13

Jake let out a deep, almost grinding, breath as he leaned back into his chair, watching Hope. It was stupid, but he thought maybe she would move her hand a little or show some sign of life in there. But there was nothing, just the steady, shallow breathing he’d become accustomed to hearing. And watching.

A sudden sadness swept through him. Before he even had a chance to try not to react to it, tears were streaming down his face. He couldn’t wipe them away fast enough and tried to laugh it off, but his emotions weren’t fooled. He shrugged, glancing up at her.

“So, that’s what happened. She left me. Because I wasn’t funny enough. Men have been left for not making enough money, for working too hard, for flirting too much. But I think I’m probably the first guy who got left for not being funny.” It ached to even say it. He’d never said it, to a single person, ever. He cited irreconcilable differences, just like the divorce papers said, when anybody asked about it. “Ironic, huh? That’s the very thing I always liked about you. You were funny. And not funny in an attention-getting way, you know? Intelligently funny. Your jokes went over most people’s heads. But I got them.”

It was a ridiculous scene, he knew, sitting there with his tuna fish, pouring out his heart to a woman in a coma about his sad tale of being left because he failed in the humor department. “Hope, I just think . . . I mean, forget about what happened with your wedding. I know it was painful. Believe me, I get that. I promise I do. But life is worth living, you know? And love is worth trying again. Take a risk. Maybe we can take it together.”

He felt a strange urge to kiss her and he tried to dismiss it. First of all, there was the tuna. But second, who would kiss a woman in a coma? Only a man so pathetic he thought that might be his only chance to do it.

Still, as he looked at her, it was a Sleeping Beauty sort of moment. Could he ever be her prince? It was an inexplicable pull and he stood, backing away from her, right against all the cards, knocking a few of them over. His hand was covering his mouth, like he was guarding it, or her . . . he didn’t know which. Someone needed to be guarded.

The door to her room opened and Jake turned away for a moment, pretending to be setting up the cards. If it was Bette, she had a strange way of seeing straight through him and he didn’t want her to have to see this. If it was CiCi, he was going to have to make a quick exit—he was afraid there might be a demon or two she would want to pray off of him, and he wasn’t so sure he shouldn’t be prayed for at this point.

He swallowed down any remnant of emotion and turned, trying to peg an expression somewhere between hysteria and depression. Whatever expression he landed on didn’t stay there long.

A guy stood there at the end of her bed, glancing between Jake and Hope. His hands were in his pockets. He wore jeans that drug the ground, dusty flip-flops and a wrinkled shirt, but looked strangely put together. His hair was cut very modern . . . messy with purpose.

It couldn’t be . . . ?

“I’m Sam. Who are you?”

“Jake.” It came out way stronger than he intended. There was something rising up in him, something like a . . . like a punch to this guy’s face! It all seemed surreal. This guy was actually here, after all this time? What was he doing, paying his respects?

“And you are . . . ?”

Jake felt his fingers twitching. It was like he was growing into some sort of greeting-card version of the Incredible Hulk, except this was no greeting-card moment.

“I know who you are. You’re the guy who left her at the altar.”

Sam’s face contorted briefly, like something just slapped him. Yeah, buddy. It’s called the truth.

“So who are you?” Sam asked, after his face stopped rolling through a catalog of emotion.

“I’m the guy who—”

But his words were cut short by a shriek. And there was only one person in the world he knew who would shriek like that inside the Neuro Intensive Care ward of a hospital.

“Sam!!!” Her face was so lit with excitement, it was like Sam had risen from the dead.

Jake glanced at Hope. How could she sleep through all this? Come on, have my back here, Hope. But she didn’t move.

“Sam, Sam, Sam! You’re here! I’ve been praying for this, praying for it, praying for it!”

“I thought you were praying for her to wake up,” Jake said, as flatly as any sentence could be said.

“Oh, yes, that too! Yes! But I thought it would be Sam who might be able to give her the hope she needs to return!”

“Sam? He’s the very reason she’s in this predicament,” Jake said.

Sam glared at him. “You think you know? Who are you? You don’t know anything. You have no idea.”

Jake sucked air through his nostrils, trying to keep himself calm. “Look, we need to step outside. She doesn’t need to hear all this.”

“She’s in a coma,” Sam said. “She’s dead to the world.”

“Shut up!” Jake hissed the words. “Don’t say that!”

