Greetings from the Flipside (4 page)

“Hope Landon, I thought we agreed to no sugar for the last three days?”

“Oh God!” her mother shouted. “Please cause that zipper to—”

“Got it!” The zipper slipped up her back and the dress closed. Hope turned, gazing at herself in the long mirror.

“Are my hips wide?”

“Shush,” Becca said. “This is your wedding day. Nothing is going to ruin it for you.”

Her mom walked over, observing her daughter with complete delight. “Oh, I nearly forgot!” She handed Hope a small envelope. “The best man gave this to me to give to you.”

“Lyle.” Hope smiled. Sam's ever-faithful band mate. It was probably the marriage certificate they applied for.

She turned and gazed at herself in the mirror again. She'd never felt prettier in her life. Her mother walked up behind her, placed her hands on Hope's shoulders, just like in the commercials that all the normal families can relate to.

“Oh, Hope . . .”

Hope felt her eyes swell with tears.

“You are gorgeous,” her mom continued. “Just like a perfect turkey, right out of the oven!”

Becca glanced at her and gave her a playful shrug. Becca knew her mom. There was never a need to explain away the odd remarks. She tapped her watch. “It's almost time, friend.”

Her breath caught in her throat and she nodded. She opened the envelope in her hand to make sure it was the wedding license. It wasn't.

Instead, she pulled out a handwritten note.

“What is it?” Becca asked.

“It's a note from Sam,” Hope gushed. “Sam wasn't happy about the tradition of not seeing the bride before the wedding. So I guess this letter is his way of peeking.”

Becca patted her heart. “That is so cute.”

Hope unfolded the note and began to read.

Dear Lan,

Last night I made one final attempt to write your song. Nothing came, nothing flowed. Which can only mean one thing. We're not supposed to be together. I'm sorry. Good-bye.

Sam

The letter slipped from her hand, gliding against the invisible air, floating like it was angelic, until it landed and lay perfectly still.

All of Hope's senses roared to life. The air conditioner blew cold against her skin. The sunlight broke through the clouds and sent blinding light into the room. The faint murmur of the crowd that had gathered outside sounded like a thousand haunting voices. The room grew small. The musty smell overwhelmed her.

She looked up. Becca stared at her, unblinking, not moving a muscle. Then she started toward her, her expression intensifying with each step.

“What's the matter?” Becca grabbed her arm like Hope might tip over if she wasn't held steady.

A clap of thunder shook the church and the wink of sunlight now disappeared under the sudden downpour.

“It's okay, dear!” her mother shouted from across the room. “The show must go on! A little thunder never killed anybody. Now lightning, well, that's a different story . . .”

Hope snapped her attention to Becca and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Can you distract her?”

Becca searched her eyes, then looked at the note on the ground between them. “Okay.”

Becca moved toward Hope's mom, taking her by the arm and guiding her to the window where they struck up some conversation about rain. Her mother's hands shot in the air and she was no doubt praying for the rain to stop.

Too late.

Lightning had already struck. And scorched her soul.

Hope grabbed her bag, which sat by the door, and slipped out. To her right, the hallway led to the sanctuary, where she heard people's conversations. Did they already know?

To her left was a side door.

Hope hiked up her dress, instinctively perhaps, to keep it from dragging on the wet ground. Thunder grumbled above.

She darted into the heavy downpour. It had nothing on the sobs that escaped from her, loud and heartbreaking, but nevertheless swallowed up by the sound of the rain. She ran across the sidewalk, stupidly trying to save her dress. She was soaked to the bone within seconds.

She hated herself for crying, even though she knew if ever there was a proper time to cry, this was it. But she didn't want to let
another
man abandoning her cause her this much pain. She swore she would always guard her heart.

She screamed into the noise and racket of the storm, but she couldn't even hear herself. The dress made it hard to run, but she kept running, dragging the dress on one side, her overnight bag hanging off the opposite arm. She got to the Oldsmobile and dropped her bag onto the ground, causing a small splash against her ankles. She plunged her hand into the side pocket and withdrew the keys.

