Greetings from the Flipside

  CiCi, as she’d introduced herself the first day, walked into the room and looked at her daughter.

  “I’ll leave you two—”

  “Oh no you will not. The doctor says we need to keep her stimulated.” She eyed him. “You look like the kind of guy that can do that sort of thing.”

  “Oh . . . uh . . .”

  “Talk to her. Carry on an interesting, one-sided conversation?”

  “I sometimes have trouble even when it’s two-sided.”

  “Oh, come now. Surely you can think of something interesting to say. Talk about your childhood memories, the school, the teachers, that sort of thing.”

  “But, I’m not really—”

  “The doctors say she can hear what we’re saying, so you must, must talk to her. You could be her only hope.”

  Jake’s gaze cut to the bed. He sure hoped not.

  And then CiCi raised her voice at the point that most people would lower theirs. “You must understand what dire straits this poor girl is in. She’s been dumped . . . DUMPED . . . at the altar. Generally, people don’t recover from that. But it must be said, one doesn’t get dumped at the altar because the relationship is going well. And relationships generally don’t go well when one or more of the parties lives in a dream world.”

  “You mean . . . the coma?”

  “Before the coma. She believed she could make a living writing greeting cards.” CiCi shook her head, made circular motions around her ear.

  Jake couldn’t help it, it just rolled off his tongue. “Believes.”

  “What?”

  “Believes. Not believed. She’s still with us.”

  Then her voice grew even louder. She was practically shouting. Or wailing. “My poor baby girl! Her life fell apart the day her daddy left and it’s just getting worse and worse!”

  Before she could shoot her hands in the air for another prayer, Jake gently put a finger to his own lips though he really wanted to put a hand over her mouth.

  She stopped, looking curiously at him.

  “If what they say is true”—he spoke in such a quiet whisper she had to lean in to hear—“and she can hear what we say, perhaps a better use of our time is to speak to her in a way that will encourage her to wake up.”

  CiCi looked as if she was trying to understand, but blinked as if she didn’t. “I know the Lord hears my cries.” And up her hands went.

  But Jake whispered, “The sign down the hallway says he hears them more clearly in the chapel.”

  Her hands dropped. “What sign?”

  “Down the hall, by the door, near the place that has the thing.”

  “What, wait . . . where?” CiCi’s eyes widened. “If that’s true . . .”

  “Oh, it is.”

  She glanced at Hope. “You’ll stay with her then?”

  “Sure.” The room was now very quiet, but the alternative, to have CiCi shouting her daughter’s dysfunction all over the hospital corridor, didn’t seem to be a good option either.

  “Thank you, you dear one! Thank you!” She drew him in for a hug, but she was so wispy it felt like hugging a cheese cloth. Then she was gone.

  He stood and watched Hope for a long time, wondering if she might, on a whim, just open her eyes. When she didn’t, his gaze followed the crowd of cards and flowers, pushed into all the shelves and spaces in the room. He walked to where most of the cards were, gazing at their covers . . . a lot of mountains, waterfalls, bridges, clouds, rainbows, sunsets, grassy fields, barns . . . the most serene pictures that were ever caught on film.

  “Excuse me, sir . . . ?”

  He looked to the doorway, where a candy striper—in actual red and white stripes—stood holding a stack of cards. “These came for her.”

  “Oh . . .” Jake looked around. There wasn’t really a place to put them. “Here. I guess I can take them.”

  “Thanks.” The young girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She glanced sideways, with a measure of guilt on her expression. “She looks so peaceful.”

  Jake nodded and thanked her again.

  “Well,” he said, sitting in the chair, counting the stack of cards. “It looks like ten more have arrived today for you.”

  He fingered the sharp corners of the envelopes. He should say something. Something real. Something profound. Something encouraging. But he was no different than that small boy who couldn’t manage to speak when the girl rewrote his card. His tongue was tied even as his feelings were unraveling.

