9
I brought you a little something to eat,” Bette said, carrying a food tray into the room.
“Bette, that is so kind. You didn’t have to do that. I brought some tuna.”
“I know you did. And trust me, I want you to keep on using it. The guy next door woke up from a traumatic brain injury yesterday and I’m halfway convinced it was your tuna.”
Jake laughed. “That smelly, huh?”
“That’s what we need. We can’t make loud noises so we’re forced to keep the needles and the tuna up. But I figured you’d like something else.” She set the tray down on the ledge with the cards. “Not promising it’s any good, but there’s some Jell-O and a nice, buttery roll there.”
“You seriously don’t have to bring me food. I feel like I’m in the way half the time.”
Bette’s expression turned serious. “Jake, I don’t mean to get personal here, but I think you’re the only thing keeping this girl from sinking so far away that we lose her. A mother’s love can go far, but this mother’s love is far out. Lovely lady, otherwise, but if she screams “hallelujah!” with no forewarning one more time, I’m going to be moving some people to the cardiac unit, if you know what I mean.”
Jake laughed. He watched her take Hope’s pulse and blood pressure, writing down her vitals in a chart that was getting thicker by the day.
“Bette?”
“Yeah?”
“You look tired.”
She glanced at him, tried a quick attempt to smooth out the ponytail that seemed like it probably never even came down. Two mismatched clippies held a few stray hairs, but mostly everything fell in her face anyway.
“I don’t mean to pry, but you take care of everyone around here. I see you helping the patients, other nurses, and now patient visitors.” Jake glanced at the food tray she brought in. “Who takes care of you?”
Bette didn’t answer for a long time. She tightened some tubes, used a syringe to put medicine into Hope’s IV. Jake looked down. Maybe he’d said too much.
“My mother.”
“Your mother takes care of you?”
“No. I take care of my mother.” She didn’t look up. It was like she felt ashamed to even mention it. She kept busy, changing the bed pan and tucking the sheets, as she spoke. “She’s got the beginning signs of dementia. Not sick enough for twenty-four-hour care, but sick enough that she can’t live alone anymore.”
“What a noble thing to do.”
Bette looked at him. “Honey, it’s not noble. She’s my mother. How could I not? And this is my job. How could I not care about this sweet woman in this bed?”
“Not everyone has a Bette in their lives, but I know they wish they did.”
She went to the sink to wash her hands. “It’s been hard. I’m a single mom. My son is sixteen. I worry about him all the time. And now I’ve got my mom living with us. Sometimes it’s hard to find time to just go to the store or the money to buy the extra things we need.”
“I’m really sorry. My dad once told me to try to look at everything in terms of seasons . . . that it won’t always be this way. And it’s been true. The good seasons don’t last forever. But neither do the bad.”
Bette grabbed two paper towels and looked at him. “That’s very wise.”
“Nah. Just life.”
“I have to go check on Mr. Warren, but I have a favor to ask of you, Jake.”
“Anything. I’ll start eating anchovies if that will help.”
She laughed. “It’s actually for me.”
“Sure. Anything at all.”
“Would you make me a card?”
“What?”
“A card. For me. Whatever you feel like you should write. I want a card, something to encourage me, something to get me through the day that I can go back to and look at when the day seems like it’ll never end.”
Jake was so touched he didn’t know what to say. “Of course. Yes. Sure, I would love to.”
She smiled. “Thanks. Now I must go. Compacted bowel in Room 4. It’s going to be a long night.”
She left and Jake couldn’t stop smiling. He grabbed a pen and one of the envelopes that a card had come in and began jotting down ideas.
Then the door burst open and CiCi came in, wailing with her arms in the air. She flung herself over the bed, her head resting on Hope’s shins. “My baby girl, my baby girl. You are in the fiery furnace! It is scorching your soul! But believe! Believe that you will be delivered!!”
Jake sighed. Bette was right.
It was going to be a long night.
Greetings from My Life
I’m literally biting my tongue and having quite a heated conversation with myself on the inside. I’m following Jake all over the city . . . Central Park, Times Square . . . every place he thinks a romantic moment might spur him into free verse or a limerick or something. I’m jotting down every idea, every word. He’ll spontaneously shout “butterfly!” or “star gazing!” and then we move on.