But her hands were shaking and she couldn't get the key into the hole. She sobbed louder and louder, cursing and scratching the car as the key slid back and forth everywhere except into the hole.

“Get in that hole!” Her hands shook more and the rain got louder.

She stood there for a moment, her dress growing heavier as it took on more water. She was going to have to get a grip. If she didn't hurry, people were going to start trying to find her.

She took three deep breaths, during which she noticed a white delivery van parked by the church, the writing across its side partially blocked by an SUV. So it only read HEAVE.

Normally that would be delicious and ironic and funny and land somehow in a card, but on this day it was only a dreadful cue. Right there on the pavement, she heaved.

She stood up and felt a little better. She tried the key again, begging herself to hold it steady.

“Got it!” But the words had barely left her mouth when a sharp pain splintered through her skull. She fell against the window of the car, her cheek smashing against the glass. Her body slowly slid down the side, her face knocking against the door handle as she slumped to the ground. She tried to reach for the side mirror, but she had no control of her body.

She spilled onto the wet blacktop, face down.

Something heavier than rain trickled down her forehead, around her cheek, and over her lips. She turned over, tried to open her eyes, but everything was a blur. A shadowy figure stood over her, a young girl, maybe a teenager. She wore a purple winter jacket.

Then, without her permission, her eyes closed.

3

E
n route to the wedding, Jake decided to get over the irony of it all. Besides, he had better things to do with his time than revisit old losses and regrets. But he did regret quite a bit that he never tried again with Hope Landon, that he didn't get over his fear of rejection and just tell her how he felt.

There he was again, with the regret. He'd just about talked himself out of letting it go, too. His only hope, he supposed, was to finish up this delivery and get it over with. Maybe then, with the flowers delivered, he could move on.

He'd already brought most of them in, wrapped in sheets of plastic to protect them from the rain. The only thing left was the bouquet. It was his tradition to always hand-deliver the bouquet straight to the bride, with a card attached for well wishes and a personal good wish from him as well.

But in this case, he was having second thoughts. Then again, maybe seeing her in her dress, ready to walk down the aisle, would give him closure. He was sure not to make a good impression either way, because he was already soaking wet from this horrible storm. What a day to get married. He had no doubt Hope had some witty and snappy remark about it, probably already written out in a card—if she still wrote cards.

He stood at the front doors of the church and decided to hand-deliver the bouquet. It was the least he could do, to wish her well and hope for her happiness. He was about to dart back to his van, which was parked at the side door, when he noticed something in the back end of the parking lot. At first he thought it was a white trash bag. But the more he peered through the rain, the more he realized it wasn't a trash bag fluttering against the wind.

It was a wedding dress. And the woman wearing it wasn't moving.

Ducking into the rain, he began to run toward her, noticing a car speeding away from the church.

He hurried toward her. He could see she was missing a shoe. Her toenails were painted bright pink. The only thing moving was her wedding dress.

“Hope?” he yelled through the rain. He rushed to her side and knelt, trying to take in everything. Blood trickled across the side of her face and dripped into a small puddle beneath her. Her eyes were closed and she wasn't responding to him.

“Hope? Hope, can you hear me?”

He could barely hear himself with the rain and the noise of the storm. Lightning cracked in a wicked flash overhead, followed by a thundering clap. He leaned over her, made sure she was breathing. He tried to wipe the blood with the sleeve of his coat, but it was gushing, running off her head like water off a gutter. “Help! Somebody
help
!”

But there wasn't a soul around.

His cell phone was in his truck. With no time to waste, he went to retrieve it. By the time he returned, Hope's mother, CiCi, was running out of the church, her eyes frantic. A small group of people huddled around Hope's seemingly lifeless body.

“Hope! Hope!” her mother screamed.

Others from the wedding attended to her, and Jake stepped back, calling 911. He gave the address and all the pertinent information.

What in the world had happened to this beautiful bride-to-be, struck down in a parking lot on her wedding day?