  She was beautiful, even sleeping. Her hands held delicate and long fingers. He wanted to take them into his. He wanted to tell her that it was going to be all right, that she didn’t deserve what happened to her—any part of it.

  But instead, nothing came, and he chided himself for being unable to speak even the smallest amount of encouragement. Instead, he looked at the stack of cards on his lap and then tore open the first envelope. It was a pretty photograph of a gray sky with a vague hint of a rainbow. He opened it, a little sheepishly because he was reading someone else’s mail, but it wasn’t like she could read it. From a family called the Thompsons: “May God bless you in the midst of your turmoil.” He glanced at her. Well, this was turmoil all right. He supposed a blessing would be for her to wake up, but he guessed they didn’t make “wake-up-from-your-coma” cards.

  He filtered through the cards, a lot of handwritten notes like “hope you get better!” and “get well soon!” inscribed after some Bible Scripture or a simple poem about all the good that suffering can do when placed in God’s hands. A lot of pictures of doves.

  He opened the last one. It came in a slightly smaller envelope. When he pulled it out, he immediately recognized it. It came from his shop. It was a card he’d designed himself. He remembered taking the picture . . . it was of a creek at dusk. The water glowed a beautiful amber and reflected the fall leaves that shaded it. Small logs drifted in its water. A vine grew up one tree. A tiny butterfly floated just above a rock. He didn’t have to open it. He knew what it said inside:

  “The silence inside a perfect day

  Will help you find your way”

  He sat back and stared at it, then her. It was going to take more than a pretty picture to get her out of this mess. But whatever it took, he’d try to make every day he could, while she was in this awful mess, as perfect as it could be.

  And maybe he could do a little better than just silence.

  Greetings from My Life

  The train slows, then stops. I cannot believe it, but I am about to step right into Grand Central Station. It makes me smile because my friend Becca’s mother used to almost use it as a cuss word when we were kids.

  “What is this? Grand Central Station?!”

  But here I am, at my destination. The dream is alive. I quickly tuck my drawing pad and pencils into my bag and wait for the door to open.

  As it does, I’m hit with a strange odor, then a foggy, muggy kind of air, thick like syrup and odorous too. The light isn’t quite right, either. I was thinking everything would be awash in sort of an amber light . . . more natural light, maybe. I’m not sure. But either way, it is time for me to step off. And step off I will!

  When people fall, they don’t really make a splat sound, you know? I mean, why do we even say that? It’s more a thud. And a grunt. And then I hear my pencils rolling from my bag, one by one. I can’t see anything but shoes as people walk around me like I’m some kind of mud puddle.

  It was the strangest feeling that caused the fall, a sharp, shooting pain through my foot. I don’t know why nobody is helping me up. I manage my way to my knees. My heel throbs but it’s the least of my concerns. I locate my bag. It’s three feet away. I reach for it but can’t quite get to it. One foot after another, each adorned with some pretty impressive footwear, stomps on it.

  Like a slug, I crawl toward it, panting against
the suffocating humidity that apparently hovers two feet off the ground. I reach my bag. Scramble for my pencils. Dodge spiky heel after spiky heel.

  It feels like hours, but finally I manage to get to my feet after the train traffic has cleared and get my luggage. I blow air into my bangs. I’m sweaty. Shaken. But. I. Am. Here.

  As I walk out of the terminal, I make myself smile. What did I think? NYC was going to be a cakewalk? It’s tough here and I have to get my game on. I hold my head high and my bag close and I march on.

  Until I have to stop and look at a map.

  * * * *

  Thanks to craigslist, I have a good idea of where I want to live. At least judging by price and location. Thanks to Google Maps, I also have a good idea of where I don’t want to live. I’m three blocks away from gang territory, but supposedly it’s a safe neighborhood in Westside Manhattan.

  Except . . . the apartment doesn’t look so . . . Manhattan-ish. At least how I envisioned it. But again, I have to keep an open mind. I once read about a couple who lived in a 400-square-foot apartment in Manhattan. It’s my new way of life.

