8

He’d gained a lot of favor from Bette, and was allowed to stay past visiting hours now. She felt strongly that the Coma Arousal Therapy would work for Hope, but she needed help. Jake was encouraged to talk to her, squeeze her hand, even eat his tuna fish. It all felt a little preposterous but here he was, despite it all.

It was getting harder and harder to leave her side.

At exactly 8:19 p.m., Jake took her hand into his, scooted the chair closer to her bedside and whispered, “Hope, where are you?” He was shaking as he said it. But she needed to know that nobody really knew where she was.

He looked down at his feet. No. What she needed to know was that, no matter where she was, she had something to come back to.

But he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. He popped open a can of tuna and stood, stretching his legs. With a plastic fork, he ate it bite by bite.

The door opened and CiCi slid in, glancing behind her like her life was in danger, and then she shut the door as carefully as if it were made of paper. She yelped as she noticed Jake.

“What are you doing here?” Then she smiled, pointing a finger at him. “You snuck in too, didn’t you?” She plopped down in the chair at the end of Hope’s bed. “That nurse . . . Bette? . . . she is something else. Real strict about those visiting hours. Always lecturing me about how to get Hope out of this horrible mess she’s in.”

“It’s not a mess, it’s just what—”

“It’s all a mess! Her whole life’s a mess!”

Jake set his tuna aside and sat down. “CiCi . . . yes, something bad happened, but we can’t let Hope believe that her life is a mess. She has a lot to live for. She’s very . . . driven. Very . . .” The words were stuck in his throat but she needed to hear it. “. . . pretty.”

CiCi glanced at her daughter. “She could use a hair washing.”

“I think what Bette is trying to say is that we need to be encouraging.”

Suddenly tears streamed down CiCi’s face. “But look at her . . . she’s so . . . lifeless.”

Jake tried to find the right words. He was so bad with speaking words and so much more comfortable when he could write them down. “It’s not true. She’s in there. We just have to figure out a way to get her back here.”

CiCi wiped the tears with a tissue that looked like it’d been through a war. “Do you know where she was planning on going after she was married? To New York City. She wanted a career writing greeting cards. Who has heard of such a thing?”

Jake’s gaze snapped to Hope. For real? Sure, he remembered how much she liked to write cards, but he never imagined she wanted to do it for a living.

“She’s got real talent,” Jake offered, his attention back on CiCi. “She has to believe in herself.”

CiCi blotted her face. “The truth is, Jake, that I didn’t believe in her. I thought the whole idea of moving to New York City was a huge mistake.” Her hands shot in the air and she shouted out a hallelujah. She looked at the ceiling, waving her hands. “Oh, Lord, Lord! How I wish now that she was there! Oh how I wish she was there right now!”

The door opened to the room and Bette stood there like a mad bull. CiCi’s arms dropped to her side and she mumbled to Jake, “We’re caught.”

Bette’s finger pointed straight at CiCi. “You, missy, come here right now.”

CiCi obeyed, sheepishly shuffling toward Bette.

Bette looked like she could beat an elephant into oblivion. “As I told you before, we have strict rules about visiting hours. And here you are, making all kinds of racket. What are you trying to do, wake our patients?”

CiCi looked genuinely confused as she glanced back at Hope. “Yes . . . yes, I am . . .”

Bette realized her mistake as she glanced at Jake. “Yes, well, we must contain the efforts to visiting hours.” She spoke more softly as she guided CiCi out of the room. She glanced back at Jake. “And you, sir, I’ll be back for you in a second.” But she winked at him like she had no such intentions.

The door shut and the room was quiet again. Hope never moved, just breathed shallowly and softly, like she had since the day she got here.

Jake clasped his hands together, trying to come up with a plan. “Greeting cards, huh? Why am I not surprised?” He stood and touched her shoulder, very slightly, as if he were afraid she might break. “The thing is . . . Hope . . .” Why could he not say these words? “The thing is . . . I need you.”

It sounded so ridiculous. He’d only reconnected with her a few weeks ago, and she was unconscious at the time. How could he need her? More importantly, why would she need him? But he’d written a lot of cards over the years, written cards that spoke of divine moments, divine intervention, of God coming down and working something amazing out.

He had more to say, but for now, that was all that would come out. So he sat back down and took her hand into his.

Greetings from My Life

I know so far it seems as if I spend a lot of time in the bathroom for things other than what a bathroom is typically used for, but my predicament is that I don’t want Jake to hear, and Everett literally seems to appear out of nowhere. So I’m in a stall, sitting on a toilet with the seat down, whispering into my cell phone to Becca, trying not to echo.