He wanted to dive into the crowd and grab Hope's hand, plead with her to hang on. But she was swallowed up by everyone else.

So he prayed, his heart as heavy as his rain-soaked body.

Greetings from My Life

I can sum myself and my life up like this . . . I have trouble stepping onto escalators. It's all about the timing, you see, and I am either too early and stumble or too late and then my legs awkwardly stretch away from one another and people instinctively reach out to help me.

To be exact, right now the escalator analogy doesn't really apply because I'm more in a state of free fall from the second story of a mall.

Perhaps that's too bloody of an example. People don't normally live when they fall off something that high. I'm definitely alive.

Let me go back to the escalator. Maybe it's like I'm wearing flip-flops and get my toe stuck. Well, shoot. I'm not stuck. I'm actually in just the opposite state.

Okay, I've got it. It's like I stepped onto the escalator, fully expecting it to continue as it does every second of every day for everybody else. But when it comes to me, it jolts to a stop, throwing me forward as I tumble all the way down the thing and land at the bottom, somehow managing to live through it but wishing I hadn't.

Yes, that's it. That's exactly what I'm trying to convey.

To catch you up, I got dumped at the altar. Not at the actual altar. It was before I got to the altar but after I got myself into my dress. It came by way of a handwritten note from Sam, my fiancé, right before I was to walk out of the dressing room and into the sanctuary.

I guess nobody knows exactly how they'll react in a situation like that. I can tell you that I surprised myself by grabbing my bag and bolting for the side door. There was a terrible storm that day and it had been pouring rain since morning. I was in my dress, trying to raise it up so it wouldn't get wet as I splashed through the puddles. I remember my hands were so shaky I couldn't even get the key into the car. I just wanted to leave. Flee. Bolt.

After that, things get a little fuzzy. To tell you the truth, I think I went into shock. Sam was not only the love of my life, but my ticket out of Poughkeepsie.

I cannot tell you why, but now I am at a diner, missing one shoe. Hobbling in with my bag, my hair falling out of its chignon, my dress muddy and sopping, I stand at the Coca-Cola door and look over the decor. It is fifties-nostalgic with an old soda fountain and black-red-and-white-checkered counter tops. Pictures of classic cars line the walls. A sign above the register says
Odyssey's
. It is charming enough that I take another step inside, hardly noticing that I'm leaving a puddle every few feet. A girl in a purple jacket brushes by me, knocking my shoulder, not even apologizing.

Nearby is a booth of locals enjoying their lunches. A waitress stands over them, a rag flopped over her hand, the other hand planted into her hip, chatting it up. All at once, they look over at me. Look me up and down. I try to smile. Maybe I grimaced. Whatever the case, the waitress who is smacking radioactive-colored gum stops chewing and walks to me like I'm in desperate need of assistance.

“You lost, Sugar?”

“No. I, um . . . I'm just on my way to the . . .” I glance outside through the large window to see that my car is no longer there. I swear I just parked it, but there is nothing but empty space. “I just need . . .”

“Oh, sweet baby.” The waitress takes her rag and reaches for my forehead, swiping her rag across. When she's done, we both look at the rag. It's covered in bright red blood.

I'm bleeding?

“That's going to need stitches,” she says, eyeing it. “We'll need to take care of that right now.”

I step backward. The woman looks like she might just pull out a needle and thread right this moment.

“No, um. No. I'm fine. Thank you.”

She steps toward me and the next thing I know I'm in her warm embrace. Then another. And another. All the locals are surrounding me with one big bear hug. I kind of need it so I just stand there and let them hug me, as awkward as it is.

Soon enough I'm standing with only the waitress again.

“Where you headed, darling?”

“Can someone take me to the airport?”

“I'm not sure, you, um . . .”

“My mom, she already paid for this stupid honeymoo—vacation to Idaho.” I look at her. There is a soft, rhythmic dripping onto the laminate floor beneath me, like my bladder is leaking one drop at a time. “I need to get away.”