  I walk up the steps, dragging my luggage. I knock gently on the door. The door cracks open and an old man peers at me with one eye. I can see he has a gray beard and a mole on his nose, but that’s about it.

  “Who are you?” he grumbles.

  I beam with friendliness. “I’m here to inquire about the apartment you have for—”

  “No cats!”

  “Excuse me?”

  “No cats!”

  Just at that moment, I feel something brush my leg. It’s soft and furry. I glance down and there is a calico cat circling me like we’re well-acquainted. I shake it off. “It’s not my—” And as if it multiplies right in front of my face, another cat appears. Except this one is a tabby. “. . . cat. Cats.”

  I’m not a fan of cats. Don’t judge me. I know it’s uncool to be prejudiced, but the irony of it is that I always feel like cats are judging me. They seem like they can see right into my soul, but maybe it’s me. Or maybe it’s their green eyes. I don’t know. It’s just weird how they’re circling me like sharks.

  The old man is still looking at me. “No cats!”

  And then I try some New-York-City humor. I watched some YouTube videos to help me prepare. It’s not an easy sense of humor to grasp, mind you, especially if you’re not from the city. But I feel pretty confident I can get this guy to crack a smile.

  “These aren’t cats. They’re dinner.” I say this all straight-faced and calm like I really mean it.

  The door slams.

  I don’t fare well at the next place either. She’s a brick, this one–about 4’11, solid as a concrete birdbath.

  “I’m here to inquire about the apartment for rent.”

  Meow.

  Not the lady, the cats. They’re seriously circling me like ground vultures.

  “They’re not mine,” I say, a scowl cast toward them while I simultaneously cast a pleasant, I’m-dependable-and-catless grin at her.

  Her frown is severe.

  “I’d be a great tenant. I’m not married. Not engaged. No boyfriend and no plans for one. I’m here in New York City, following my dream of becoming—”

  “No single people!”

  I’m about to explain that (1) I haven’t given the ring back yet so technically I’m still engaged. And (2) Statistics show that single people are better tenants. I don’t have data to back that up, but I’m assuming that’s true. Either way, I think I’ve just been discriminated against.

  I wander the streets, pulling my cardigan, looking for an address that doesn’t seem to exist. Sweat has soaked my bangs. And now I have a third cat following me. This one is black with small patches of white around the ears and nose. Perhaps adorable on any other day but this. Now it looks less feline and more leech.

  I glance across the street and see a man trying to put a “for rent” sign up in the window. I hurry across, dragging my luggage and my cats, causing a taxi to lay on its horn. The man doesn’t notice me at first. He’s still working on getting that sign up in the window.

  But he looks like the nicest man. I know, naive to go by looks. But he’s wearing a cardigan. The kind with the wooden buttons. Again, no stats to prove it, but I’m pretty sure serial killers don’t wear cardigans. Secondly, he’s older. His back is hunched slightly. He’s got a newspaper tucked under his armpit. He’s got small tufts of hair growing out of each ear, but he’s remarkably well groomed otherwise. He turns, notices me and smiles the kind of smile only dentures can pull off.

  “Sir!” I don’t mean to shout, I’m just excited and he’s old. He turns down his hearing aid. “Sorry. I’m looking for an apartment.”

  He notices the cats. Who wouldn’t? They’re like a carousel around my feet.

  “These are not my cats.”

  “They look awfully fond of you.”

  “New perfume. I think it’s a little too catnip-ish.” I can’t think of another explanation.

  “You seem nice enough. And I hate showing the place. You wouldn’t believe all the crazies that show up when you have an apartment for rent.” He pats my shoulder with a thick, swollen hand. “Your credit checks, it’s yours.”

  “Thank you!”

  “Come on inside.”

  I start to follow him, but suddenly my foot doesn’t move. I glance down and the cats are still there, but none of them are holding my foot down. I try again, but it’s stuck. With a lot of effort I pull one more time and then hear the strangest sound . . . like something coming unglued from something else.