“If you could call, tell Jake your grandmother wrote the letter but her hearing aid won’t let her chat by phone—”

“You want me to lie.”

My whispers are all hissy because I’m tense and trying to get my point across. “It’s either that or I end up back home on a hide-a-bed, searching want ads for the next Bed Pan Queen job, while every dork in Poughkeepsie waits on my front lawn!”

“Oh yeah, that.”

“So will you call?”

“Have you met that special guy on top of the Empire State Building yet?”

My whisper drops completely and now I’m just two levels below shouting. “Becca, not you!”

“At least tell me you’re closer to getting your cards published. If I can’t have you here, at least one of our dreams for you should be progressing.”

“I’m working on it.” I think I hear someone come in, but it’s a false alarm . . . the automatic paper towel dispenser went off by itself as it sometimes does. “We have a big presentation in two days. I’m getting my samples ready.”

“I’m so glad your boss sees your talent.”

I don’t have the heart to tell her that my scheme continues far beyond the nursing home fiasco.

After Becca and I hang up, I notice Jake is out of his office, probably for a meeting, so I hurry to the dark Humor Department and begin pulling out my pad and pencils.

“Hope?” My name is called distantly.

I literally growl—so glad no one was walking by at the moment. A growl coming from a dark room could send Pearl and Ruby into early retirement via death. I rush around the corner and hurry to my desk.

Jake is in his office, grabbing his jacket off the back of his chair. He is excited about something, I can tell. He’s grinning before he even sees me and he’s not a grinner. When he turns, he says, “Come on, we’ve got work to do.”

I follow behind him as we head for the elevators. He is talking fast.

“Let’s forget all the cards I had you type up for the presentation. We’re going to do something new.”

“Okay. Cool.” I say this way more calmly than I’m feeling. Maybe the nursing home ladies pulled off a miracle. “I’ll be right back. Hold the elevator for me.”

I burst to my desk like my butt’s on fire and grab my portfolio bag, which contains a few of the cards I didn’t put in the desk. I manage my way back to the elevator just in time, slightly out of breath. Ruby and Pearl walk by, staring at us.

He says to them, “We’re going out to do some writing.”

I nod, but I really have no idea what’s going on.

“You?” Pearl asks. “Out?”

“As in out-out?” Ruby asks.

He holds the door open as it starts to shut. “While we’re gone, draw whatever you can think of that ties to love. Hearts. Flowers. Sunsets.”

“Regrettable tattoos,” I add, accidentally out loud.

Suddenly Candy steps right in front of Pearl and Ruby. Pink again. I’m guessing it’s a thing with her.

“You’re still dead, girl.”

“I’m working on it.”

“No paycheck until then.”

“What does a dead person need money for?” I try a laugh but it comes out sounding like a small critter dying.

Jake looks at me as we ride down. “Dead?”

“Small mix-up at the Social Security office.”

“Ah. I had my identity stolen once.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. By a florist.”

We step into the lobby and outdoors. The autumn sun feels good, just warm enough to be comfortable. And then I hear it. It feels like claws against a chalkboard.

Meow.

Below me, the same four cats I couldn’t shake a few days ago are back, moving in and out of my stride as I try to walk. Jake notices and smiles. “I love cats.”

“Must be a family thing,” I say.

“You don’t?”

“Oh . . . they’re so . . . loyal.” I trip over one of them and Jake catches me.

“They seem to like you.” He watches over his shoulder as they continue to trail us.

I change the subject. “So. You’ve never been out of the office?”

“They exaggerate. Of course I go out.”

We walk by a homeless man I hardly notice. But Jake stops. I watch him pull out a card and hand it to the man. As the cats circle me (and not the homeless dude? seriously?), I vow to hold my tongue, but this is my point. A card? To a homeless man? I mean, what good is that going to do him? I mean, The Lord will keep you and make His face shine upon you?

The dude needs a place to eat and sleep and an acknowledgment that—

The man opens the card and a ten-dollar bill falls out. Jake smiles warmly at him and continues walking. I do, too, but I can’t help but glance over my shoulder. The man has the money in one hand and is reading the card in the other. He smiles at something. I think there is a rainbow on the outside of the card, as best as I can tell. He closes it and stares at it.

“We are going to come up with something fresh for Valentine’s Day.”

“To go with hearts, flowers, sunsets . . .”

“I don’t know what I’ve been doing wrong.” He walks fast when he talks. I try to keep up. The cats even look drained. “Maybe I’ve been forgetting to connect with people.”

Ah hah! “I think you’re on to something, Jake.”

He stops, turns to me. The cats come to a screeching halt, watching us. “We’ll hit every romantic hot spot in the city.”