“Look, dude, I don’t know who you think you are,” Sam said, stepping away from CiCi’s clutching embrace. “But you don’t belong here. This is a family matter.” He smiled briefly at CiCi, who missed the whole look because she was clutching her hands and praying to the ceiling.

“You don’t—”

“No. You don’t. You don’t need to be here. Hope is my fiancé.” He glanced over toward the bed. “Yeah. I made a mistake. I get that. But I’m here now and this room is just too crowded as is. You get what I’m saying?”

CiCi’s eyes brimmed with tears. “It shows, Jake, that prayers are answered! Look, Sam has come back! Now, perhaps, Hope’s father will return as well! It’s a sign. I just know it is a sign.” CiCi rushed to Hope’s bedside, raising a small, black plastic toy in the air. What was that? He looked closer—a wedding cake topper of a bride and groom. “Hope! Hope! Guess who’s back!”

Jake couldn’t take another second of this. He brushed past Sam and stormed out the door. Bette was behind the nurse’s desk. She stood, knocking her Styrofoam cup of coffee over. “Jake? Jake? What’s wrong?”

But he couldn’t stop. He needed air. He needed to get as far away from this as possible. Why in the world would he ever let himself be this vulnerable? He knew better. He’d learned this lesson once before and he’d vowed to never put himself in this position again.

Love was altogether too risky.

It always would be.

Greetings from My Life

It’s one of those mornings you coast through . . . your thoughts are somewhere else entirely, and you’re doing weird things like putting your pants on backwards or pouring coffee in your cereal. I’ve ruined breakfast and fashion, but I’m out the door and there’s a spring in my step that I can’t deny. Jake has texted me, asked me to run a few errands before I come in, and I’m glad. I’m dreading seeing him, but only because I want to so badly. You’re tracking with me. I’m falling for this guy in the worst of ways. I’m terrified. But not terrified enough to stop thinking about him. It’s not sheer terror. I’d equate it to the kind of terror you feel when you’ve asked the nice lady in the elevator when her baby is due only to find out she’s not pregnant. My heart is skipping a lot of beats inside my chest as I think of his smile and his jokes and his declaration that we should talk about our kiss (his kiss, not mine)—but it’s more like a dance in my chest rather than a heart attack.

I finally arrive at the office a little after eleven, smearing lip balm over my mouth. What kind of attraction I think this is going to cause I don’t know, but there’s something about lip balm that soothes me. If I could, I’d smear it all over my face. All over my soul.

I round the corner, drop my bag into my chair, and turn to walk into Jake’s office when I see the most horrifying sight I can imagine. And listen, I watch a lot of crime shows, so when I say horrifying, I mean it. Obviously not in a murder-plot kind of way, but in the kind of way that stops your heart and you can only hope you’re having a heart attack because you don’t want to face what is to come.

My mother.

She is standing in Jake’s office holding what looks like a serving tray, but not really a nice one, more like something you’d see in a hospital. And she’s got small little cups of . . . is that soup? Are they eating soup? They don’t notice me at first and all I see is Jake laughing and slurping something from a spoon. My mom has that look on her face, that same look she had when she declared my honeymoon on the potato farm.

I brace myself against my desk.

“Mom?” I don’t even think the word came out the first time. It sounded more like the wheeze of an asthma attack. “Mom?” I say louder.

They turn. Jake grins. My mom does too. “There she is! I’m so glad to see you! Oh, my baby girl!” I can only be thankful she’s holding a soup tray, otherwise her hands would be waving in the air in a shout to glory. “I was just getting acquainted here with Jake, your new friend—”

“Boss.”

“You didn’t tell me”—Jake sips the soup—“your mother is a soup maker.”

I haven’t told him anything about my mother. My gosh, where would I start? Definitely not with soup.

“And you didn’t tell me your friend here has no plans for Thanksgiving.”

“It’s true,” he says, watching me through the steam of the soup.

It’s as if I’m watching tennis the way my head is whipping from one side of the office to the other. Is this really happening? I mean . . . really?

I stand there for a moment, and I try to level-head my way into a lucid thought. And I realize suddenly that Jake has taken a risk . . . another one . . . on my behalf. He wants to spend a holiday with me. And what risk have I taken for him? None. Because I’m trying to live a risk-free love life. And what kind of way is that to love?

I walk in as cautiously as a deer on the open plains during hunting season. Mom holds out the tray. There is an envelope beside the little cups of soup. “There’s your birth certificate, just like you ordered. Soup?”