I’m biting my tongue because I’m a smart girl and I realize this is a job that, if I can ever prove myself alive, is going to pay the bills. But if Everett is right, and the business is going to tank, then it’s not going to pay the bills for long. I know I can save it. I know I’ve got the right kind of card, the card that nobody is printing but everyone wants to read.
Jake enjoys pointing out all the love around us . . . old couples holding hands. Young couples dreaming of futures that have endless possibilities. Even dogs look to be canoodling.
Sure, I think. It’s easy to love and dream when you’re in the greatest city in the world. It’s real life that makes everyone trip and fall. That’s what I want to try to convey to Jake. Rainbows and mountains and butterflies, sure. But what about cliffs and flash floods and dungeons. Dark, certainly. But am I lying?
By the time Jake finally runs out of ideas, I’m exhausted. My calves are killing me. We’re sitting on a bench and I’m packing up my notepad and pencil. “I’ll get these typed up for you and have them ready in the morning.” I smile like the good assistant I’m trying to be.
“Thank you,” he says, grinning. “I really think we’re on to something here. I’m excited. I should’ve done this years ago.” He gives me a playful punch in the arm. “Thank you.”
“Sure . . . whatever I can do to help . . .” All sarcasm must stay in my head as much as possible. “Well, I should probably go get in the Social Security line before they close. You don’t mind if I take off a little early?”
“Not at all. I understand you’ve got to get that resolved.”
“Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow.” He walks off with a little bounce in his step.
I grab my bag and head the other direction, feeling a little bad. I feel I’m like the person that tells a little kid there aren’t real unicorns. He really feels triumphant. He feels like he’s nailing it. He wants to write make-up cards. I want to write break-up cards. We’re the yin and yang of the greeting-card world.
I walk a few blocks to the Social Security office and am dumbfounded to a standstill. A line. And as far as I can tell, it actually wraps around at least a block. I check my watch. It’s four. The office closes at six. Is there any chance I can get in before it closes?
The truth is, what choice do I really have?
It’s already a little chilly. Now gray clouds are gathering atop the skyscrapers and it looks like rain. But I take my place in line, sit with my back against the wall of the building I’m standing next to, and pull out my sketchbook. Like clockwork, the cats appear. They sit near a pole, watching me.
It is an hour and a half before I check my watch again, but in the meantime I have designed and written ten new cards. Some of them are super darn funny too, if I do say so myself. I’ve covered a lot of topics . . . breakups, stupid men, lousy relationships that are stuck and going nowhere. My favorite joke comes with a little play on words, where the dude loses his e and becomes a dud. You have to see the picture to get the full effect, but let’s just say I’m envisioning a catfight in the card aisle if this is the last one left—women are going to eat this up.
I chuckle reading it for the fourth time. Above, the faint sound of thunder gets my attention. I look up and it’s the first time I notice the old man. He is watching me with interest.
“Whatcha been working on, woman? I seen you sitting here for a while now, barely lookin’ up once.”
“I’m a card designer.”
He blinks. Blankly.
“A greeting card designer.”
A small nod of slight recognition as to what I’m talking about.
My ten cards lay on the concrete and I smile at a job well done. “I’m working on a plan to save the card company I’m working for.” I gesture broadly to my pile of cards. Inside my head, a loud, angelic chorus proclaims its greatness.
“Never heard of saving anything through a card.”
I’m about to explain, very thoroughly to this old man, the power of a greeting card when a woman wearing a navy suit steps near our line and yells, “We’ll be closing in thirty. Anyone behind this point, come back tomorrow.” I’m at least twenty people from where the woman’s cutoff line is. A loud, collective groan comes from the crowd.
Then, as if God spoke his displeasure at the situation, thunder rumbles loudly overhead, rattling the nearby windows. In unison, everyone looks up. And as we do, a torrent of rain the likes of which nobody has seen since the movie The Perfect Storm, pours out of the sky, drenching everything in its path. People are actually screaming, running this way and that. I quickly reach for my cards, but a boot smashes into one, and then someone’s tennis shoe runs right over my hand. I look up, hoping the old man sees my plight and might be willing to help, but he is gone. By the time I manage to gather my cards and stuff them in my bag, I’m drenched and so are they.