“Oh, uh . . .” It all comes back to me at once, every romantic place Sam and I ever went. I blink, trying to shake all the images. Restaurants. The river. The barbecue pit (a risky one but it was so fun). Jazz concerts. A balloon ride.

“And we’re starting with the Empire State Building!”

He hands me a note pad and pen.

If we weren’t outside, I’d rush to the bathroom.

* * * *

I realize I have no scientific evidence for this, but I think mothers have a special power over daughters. It comes in a lot of different forms, but perhaps the root of it stems from the same place—regret from their own lives.

It’s like they can will things on their daughters that they wished for themselves. My mother—as strange as she is—is no exception. She and my father met on a farm, but I always suspected she wished she had a better story to tell.

Jake is asking me if I’m afraid of heights. Apparently I’m turning white and making tiny gasping noises that sound as if air is leaking from my belly button. No, it’s not the height I’m afraid of.

It’s the irony.

Listen, I’m a fan of irony. And it comes in many forms. Verbal irony is sarcasm. I’ve got hundreds of cards based solely on verbal irony. It’s probably way overused in my life.

There’s dramatic irony, when a reader understands more about the events of a story than a character. Obviously that has nothing to do with me, but thought I’d throw it in there.

Then there is situational irony. That’s what I’m knee-deep in right now. Situational irony is when what actually happens is the opposite of what is expected. To be blunt, I was not expecting to be at the Empire State Building writing love cards.

There’s also a lesser-known irony—let’s call it the crazy-cousin-nobody-invites-to-the-dinner-parties: cosmic irony. For me, that’s the line between human desires and the harsh realities of real life. It’s when you feel like you have control over your life when in fact you really don’t. Call it God or Fate or whatever you will, but the fact of the matter is, there’s an influence far beyond what you can perceive.

That’s the kind of irony to avoid. When it comes knocking, lock the doors and windows and hide.

It’s also generally helpful to avoid expectations at all costs.

I have learned this the hard way.

We board the elevator and zoom to the top of the Empire State Building. The elevator doors open. Everyone exits but me. I peek out. I’m not sure what I’m looking for or hoping not to see. Well, I guess I’m partly hoping against a cute guy looking for a girl to ask out. But I notice nothing but couples. Lots of them. I quickly follow Jake.

“Let’s watch these people, imagine what they’d like to hear through a card.”

We both spot a couple nearby holding hands and gazing out at New York City.

“What do they need to hear?” I ask him.

“Write this down,” he says. And then he kind of slips into a weird trance. He stares forward, his eyes a little more open than normal, and he goes monotone on me. “‘Your hand is mine to hold for years. I’ll never leave, through smiles or tears. And when mountains move our way—together we’ll climb each step, each day.’” He turns to me, wistfully. His expression drops. “You’re not writing.”

“You’re not serious,” I say, but instantly I know otherwise. “You’re serious? You want me to use precious and limited company ink in the midst of unpredictable finances to write that down?”

I bite down on the pen because instantly I know I have hurt him. Ugh. Why do I have to open my mouth so much, say exactly what’s on my mind?

“You really don’t like it, do you?” He gazes at me with eyes so vulnerable I’m afraid that they might fall right out of their sockets. I’ve already got a bloody emotional mess on my hands. I don’t need this.

“Jake, no . . . seriously, I do . . . I love mountains . . . it’s just—”

“You don’t have to feign.”

But I can’t help it, I continue to gush out a heck of a backpedal. “Not many people can rhyme on cue. And you . . . you have the biggest heart. It’s the clue department that needs a defibrillator.” Wow. That didn’t come out right. “Look, not every guy is ready to climb that mountain with a girl. Even if he buys her the card that says he will.”

I’ve said too much. I know he can see it in my eyes. There is a place deep in my heart where that is true and it’s just come right out in my words. I’m forced to divert. “Ah . . . yeah, see that couple over there?”

Jake looks.

A girl and a guy, in their twenties, stand nearby. They appear to be feuding. I try a playful approach. “Go recite what you think they need to hear in a card. See how they respond. If it works, I’ll give you a dollar.”

He smiled a little. “A whole dollar?” He pretends to think. “Hmm. You’re on.”

Wow. Didn’t see that coming. I was just trying to avoid a conversation about who didn’t climb what mountain in my life. But I like the bet. Jake needs to see in real time what happens when he spouts off one of his poems, one of his grand proclamations of love.

He strolls over. I can hear the guy’s voice rising as the couple argues. “I’m not trying to be insensitive. I just can’t win with you!”

Jake approaches. I want to duck and hide behind something, but the only thing available is an elderly couple I’m bound to spook if I huddle at their legs.

“Excuse me,” Jake says.

