Greetings from the Flipside

  “Several times a day I will come in and do this. Sometimes I put a smell near her nose, like peppermint oil or eucalyptus oil. I’ve done ammonia too. I’ll play music.” She looked at Jake as she pricked her feet again. “But I’ve found that talking to patients who are unconscious is the best therapy around. Studies show that loved ones are the most influential.”

  “Well, um . . . again, I’m not even part of the—”

  “Hope, dear God! Hope!”

  Bette sighed before CiCi even got in the room. “That woman . . .”

  CiCi rushed in, her eyes frantic, her face splotchy. “I got a word from the Lord!”

  Bette was swiping the needles with alcohol and putting them back in their case. “Well, I got a word from the doctor, who sometimes mistakes himself for the Lord. He continues to maintain that you should keep a positive attitude around the patient at all times and not say things that are—”

  “Stuck! That’s the word the Lord gave me! Hope, you’re stuck! You’re stuck!”

  “Okay, listen . . .” Bette took CiCi by the shoulders and sat her down in a chair behind Jake, away from the bed. “CiCi, right?”

  “Yes. Yes.” She was nodding, her hands trembling, her lips pressed together so tight they couldn’t even be seen. It looked like she’d lost all her teeth.

  “I know it feels like she’s up against a wall here.” Bette was trying to use a hushed voice.

  “And no way to get out. No way at all . . .”

  “There’s always a way. It just might not come like we expect it to. Jake, why don’t you hand CiCi some of those cards you’ve been reading.”

  Jake gathered ten or so, stacked them, and gave them to her. CiCi opened the first one and seemed to settle a bit, nodding at whatever words she was reading. “Oh, yes. Oh, yes,” she kept saying over and over.

  As CiCi absorbed herself in the cards, Bette grabbed his attention as she stood by the side of Hope’s bed. Her voice was very low. “Jake, listen to me. I understand you’re a little uncomfortable here. But the way I see it—and I’ve been a nurse for twenty-three years—you need to be here. As much as possible. She needs to hear positive reinforcement, over and over. She needs to hear good things about her life. She was knocked unconscious with a broken heart. Somewhere deep inside of her, she believes that she has nothing good to come back to. Be her good. Okay?”

  Bette walked out and Jake sat motionless by the side of the bed. Behind him CiCi was talking to herself, but apparently gaining some hope as she read the Scriptures and poems inside the cards.

  Jake, on the other hand, was desperate.

  How could this all be laid on him? Hope couldn’t possibly remember him from years ago. He just happened to be there and now he’s here, and she was probably wondering whose strange voice kept reading her all those sympathy and get well cards.

  “Well,” Jake said, his voice low and a notch below a whisper. “I should say something right now. I should say something that will cause you to want to come back.”

  Silence crawled into the room. Even CiCi had stopped talking. The monitors didn’t beep. The hospital page didn’t blare through the speaker. The only noise came from the buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead.

  If there was a time when she might tune into his voice, it would be right now.

  His mind was totally blank.

  He grabbed another card off the shelf and opened it up. “I’m sorry. This is all I can do.”

  Greetings from My Life

  The door to my room is so thin it won’t even slam. I walk in, throw it against its frame and it just makes a little swooshy sound. I am fed up. Mostly fed up with myself. I had my chance and I blew it. I’m crawling on my hands and knees like a dog in front of the guy I want to hire me. I don’t even get a chance to show him my cards. He hands me a wad of cash. Tells me that’s all he can do for me.

  Moron.

  Me, not him.

  He doesn’t know me very well. And that’s got to change.

  As I sit on my Murphy bed, making sure my weight is evenly distributed, I notice the plastic bride and groom I’d tossed in the wastebasket is back on my desk. I stare at it for a long time. What did it do, crawl out of there by itself? I sigh, flicking it with my fingers back into the trash. Maybe I never put it in there at all.

  Then I hear noises. Childlike noises. What is going on right outside my window? I decide to pull the shades up. Light would probably do me some good. I raise the window too. Fresh air and all that. Too soon to tell if that exists in NYC.