The cats sit there, unmoved, their eyes taunting me. I wish I knew something insulting in the cat world. I would totally use it right now. Instead, I stalk off toward the YMCA. If I had cat ears, they’d be flat.
In the pouring rain with no umbrella, I walk. The day is as gray as Stonehenge and if you could see me, you’d think me pathetic. And I am. I’m slouched, trying to protect myself from the rain. I’m wet. Angry. Fed up. I just want to get home . . . or wherever it is I’m staying. I want dry clothes and I want that stupid Murphy bed. This rain reminds me of my wedding day and so yes, my heart is a soggy mess of sorrow at the moment. It is, dare I say, a bleeding one.
I arrive at the YMCA. I stand under the small stoop, letting myself drip-dry a little bit. I don’t want to track water all the way to my room. Some old person might slip and fall. I listen to the rain and decide it’s rather soothing if I’m not standing in it. I try to think of a plan to get Jake to notice my cards. What can I do to wake this guy out of his creative coma?
Finally, I stop dripping. I head to my room. I pass the old lady janitor, who never seems to acknowledge I exist. Sitting on top of one of her buckets, though, is a tabby cat, who stares me down as we pass each other. I stare it down too. Bring it on, I say. Bring it on.
I reach for my key but before I get to it, I notice a note stuck to my door. It simply says “Rent overdue” and my gaze drops to the door knob. There is a padlock on it.
A minute later, I’m sitting across from Morris, the guy I met the first day I arrived. I figure Morris has seen plenty of people on hard times in his line of work, but I must look like a culmination of them all. He isn’t meaning to, but his head is tilted to the side like I’m quite the spectacle.
I slap a credit card onto the desk in front of him. It is my last resort. I vowed I wouldn’t go into debt making my dream come true, but at this point, I’m just trying to find dry clothes and a bed, so I figure this would be considered an emergency.
“Can you put the next couple of weeks on my credit card?”
“I already tried. Wouldn’t go through.”
This is the kind of desperation you don’t really expect in life. This and being left at the altar. I’m sitting in this chair, across from a guy with no neck, and I’m realizing I’m homeless. For real, homeless.
Homeless. Spouse-less. And also dead. I might as well jump feet first into the fiery furnace of hopelessness, because I’m not seeing a way out of this.
“I’ll get cash from my boss tomorrow.” I know Jake will do this for me. He hands ten bucks out to homeless people. And I’m his assistant. I’m sure the loan will come with a card encouraging me through my homelessness, but at this point, I’m desperate enough to take it and read the thing. I look at Morris. “Will that work?”
“Yep. And as soon as I see that cash, I’ll let you back in. Tomorrow.”
An hour or so passes. Maybe five. I’m not sure. All I know is that I’m against the wall next to my padlocked door, still wet. I’m cold. I’m hungry. And I’m the kind of person that takes my hunger out on other people. When my blood sugar drops, you better get me a carb and fast.
I rest my head between my knees, trying to keep a headache at bay. I realize I’m about as low as I can go. I mean, probably to encourage me you’d say, “Well at least you’re alive.” But technically, according to the government, I’m really not. I wonder what kind of card Jake would send to someone like me? How do you comfort someone by greeting card who doesn’t have a postal address? What serene nature picture is going to keep me from jumping off the proverbial cliff?
I hear a sound and look up. On the other side of my closed door, sitting against the wall just like me, is Mikaela. When she slipped into the picture, I don’t know. But she’s beginning to grow on me.
I get up off the ground. I’m vaguely aware there’s a prominent wet spot on my rear.
“How was your date?”
I sling my bag over my shoulder. “Does your mother know you sneak out and harass me all the time?”
“I’m too charming to fall under the harassment category.”
“Right. What room are you in again?”
“You never asked me the first time.”
“Does it have floor space I can borrow?”