“Mom,” I say, grinning so hard and stiff my jaw is protruding, “thank you, of course. Yes, so thankful you brought . . . but you could have overnighted it. I hate for you to go to all this trouble to hand-deliver . . . and soup . . . and all that.” The fact that I’m not speaking in complete sentences isn’t lost on me. It’s just that I’m trying for a lot of things here—a subtle message to Mom that she should leave, while also trying to appear grateful in front of Jake because he has no understanding of my mother yet and I don’t want to look like a jerk.

“And miss a chance to see my only daughter’s new place of employment? And it’s a beautiful drive. Oh, so glorious! So divine! Jake, if you come on up for Thanksgiving, you can see. Up there in good ole Poughkeepsie.”

I laugh a laugh filled with no joy. “Seriously,” I say, batting my hand, “I’m sure Jake’s got better—”

“No, I don’t. I’ve been wanting to take a drive up there anyway.”

My hand drops. This is just so . . . weird. I can’t have this, can I? Jake with me and my mom? On a holiday? What is going on?

“She doesn’t serve tuna.” I say it. That’s all I’ve got. I can’t think of another good reason and obviously, there isn’t one, and now I’m looking desperate.

“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.

* * * *

They say a new day brings hope. It doesn’t. It feels as bad as the day before. And all you can think about is how bad it’s going to feel every day from now on. I thought I might feel some relief leaving behind this tiny room with its hazardous bed, but I don’t. I guess it’s because where I’m headed is far worse.

The tiny trash can in the corner is overflowing with all my cards, which I ripped up last night. I throw one last card away, my favorite. It was the one I always laughed at, no matter how many times I read it.

It doesn’t seem the least bit funny anymore.

I zip up my bag. The truth is I want to kick the daylights out of Murphy, because I’m mad and desperate and pathetic and Murphy seems like he could handle it. But I don’t. I’ve already made a scene. No need to make another.

I open the door and he’s standing there, leaning against the wall of the hallway, waiting patiently.

“I really appreciate you doing this, Jake. I’m sorry I had to call you. There’s just no other way I could afford to get home.”

“I don’t mind at all. We’d be going anyway, for Thanksgiving, right?”

“You still want to have Thanksgiving dinner with the meanest girl in town?” I shake my head. “I’m so sorry for what I’ve done to your company.”

He starts to say something, then notices my bed. “You left your pencils.”

I look at him. I don’t have to say anything. He understands instantly it’s intentional. He sighs and walks in to get them.

“I don’t want them anymore.”

“Maybe Mikaela will.”

I look at the concrete floor. It’s like I can feel its coldness through the bottom of my shoes.

“Thanks for . . . this thing with Mikaela . . . thanks for understanding. She doesn’t get that I’m not coming back here, you know? She doesn’t quite get the ways of the world. So when it’s time for you to return, you will probably have to take her kicking and screaming. I’ll try to say my good-byes as best as I can, okay? But I know you’ll take care of her. I know she’ll be looked after, because that’s the kind of guy you are.”

“She adores you.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Hey!”

We turn and Mikaela is making her way toward us, dragging behind her a tiny suitcase she could probably better carry. “Who’s ready for a Thanksgiving road trip?”

I try a smile, but it’s like the corners of my mouth weigh a hundred pounds each.

Jake picks up the slack and grabs her suitcase. “Come on, let’s get this trip going!”

They walk together and I follow along. My suitcase makes a horrible scraping sound along the concrete floor, like a wheel is stuck.

There is a sudden sharp pain, the one that always hits my heel. I don’t even flinch. Pain is relative.

We load into Jake’s town car and I tell Mikaela to sit in the front. As she buckles her seat belt, I realize she’s really too small for up there. The whole seat kind of swallows her. But she is lit with excitement and jabbers all the way out of the city. She finally settles down, decides to work on her journal. I can see Jake glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

“Hope . . .”

I must look really pathetic. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

About an hour goes by and then Mikaela turns and looks at me from the front seat. “I should have invited Matthew to join us. I want you to meet him before you leave me.”

“I’m not leaving—”

“Who’s Matthew?” Jake thankfully interrupts what was about to be a lie straight to her face. But somehow I get the feeling Mikaela already knows.

“The new boy, he just moved in. He’s got these weird glasses, but I kind of like him.”

“You move on fast,” I say.

