no squeal. Just a slight tilt of the head. “I'm your buffer, eh? Not very romantic, you know.”

This girl is good. She can read my mind and my motives now. Don't know how she does it.

I slump. “If you're hoping to get Jake and me to fall in love so you can have a new set of wacked-out parents, then you might want to rethink your plan.”

“Don't flatter yourself.”

There is an edge to her voice and I realize how insensitive that statement was. My humble offering of blue Popsicles can't erase a self-absorbed heart.

Her tone is serious. “That's not what this is about. I wish you would wake up!”

“I wish you would stop talking nonsense. Stop speaking in silly riddles.”

We both stare at each other for a moment, cooling our jets.

I nod toward the journal. “How's that Christmas list coming?”

“I don't know yet,” she says, but she's distracted by something. She's looking past me, to the TV in the atrium. “Hey . . . isn't that Heaven Sent?”

I turn and she's right. It's a shot of the front of Heaven Sent, the sign and the logo.

I hurry over and turn up the volume. Mikaela kneels next to me.

Starla is standing in front of the Heaven Sent office, right in front of the window Mikaela and I spied through. Her microphone is in front of her chin as she speaks.

“. . . and we can tell you, they're not happy.”

A packaged news story rolls. A woman being interviewed is crying. “I seriously think he just bought it because he thought it was funny. But he ended our relationship. Four years of my life went to that jerk.”

Then another customer, a guy: “Heaven Sent thinks they're being funny? I don't need to be reminded how much dateless life sucks. I already know.”

Starla returns to the screen, staring right at me, like we are face-to-face, mano-a-mano. Or womano-a-womano. “Well, you heard it here, folks. What started as a funny trend for the buyer has turned ugly for the receivers. Some of the customers I talked to have even used the word
liability
and have mentioned they're considering suing for damages. Perhaps,” Starla says, leaning in toward the camera, “this is one employee Heaven Sent needs to return to sender.” She glances sideways and notices someone. She beckons her cameraman over and suddenly Everett is seen walking out the front door of the office. He glances around and then notices Starla.

She steps up next to him like they're old friends. “Any comment?”

“First and foremost, we'd like to apologize to our customers. It's never our intent to harm anyone. We hear you loud and clear. We're announcing today that the writer of these cards has been terminated from our company. She's done here. That's all, thank you.”

“He's talking about you, right?” Mikaela whispers.

I'm too numb to answer. She switches the TV off and helps me into a chair.

“I guess it doesn't matter if I'm alive or dead anymore, does it?”

“What?”

I stand up. My legs are wobbly but I turn and leave.

“Room Eleven, where are you going?”

“Don't call me that.”

“You can't give up. You can't!”

I keep walking.

“Hope Landon!”

I turn, looking at her. This little kid, with all this wisdom, all this pain, all this . . . me-ness.

“You're stronger than this. Fight!”

“You'll find someone else to hang out with.” My heart feels dead right inside my chest.

“No, I won't!”

I stomp away and can hear her crying, but I don't care.

As I unlock the door to my room, the old lady janitor, with her mopping bucket in tow, brushes by me slowly. Our gazes meet. I realize instantly that I have just seen a glimpse of my future, that I am the old woman whose dreams are nothing but dirty mop water.