Mikaela also stands and she produces a padlock key from her pocket and hands it to me. “I’m in tight with the janitor lady. Room Eleven, can I ask you something?”
“Don’t you always?”
I’ve known Mikaela only for a short time, but I’ve never seen her face cloud over until now. She is pondering something deeply.
“How do I get a boy to like me?”
Oh brother. I do not want to deal with this question. My advice would be to stay away from boys for the majority of life, until you are both about seventy and they’re finally tame enough to enjoy and nearly dead enough to collect Social Security benefits.
As I stand there trying to figure out a way to explain all this to Mikaela, there is an overwhelming antiseptic smell, like the girl bathed in it. It’s not going to attract any boys, that’s for sure, although I suspect she’s totally safe from the West Nile virus.
“Take a shower, first of all. You smell like antiseptic.”
“I was hoping for something a little more existential.”
What eleven-year-old uses that word? “Well, sorry to disappoint you. I’m of the philosophy that a good shower is never going to fail you. After that, you’re on your own.”
I unlock the padlock and throw my stuff on the bed, then dig through my bag looking for dry clothes. When I turn around, Mikaela is already digging through my other bag, holding up the soggy cards one by one.
“What are these for?”
I put a towel down and sit on the bed, gazing at the sopping mess. “Tomorrow, Jake and I present to the team the next set of cards. Only Jake’s cards”—his face pops into my mind, as does the expression of complete fulfillment he had when we were at the park—“will sink us for sure. So I’m writing my own set. Except I’m going to have to start over, but I’ll have them done by tomorrow.”
“Wait.” Mikaela hands them to me one by one as I set them on the desk. “Jake doesn’t know about these?”
“Of course not. If he did, he wouldn’t let me present.”
I reach out for another card, but Mikaela pulls it to her chest, looking at me just like those cats do. “Wait a minute. I helped you get that job. And now you’re going to stab Jake in the back?”
“It’s not like that. I’m trying to help him save his company.”
She crosses her arms. “Is he going to see it that way?”
Now I don’t know about you, but I have some pet peeves. I don’t like when people younger than me call me honey or sweetheart. I also don’t like eleven-year-olds crossing their arms and lecturing me on ethical issues.
“Mikaela, give me the drawings.”
“Then give me back that key!” I’m surprised by this. She’s typically pretty calm . . . incorrigible, yes . . . but I’ve never seen her face red.
I cross my arms, holding the key in my hand. Oh yeah, it’s a standoff and I’m in the kind of mood where this is somehow making sense in the moment. I understand that you’re probably having second thoughts about me and an eleven-year-old throwing down, but you have to try to be in my perspective. See it through my eyes. See it through the day I’ve had. Remember that I was having to write down rhymes about deer bounding over prairie grass.
Suddenly, Mikaela throws all the cards at me. It’s like confetti popping from the ceiling. But there’s no big prize and no winner. I watch them float to the ground, then I look at Mikaela. Her hands are on her hips. She suddenly looks like the little girl she is.
“It’s not supposed to be like this! I’m changing my Christmas list!”
She storms off. I grab all my cards off the ground, trying to neatly stack them. I don’t know where Mikaela has gone, and frankly, I don’t have time to care.
I sit at my desk and pull out my pencils.
The next time I glance at the clock, it is 4:30 a.m.
* * * *
It’s morning. And by morning, I mean the time most people get up. I fell asleep somewhere around five and awoke around seven, still at my desk, drooling on a card that had half the punch line written.
I shower, trying to wake myself up. I look dreadful. Maybe I should present a line of zombie cards.
I decide I need some breakfast. But as I open the fridge in the community kitchen and dig around sacks, I realize almost immediately my food is gone. Someone has stolen it. I glance at my watch. I’m already late.
So I go.
Once in the office, I quickly type up everything Jake requested and have it on his desk by the time he arrives. He still has that bounce in his step . . . like a deer bounding over fields of optimism.
I see him in his office, reviewing the printout. He’s talking to himself, making mental notes, I guess. While he’s distracted, I take the cards I worked on all night and slide them into a folder. Jake walks out, looking at his watch.
“Okay, it’s time to go to the board roo—you okay? You look a little . . .”