“Lose one, find another. Isn’t that how it works?”

“According to Jake’s cards, yes.” I sigh, wishing I weren’t so mean when I get upset. But Jake doesn’t seem to be rattled by this defect in my personality. I point ahead. “Turn here, on the right.”

But Jake turns left. He glances at a set of directions he has sitting beside him.

“I said right.” But he ignores me.

I slouch in my seat and stare out the window, a hot mess of grudge.

Just as fast, I slide back up, my spine totally erect as I stare out the window. This can’t be happening. We’ve just pulled into the nursing home parking lot. I roll down the window to make sure I’m seeing this right.

I’m trying to find something to say, some way to get out of this. Jake and Mikaela hop out of the car.

“Uh . . . wait. You know, my mother, she’s neurotic. She likes people to be on time.” This may be the only time my mother’s neuroses save me.

Jake opens the back door, offers his hand. I realize instantly I cannot refuse a chance to put my hand in his. It’s probably going to be my undoing.

“Your mom doesn’t seem to be the type to get ruffled over time,” he says. “Besides, I have a few ladies to apologize to.”

I try to keep my pace in front of theirs. I’m walking so fast I look as awkward as those speed walkers you see on the jogging trails. But maybe I can thwart this somehow, get to Gertie before Jake does.

The doors swoosh open and a gaggle of residents are gathered in the front commons area, all wearing turkey hats and watching some black and white movie.

Gertie’s in the back. She turns and I almost dive behind the front desk, but it’s too late. She sees me.

“Hope!”

Jake glances at me. I hurry over to her, but I recognize my problem immediately. I can’t whisper a plan to Miss Gertie. She won’t hear me.

“My goodness,” she says, embracing me. “Oh my goodness, Hope! I didn’t expect to see you today!”

“Hi, Miss Gertie.”

Jake steps up, offering his hand to Miss Gertie. “Miss Gertie, eh? I’m Jake. And I just wanted to tell you . . .” He glances at me, a wistful smile on his lips. “I just wanted to tell you that in life, we can feel abandoned. Alone. But our Lord above watches each of his own. You belong to him in the palm of his hand. You’re never out of reach, like all the grains of sand.”

Miss Gertie melts right there in her wheelchair. “You seem like a nice man. Hope, doesn’t he seem like a nice man?”

“No bet,” I say to him, “I’m completely out of ones. You two get to know each other. Also, the sand line makes no sense.”

He looks at Miss Gertie. “But how do you know Hope?”

Miss Teasley rolls up. “Did I write those letters all right for you?”

I bite my lip. I’m caught. Jake’s expression says everything. I notice Mikaela. She’s hurrying down the hallway. Where is she going?

“I’m sorry . . . how do you all know . . . ?” I don’t hear the rest of Jake’s question because I race after Mikaela. Last I saw her she was headed to the wing where my grandma is.

At Grandma’s door, I spot Mikaela. She is sitting in front of my grandmother, leaning forward in an embrace with her. I notice some of the cards I’ve left her are gone. In her more lucid moments, she sometimes gave them away to the cleaning ladies, but she hasn’t been lucid in a while. Maybe someone is stealing them because they’re so incredibly funny.

Maybe I’m the one who isn’t lucid.

“Oh my child, how I’ve missed you. I’m so, so sorry about what happened to your daddy.”

I step out of their line of sight, my back against the wall just outside the door. How is my grandmother talking? And how does she know about Mikaela’s father? I can’t imagine any of this and my mind is reeling . . . so much so that I don’t see Jake walk up until I spot his shoes next to mine.

“Let’s go,” he says.

I try a grin. “Ready for my mom’s great cooking?”

“I’m not staying. I’ll drop you off and come pick Mikaela up when dinner is over.”

I touch his arm. “Jake . . . I’m sorry. If I still had my job, I’d quit. I’d tell you to fire me.”

He looks me straight in the eyes. “After I did you a favor and gave you a job, it hadn’t occurred to me you set this up to get what you wanted.”

I sigh. No surprise. It was known around the nursing home that Miss Gertie’s pastime was getting in other people’s business, matched only by her inability to keep a secret. She’d apparently spilled all the beans. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“This isn’t just about work, Hope. You won’t give me a chance because you’re too afraid I’ll hurt you. But all you’ve done since you came in my life is hurt me. Just call me gullible. Stupid. Trusting.” His eyes flicker with deep pain.