  Right as I open the window, I feel something wet and sticky splatter across my face. I take my hand and swipe it across my forehead. I don’t know why I was expecting red, but it’s yellow. I glance up to see the girl who was previously in my room now outside in the small, weed-infested atrium, splatter painting. A few other kids are there as well. They’re all covered in paint. So are the sidewalks, trees, and plants around them.

  She smiles at me. “How’s that dream coming along?”

  The idea strikes me just then, the way the best ideas always do. “Hey, stay right there. I’m coming to you. I need your help.”

  An hour later, she and I sit at one of the rusted iron tables in the atrium. I am working on a card. She pulls one out of my bag and I let her. She’s a curious girl, as was I when I was young.

  “‘Do you want to break up?’” she reads out loud.

  I glance up at her, wanting to see her expression when she opens it.

  “Yes. No. I didn’t know we were boyfriend-girlfriend.” A pause. Then a roar of laughter. “That is hilarious!”

  “Cool. You think it’s funny?”

  “Funny. And so true. This is sooo my life. Sadly, I relate.” She jabs her thumb over her shoulder to a blond kid, around twelve, standing at one of the easels. “David. Is that hair killer or what?”

  Well, in my estimation it seems he needs a haircut. But he has a nice smile.

  I glance at her. “Aren’t you a little young to be looking for romance, kiddo?”

  “I’m eleven, Room Eleven, in case you haven’t noticed. And by the way, it’s Mikaela.”

  “Trust me,” I say, pointing at her with my black sketch pencil. “You love someone, they’ll hurt you. Save your heart the trouble and get a pet lizard.” I put the final touches on my card and hand it to Mikaela. “If you like it, the Heaven Sent guy will like it, because you’re a kid and he likes kids.”

  She looks over the front picture. I’ve sketched a cute girl holding a variety of plucked flowers. She is eagerly batting her eyes. Underneath it reads Will you pick me?

  Mikaela opens the card. Inside there are three choices: (1) Yes. (2) I need you in my life. (3) I can’t say no. All three boxes are checked.

  Mikaela smiles. “Clever. So this guy . . . he must be a hottie.”

  “The card is for a job, not a man.”

  “Right. Oooh, wait. If this is Heaven Sent cards, don’t you need something about God or angels or fluffy clouds? A lamb? A rainbow? A sparkling body of water?”

  “Good thinking. I’ve got an idea.” I stuff my pencils into my bag. “You up for some fun?”

  * * * *

  Before I tell you what I’m doing, you must understand something—I am not a rule-breaker. I’ve never tipped a cow. I’ve never climbed a water tower while drunk. I don’t even have a traffic ticket on my record. I say this because you really must understand that under normal circumstances, I’m not some crazy hooligan from Poughkeepsie. I’m not saying we haven’t supplied our share to the world. I’m just not one of them.

  “Now!”

  As the receptionist leaves to refill her coffee, Mikaela and I dart to the elevators. My thumb punches the up button ferociously, like it’s some sort of life-saving procedure. I frantically search the directory to see what floor he might be on.

  Three. r />
  “Come on, come on!” Mikaela whispers to the doors.

  The doors open and we slip inside just as the receptionist returns, focused on not spilling her coffee as she sips it. She never even sees us.

  The doors open on the third floor. As we step off the elevator, there is a large, expansive, open kind of space. There are a few cubicles. Some of the space is divided off like there are different departments. A variety of desks sit here and there. And in the middle of all of it is a crying woman.

  The young woman, maybe an assistant of some sort, is wailing at her desk, her hands covering her face. Two older ladies, both gray-haired and looking like twins, are leaning over trying to console her. They’re wearing the exact same sweater but in different colors, patting her shoulders, rubbing her back.

  I grab Mikaela quickly and we duck behind a cubicle wall.

  “Any guesses to which way we should go?” Mikaela’s chest is heaving up and down but her cheeks are bright.