“Just tired.” I stretch a grin so wide across my face that he leans back a little, like he’s afraid it might bite. I dial it back a notch. “Yeah, you know, just so much excitement about our big presentation and all that. Hard to sleep. This is what we live for, right? Greeting cards.” He smiles helplessly, if I had to describe it, and it kind of stings my heart. “This new love line will make those nursing home ladies swoon. Thanks for typing everything up this morning.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles at me in one of those moments where you feel like something is passing between the two of you but you don’t really know what. “I, um . . . I had a lot of fun yesterday.”
We walk together to the boardroom, my legs shaky underneath me. Jake seems as calm and cool as I’ve seen him. Pearl, Ruby, Everett, and a couple of the accountants file into the boardroom as we do. Everyone gets situated, a couple pour coffee. Everett checks his phone. I swallow. Guilt is kind of strangling me at the moment. But at the same time, I know what I must do . . . for Jake, for Everett, for greeting cards everywhere.
Everett calls the meeting to order and then says, “All right. What do we got?”
Jake’s face lights. He gives me a knowing look before he says, “Everett, this new line . . . I’m sure these cards will sell. Hope?” He gestures toward me and nods toward the computer where we’ve put all of his notes into a PowerPoint.
I stand, adjust my pants and my shirt and my hair. I adjust my watch. I adjust my pants again. And then, with resolve, I adjust my expression and head away from the computer toward the easel in the corner, where I’d put my cards earlier and draped a sheet to hide them.
I can see Jake out of the corner of my eye. He’s pointing to the computer, sort of frozen mid-gesture, watching me walk. Everyone is.
“Good morning,” I say very formally, but my voice shakes a little. “Today, I want to present to you a new idea.” I glance at Jake. Slowly, his arm is lowering. “People who are together, they don’t need our cards. They should be writing their own words to each other. So I propose we do a new thing this Valentine’s Day, something that’s never been done in the history of greeting card companies. For those who feel it’s time to end a relationship, or those who are grieving a lost love . . . let’s target them. They need us to say the right words for them. That’s why I propose we develop”—I can almost hear the drum roll. Almost—“a line of break-up cards.”
“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Everett says and claps . . . all by himself.
“Hope,” Jake says, “what are you doing?”
I look at him, hoping he sees the wisdom I’m offering. “Jake, just listen. It’s marketable. More people break up than make up, right? If we want to talk numbers, right?” I glance over at the two accountants, who don’t seem to speak “relationship” but whose eyes light up when I say numbers. With the flare of a magician, I pull the sheet off the easel and unveil my very first card. I pick the first one up and show the outside: “‘God never closes a door on a relationship without opening a window.’” I open the card. “‘Feel free to jump. I’ll wait for you at the bottom.’”
I still crack up at that one. I look around the room. Only Everett is smiling and nodding.
I clear my throat and unveil the second card. “‘It was God who said man is not meant to be alone.’” I open it. “‘I hope God wasn’t talking about your ex. That schmuck deserves to be alone for the rest of his life. You are too good for him.’”
Everett howls with laughter. But Jake stands and moves to the computer.
“Excuse me,” he says in a tone I’ve not heard him use before. “These are not the cards we prepared for today. I appreciate your efforts,” he says, casting me a look that says otherwise, “and I’m sure you worked hard, but—”
“I want to hear them,” Everett says. “Landon, go on.”
It’s tense in the room, which does not seem ripe for the receiving of punch lines, so I try to explain the vision. “We could also develop a set for that moment when you realize you’re with the wrong person . . . and who can’t relate to that, right?” I say with a kind of snorty, awkwardly whistling laugh. “Um, how about this one? ‘The Lord said seek and ye shall find . . . when I found you, I should’ve kept looking.’”
Everett is rolling. Pearl and Ruby look at each other as I unveil the fourth card.
“Where are we supposed to add the puppies?” Pearl asks.
“Do you have kitten jokes? We love kittens,” says Ruby.
“I’m working on that,” I say to them, “but let’s think about the woman whose man cheated on her. How about quoting Numbers 6:24: ‘The Lord bless thee and keep thee . . .’” I open the card. “‘Because I don’t want thee anymore, you cheater.”