“But that’s what’s adorable about you, Jake,” I grin. Yeah—I have a habit of throwing in a punch line when I shouldn’t. That very defect has cost me my job. And more, I am seeing.

“Why? So people like you can take advantage of me? Let’s go.”

He walks off. I call Mikaela’s name and she appears in the hallway. Her eyes look red and a little swollen. She walks past me, not saying a word. I stand in the doorway of my grandmother’s room and observe her. She looks catatonic again, like I’ve known her to be for some time. I can’t explain what is happening. But I’ll have to worry about my grandmother later. The car ride is quiet as we drive to Mom’s. There’s a lot I want to say to him, but not in front of Mikaela. I’m hoping he will change his mind about staying, but we pull up to Mom’s house and he keeps the car idling. The gentleman that he is, he steps out of the car and opens my door for me. Mikaela gets out too, observing the house with a strange intensity.

“I’m sorry,” I say again.

“Have a good Thanksgiving,” he replies. He reaches in and grabs my bag for me. He sets it on the grass.

He’s about to step back into the car when my mom comes flying out the front door, racing down the driveway like something’s on fire. “Oh, hallelujah!! My daughter is home. Home, home, home!” She pulls me into a one-way hug. “I kicked out the renter in your twin bed. You’ll want to wash the sheets.” She lets go of me and grabs Jake. “Welcome, welcome! Come in, come in! Jake, I made a tuna casserole, all special, just for you.”

She then takes Mikaela by the arm and leads her inside. Jake looks unsure what to do. He’s too nice of a guy, I realize, to reject a tuna casserole made especially for him, no matter how mad he is at me.

He shuts off the car and we walk inside, side by side, but not speaking a word.

I am surprised that dinner seems to be ready. My mom is the kind who starts dinner at five and we eat at nine. I have vivid memories of eating carrots and potatoes, and then two hours later, getting the roast that was supposed to go along with it.

I drop my bag at the door, gawking as my mom comes in from the kitchen holding a tray, but it’s not a serving tray like you’d see in a Martha Stewart magazine. It’s a cafeteria tray, like I had to carry every day of my school life. And on top of it is a plastic plate with little dividers, just like my lunch was served on in school. There’s green Jell-O, vanilla pudding, rice, Salisbury steak, and a large helping of tuna casserole.

“Let me help you with that,” Jake says. What kind of Thanksgiving dinner is this? It’s like I’ve landed in the hospital and they’re bringing in my dinner. I probably nearly cringed to death at some point today.

I watch as Jake puts the tray at the head of the table.

“Don’t put it there,” Mom says. “We leave that open in case Hope’s father shows up. We did pray, remember?” She points to the third chair on the far side of the table. “But you can have Sam’s seat.”

“Sam?”

“Mom!” I bark.

“Ever since he left Hope stranded at the altar, I haven’t invited him back.” And she walks off to fetch another tray. Jake follows her to help, but casts me a look. The anger is gone. I look away. I can’t stand the pity that’s now in his eyes.

That’s when I notice Mikaela. She is sitting on the nearby couch, flipping through a photo album. Tears are in her eyes. I sit next to her, realizing she is not unlike me, in so many ways. She is hurting, this little girl with her wise ways about her.

I notice the picture she is looking at. It’s one of my favorites: Dad and I are standing out in the snow together, smiling at the camera.

“Holidays are hard, huh?” I say quietly.

“Do you ever worry about what’s next?”

“All the time.”

Her cheeks flush as a tear rolls down her face. I put a very gentle hand around her shoulder, as if I’ve never hugged someone before. Mikaela collapses into my embrace, leaning fully into my chest. We sit there for a while as I watch Jake and Mom carry in hospital food for our Thanksgiving dinner. My life is so surreal.

“Come, come! Time to eat!”

Jake smiles slightly at me as he puts the last tray down. I smile back. Could it possibly be my mother’s quirkiness might reconcile us to at the very least speaking terms?

We take our places, the three of us staring down at our food like you do when you’re in the hospital, unsure you should eat it because it might make you sick. You’re in a hospital after all. Surely it’s safe. It just doesn’t look safe.

Mom claps her hands. “After dinner, I have a surprise for all of us!”

Nobody has to say it, but we’re all thinking it: This isn’t it?

I glance at Mikaela. “This can’t be good,” I whisper.

She laughs and swipes away a final tear.