The couple stops arguing, looks at him, both with sour and pinched expressions.

Jake is very casual, not the least bit nervous. “If there were a card shop up here, he’d buy one for you that expresses his love.”

They glance at each other. I know they’re probably expecting him to pull out flowers to sell.

“This place symbolizes your love,” Jake continues.

“Oh brother . . .” I grumble. This is going to be disastrous.

“Its height. Its strength.” Jake is gesturing like this is Shakespeare. “Its firm structure to draw on in times of trouble.” He looks at them both. “Because the value of your love is worth the pain of challenging times.”

I hang my head. Half of that didn’t even make sense. Besides, where was the rhyme? I glance up, just in time to see the guy say, “Yeah. What he said.”

The girl gazes at him. “Really?” She reaches out and embraces him. They hold each other—and right behind them is Jake, smiling at me.

I grab him while we have a chance and whisk him to the other side of the deck. Jake is still smiling. He sticks out his hand.

“Fine,” I grumble. I dig in my pocket for a buck, probably close to my last, and slap it in his hand. “I think it was a lucky break. I mean, I can’t believe they fell for that. Height? Structure? It sounded like an architectural tour.”

Jake continues walking. I catch up with him. We stroll along the side of the deck where we can see the view. “I’ll admit . . . I can be resistant to change. But that back there, it’s shown me something. It’s shown me what we need for Valentine’s Day.”

“Break-up cards,” I say.

“Exactly,” he says.

“Really?”

“Yes! Yes! Make-up cards!”

“I said break-up cards.”

“I thought you said make-up.”

I sigh. I thought for a moment we were on the same wavelength but we weren’t even on the right frequency.

“Make-up cards . . . ?”

“Because people do fight. Case in point back there.”

“No kidding. But you’re overlooking someone.”

“Who?”

“The one without a valentine. The one whose idiot boyfriend chose to end their relationship.”

“I can see this is personal,” he says, stopping to look at me.

“It’s an example. I don’t even have a boyfriend.” Ugh. I think I’ve just made his point.

“I like where you’re going with this . . . we can write cards for them about how their true love is on the way!”

“That’s exactly what I wasn’t thinking.” Oh my goodness, this guy is totally not getting it.

Suddenly we hear a burst of emotion. We turn and there is a woman, maybe thirty, by herself. She is tearing a photograph. Ripping it to shreds. Letting the paper fly into the wind, tossing the rest off the edge. Tears are streaming down her face.

Jake glances at me and I shrug. “I dare you.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. He walks next to her. This time I don’t even try to hide. I want to see this whole thing play out. Jake gently pats her shoulder. She looks at him, embarrassed but seemingly comforted that someone sees her pain. She smiles a little, shakes her head, wipes away the tears.

“There’s another out there for you. Do not lose hope, the future will bring a love that’s real. Because God sets the lonely in families.”

“Huh?” she says.

Wait, that was me.

The woman’s expression drops right there in front of him. It’s so dramatic that Jake actually takes a step back. I think that’s probably a good idea.

“The last thing I need is someone shoving me toward someone new! If I didn’t think he was the best, I wouldn’t have been with him in the first place! Jerk!”

It’s unclear who the jerk is here . . . Jake or the boyfriend . . . but she’s made her point and she stalks off.

Five seconds later Jake is slapping the dollar bill back into my hand.

“One to one.” I smile.

“This isn’t over.”

We walk again. “Jake, do you seriously believe what you told her? That it’s really as simple as someone better coming along?”

“The foundation of our company, when my father built it, was for the purpose of encouraging people . . . that in times of pain, something good will come of it.”

I glance at him. “Do your cards come with a money-back guarantee?”

“It’s not like we came up with that message on our own. It’s in the Bible.”

“And you believe the Bible?”

“I do. My dad, he never wavered, no matter what was going on in our lives or with the company. He always believed something good would come, even in the midst of some tough circumstances. It’s been hard since he retired because my brother doesn’t exactly . . . believe. But Dad put him at the helm. My dad sees the good in everything and everyone . . .”

I stop. Something gets me, kind of strikes right into my heart. I’m taken by surprise. I hadn’t really felt my heart do much of anything lately.

“What? Did I say something wrong?”

“No, it’s just . . . I don’t know. I wish I could be like you, trusting that everything will be okay.”

He touches my arm. “What’s not okay for you right now, Hope?”

I look up at him. I know my eyes are shiny with emotion. But I’m tempted . . . so tempted to spill everything.

And then, suddenly, I can’t.

I start walking again. “Well, for one thing, you heard Candy. I’m still dead according to the government. Until I’m alive, you can’t pay me.” I glance at my watch. “I need to get to the Social Security office.”

“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.