  I point and we begin sliding, backs to the cubicle walls, toward the area that looks like it has a few different departments. I’m right. We pass ART DEPARTMENT signs. I’m no sleuth, but by the way it’s decorated—fruit, flowers, stuffed animals—I’m betting that’s where the two elderly sisters work.

  If I hadn’t seen the banner over the next department, I would’ve guessed it’s where they wrote their Halloween cards. It’s dark and abandoned. The banner that is falling off on one side reads HUMOR DEPARTMENT. Mikaela slides on, but I pause to glance inside. It’s like a ghost town.

  Then I see Mikaela eagerly waving me on. I slide up next to her.

  “Is that him?” she whispers, pointing around the corner. I take a peek. He’s in his office, at his desk, diligently working. There are Bibles, dictionaries, thesauruses stacked around his desk. Greeting cards hang on his walls.

  “That’s him. You got this?”

  “I got this.”

  Weirdly, I believe her. The girl seems in total control.

  I’m about to give her some specific directions, some “what if” scenarios, but she is gone. I watch her walk straight into his office and plop down in his chair. I thought I’d have to strain to hear the conversation, but it turns out they are easily heard.

  I glance around, pretty sure I’m safe since I’m near the dead-as-a-doornail Humor Department that doesn’t seem to be frequented by anybody.

  “Mister Heaven Sent,” she says, boldly and charmingly, reaching to shake his hand, “it’s such an honor to meet you. Thank you for carving this block out of your hectic, hectic schedule.”

  He’s simultaneously reaching for his Blackberry, his desk calendar, his phone, trying to be cordial but he is thoroughly confused.

  “Do we have an appointment?”

  “It’s not very often important company men, such as yourself, care about the opinions of my generation.”

  He freezes, right as he’s about to dial his assistant, I’m assuming. Awkward. Now he has to care or he looks like a jerk. She’s kind of playing this like a genius. He slowly puts the phone down, trying to engage. It’s making me laugh.

  “And my opinion is, you’d be making a huge mistake if you didn’t hire the woman who made this card.” She hands him the card across the desk. “She’s talented and available.”

  I roll my eyes. She didn’t have to add that.

  I watch as Jake reads it. He isn’t smiling. Mikaela clears her throat. “Get it? Will you pick me—I can’t say no because God said so.”

  He’s still not smiling. Mikaela acknowledges this by saying, “You’re not smiling.”

  “Who wrote this card?”

  “Room Eleven.” Mikaela pauses. “I’m sorry, I don’t even know her real name. Did I mention she’s available?”

  Jake stands. I quickly duck behind the cubicle wall.

  “For work, I mean.”

  I hear footsteps. I squeeze my eyes shut, like that will help.

  And then, I hear him breathing. I glance up and he’s standing over me, arms folded.

  Behind him Mikaela stands, looking apologetic.

  I slowly rise, stretching a professional smile across my face. I’m about to offer my hand like this is some kind of usual job interview when he says, “So. Using your daughter to get a job. How avant-garde.”

  “She’s not my—”

  “—daughter,” Mikaela finishes.

  Jake raises a suspicious eyebrow as he glances back and forth at us.

  “But if it means I can have the job, then yes, she’s my daughter.”

  “And Mom here,” Mikaela says, “she needs to spring for a new pair of ice skates. You’d be doing us both a favor. You look like a guy who likes to do favors. Except you’re not smiling.”

  He doesn’t look the least bit happy. “I’m sorry. To you and your Rent-A-Kid. I can’t hire you, Landon.”

  “Landon! Cool name!” Mikaela says.

  Jake then turns to Mikaela. “But I’ll buy you ice skates if you need them.”

  Guilt slaps me. The guy seems genuinely concerned about our fake scenario. Ugh.

  Sobs, louder and heavier, come from the area where the woman was crying earlier.

  Mikaela leans in to me and whispers, “Are you sure you want to work here?”

  I look at Jake. “Is she okay?”