Everett rubs his hands together. “Awesome.”
“We can’t use the Bible this way,” Jake says, throwing up his hands. “I know this is your dream and you think these are good ideas. But my father left me in charge for a reason.” His gaze is bouncing between Everett and me.
“Correction, Jake. You’re just the writer. I get to approve what goes to market.” Everett points to the next card I’d unveiled. “What’s this one?”
I look at it. It’s a drawing of a woman buried in wedding gifts. She’s not looking happy. I’m sure you can imagine.
“It’s a ‘No Thank You Card’ for right after a busted wedding.”
Ruby and Pearl look completely lost. “I’ve never heard of those,” Pearl whispers to Ruby.
“Me neither,” Ruby whispers back.
Few have, I assume. So I explain. “They come in handy when your betrothed”—I use this word to try to help Ruby and Pearl along in their understanding—“leaves you at the altar, feeling stupid, because you thought he’d stick around. And he was the only one you ever loved and you have all those gifts to return.”
I have to be honest, everyone looks confused and stumped. Even Everett.
I clear my throat. “Jake, if we mix the Bible with humor, maybe it will save your company!” I’m sure you can picture it—I’m frozen in excitement, waiting for him to come along beside me.
He doesn’t. “I have my own new cards,” he says to Everett, completely ignoring me.
“Lan, you got anything else?”
Lan . . . ugh. Why is he calling me that? It’s so . . . Sam. And I didn’t even like it that much when he called me that, but it was his pet name for me and it had a certain amount of charm to it because I thought he was in love with me.
I glance at Jake, suddenly convicted by my scheme. He stands there looking totally wounded. He shrugs his shoulders, like I might as well continue.
“Well, um, I’m also working on some Anti-versary Cards, for those dates on the calendar that are painful. Or for divorcees, Newly Unwed cards.”
Admittedly, there is a certain dark cloud hanging over the conference room, but this is reality . . . this is what people go through. I try to brighten the mood. “Of course, we can’t ignore congratulations for those few who do find love.”
Pearl and Ruby sit up straighter, nodding and smiling. I unveil the final card. On the front is someone praying. “‘I know you’ve waited so long to find God’s best.’” I open the card. “‘I see you got impatient. Congratulations on your engagement.” Pearl and Ruby are back to looking confused, but Everett leaps from his seat.
The next thing I know, he’s grabbed my head, pulled me forward, kissed my forehead, and let me go. I stumble back, breathless and disoriented.
“You are just what we needed!” Everett says.
“We can’t print these.” Jake steps forward. His face is a shade of red that’s somewhere between ripe tomato and blood. “Sales are not that bad. Our inventory is moving . . .” His voice is high and thin and desperate.
“Because you give half of it away! Since these aren’t specific only to Valentine’s Day, let’s get them out there, see if they boost sales.”
I glance at the accountants, then at Ruby and Pearl. Everyone is watching this verbal Ping-Pong match with a lot of interest.
“These can’t be our last-chance cards.” He looks at me, but there is a wall so high and wide in his eyes that I’m not even sure if he’s seeing me. “I need our notes.”
“Jake,” Everett continues, “it’s either we try this or we sell. Your choice. What do you want?”
At that moment, I feel complete regret for what I’ve done. Yes, I believe in my cards. Yes, I think the company needs an update. But I realize now I’ve done this in the most horrible way imaginable. I’ve embarrassed Jake in front of his coworkers, his brother. I’ve made him look stupid and backed him into a corner.
“Jake, I’m—”
But he storms out.
The accountants slip out, happy, I’m sure, to return to their predictable world of numbers. Everett leaves, but not before lightly tapping his hands together in what I guess is a congratulatory clap. Pearl and Ruby move slower, pushing themselves away from the table, helping each other stand.
I hear Pearl whisper to Ruby as they walk out, “I haven’t seen him that upset since he lost his wife . . .”
They continue to chat but I can’t hear what else they are saying as they leave.
I’m left alone standing by my cards and only one question occupies my mind . . .
Jake had a wife?