  I realize I’ve stepped in a glob of sap.

  I quickly slip off my shoe and follow him in, but not without noticing that there is not a tree in sight.

  Inside he is already seated at an old computer tucked in the corner. I hand him my driver’s license and a sheet of paper with all the information he’ll need to look up my credit.

  Outside the cats are meowing their protest.

  “Take a look around, see what you think.”

  With measured delight, I peek here and there. One bedroom. A tiny kitchen. A decent sized living room, at least large enough for a couch and a chair. The bathroom is swallowed up by a claw tub. The sink is crammed in so tightly it seems like an afterthought. But it’s charming, nevertheless. Once I start bringing in some real money, I can think about getting something a little nicer. For now, this will do.

  The man is now at the small kitchen table, barely big enough for three. Reading glasses are perched on his nose and several papers are spread out in front of him.

  I sit down. “Well, the place is just lovely.” It’s not lovely, it’s just what it is, but you shouldn’t insult your landlord. Even I know that.

  He peers at me over his glasses and then says, “You’re dead, woman.” I’m about to bolt for the door, realizing how stupid I am for assuming serial killers are opposed to cardigans, when he adds, “This report here says you’re deceased.”

  My head drops to the table with a thud. “And yet,” I mumble, “I’m not even feeling woozy.” It is no use explaining my predicament, that I’m dead/alive by way of my crazy mother.

  He grabs my shoulder, shoos me out with his big, fat hands. “I’m sure this is a shock,” he says flatly. “If you need to sit down, there’s the curb.”

  “Come on. Do I look dead to you?”

  “That’s the problem with this country!”

  “Zombies?” I can tell this is going south all the way, so I figure I might as well be witty.

  “You’re dead to me, identity thief!” The door slams in my face.

  I shout back through the door. “You think if I’d steal an identity, I’d choose this one?” As if he’s looking through the peephole, I make wild gestures at myself, trying to paint a picture of my mother, my fiancé, my wedding d
ay and other continued nightmares of my life. To the passersby, I probably look like I’m seizing out. The technical term is conniption fit.

  At my feet are four cats. The color of the new one doesn’t matter. At this point, it’s just a mismatched quilt of fur.

  * * * *

  It takes me an hour to scrape all the sap off my shoe. I’m seriously regretting my perfume choice, but if I can just get in a building somewhere for the night, I’m hoping these cats will lose interest.

  While I’m rolling the small stick up and down the sole of my shoe, I notice a sign for the YMCA. It’s only a block away, and already I can hear the sounds of the kids outside playing. I’m exhausted. This was not how I pictured my first day going, but I realize that I’ve got to stay focused on the goal. So for now, I need a place to stay until I can figure out how to rise from the dead, government style.

  I walk the block or so, dragging way more than physical luggage, if you know what I mean. The kind I’m dragging doesn’t have wheels and a pop-up handle. It’s heavy too. Real heavy.

  I stand outside the YMCA for a long time, trying to decide if I have the stomach for it. Say what you will about my mom, her house was always tidy and my sheets were always clean.

  But again, it’s my dream. I’m here. I’ve made it to New York City. So I should do what it takes. I can’t help but wonder how different this would be if Sam were with me. He’d know what to do. He’d find us a place to live.

  After several inquiries about whether there is a bed available, I am introduced to Morris. How to explain him. No neck to speak of. Lips the shade of a ripe plum. They’re fat, too, the kind that women pay thousands for, but that look awkward with no neck. His eyes are small. I notice for a man of around forty or so, there are no laugh lines. That’s worrisome. His shirt is buttoned up wrong and one pant leg hangs higher than the other. He gestures for me to follow him, keys dangling from his hand, and for no reason that I can identify, he squeaks with each step.

  He talks over his shoulder as I trail. “Each week, you pay in advance and leave a credit card on file for IVs, antibiotics, and bed pans.”