  Jake looks reluctant to spill the beans, but the wailing is not boding well for a company that writes greeting cards. “My cousin. She’s just gone through a broken engagement.”

  “I’ve written many cards for her. I’m an unfortunate expert on broken things.”

  “You are?” Mikaela looks completely dumbfounded. “I’m always the last to know.” She sighs.

  I slide closer to Jake. I pitch a thumb over my shoulder. “Listen. Your humor department. It’s looking code blue. I could revive it with my line of break-up cards and my shining wittiness.”

  He eyes me. “Landon, the cards we write here use the Bible to encourage people.”

  I slump the way your mom always told you not to. “I guess I can give that a try.”

  “We do it because we believe it.”

  “It’s so important to believe what you write. My cards also come from the heart. Please. Don’t say no.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t say no. I need you, Jake.”

  He bites his lip. I get it, instantly . . . he can’t resist helping people. I meant to say “I need this, Jake,” but you know, I guess we’re just rolling with it. I look as desperate as I know how without test-driving the expression in a mirror first.

  “Why do you want to work in the greeting card industry?”

  “Do you know the impact that just one card can have on a person?”

  “Yes. It’s why I do what I do every day of my life. In two lines, I affect people. When I sit down and words come to me, I never know in what way those words will change someone’s life.”

  “My dad always liked my cards.”

  “That’s your credential?”

  “I’m just saying, we have something in common, with this family business of yours. Just give me a chance.”

  Another wail, long and high-pitched, causes each of us to snap our attention toward the sound.

  Jake clears his throat. “I think my cousin will be needing some time off. How would you feel being my assistant until she comes back?”

  “Your assistant.”

  “Is that a problem? I need someone I can trust, someone who’s here to help me.”

  I nod. “You can count on me.”

  “Stop by H.R. It’s that way. Fill out the paperwork.”

  “Thank you. We’ll leave you alone now—” I glance around, don’t see Mikaela. “Seen my Rent-A-Kid?”

  But Jake walks off. I’m left there standing alone. I walk toward where he pointed and find the
H.R. department. Did I seriously just get a job? Things like this don’t happen to me.

  I spot the Human Resources sign. As I take a step toward it, that same sharp shooting pain in the bottom of my foot causes me to yelp. That’s more like it—I get a job and a heel spur all at the same time.

  I regain my balance and turn the corner into the office. A woman, dressed from head to toe in Pepto-Bismol, smiles as wide as her collagen lips will let her. She’s got a tiny, squeaky voice as she introduces herself as Candy. “Jake just called over to let me know you were coming. Welcome to the team.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How are your startle reflexes today?”

  I sit down, slip off my shoe, rub the bottom of my foot. I was assuming we’d start with my Social Security number. “Um, I don’t know . . . but it feels like someone is sticking needles in my foot.”

  She giggles like I’m making some metaphorical joke.

  I wish I were.

  * * * *

  My mind is reeling. Really reeling. Assistant is doable, but I want more. I’ve got to get his attention, snap him out of this idea that these sappy cards are what everyone wants. It’s what everyone buys because that’s all there is. I mean, think of his cousin, right? What kind of card do you send when someone breaks your heart? Something about a deer panting for water? I don’t think so.

  I’m juggling groceries and my key as I make my way down the hallway at the YMCA, my cell phone pressed to my ear.

  “Gertie . . . no . . . Gertie, can you hear me? Turn your hearing aid on . . . no, in the other ear . . . no, turn it the other way, you’re . . . what? . . . Okay. Yes! Now, can you hear me?”

  “I hear you, Hope. Now what were you saying? Something about Heaven?”

  I get to my room. There is a colored piece of paper that is cut in the shape of a W. It’s taped to my door. “I’ve got to convince Heaven Sent, the greeting card company, there’s a new way to write cards. Do you think you can get the ladies to write letters to them? Tell them you want a new kind of card?”

  I take the W off, then fumble with the key to my room three times before I get the door open. Inside, I drop the sack of groceries to the desk and collapse into the chair.