Greetings from the Flipside (2 page)

“Thank you, young lady.” Her grandmother's smile, though feeble, was gentle and genuine. She didn't seem to take notice of the long, white dress Hope wore.

Hope stooped by her wheelchair. “Grandma, it's me.”

“Okay.”

“I wanted you to see me in my dress. It's finally happening. This weekend.”

“Okay.”

“I wish you could be there, but I know you'll be there in your heart.”

“Okay.”

“Did I tell you that Sam is writing me a song? I probably did. He's been writing it for a long time. I thought he was going to have it ready at Christmas, but he said he needed a little more time. He hasn't said it, but I'm pretty sure he's going to debut it at the wedding. I heard he's been inquiring about getting a grand piano into the church.” The thought made her smile. She'd been dying to hear the song, imagining it over and over in her head. “So, Grandma, Sam and I are moving to New York City. That's right. I'm finally getting out of Poughkeepsie, just like you always wanted.” Hope paused, searching the elderly woman's eyes. She laughed at the memory of her grandmother, before she lost her mind, trying to talk her into some boy from Hope's school days. “I have a feeling about him,” she would say.

But Grandma also always wanted bigger and better for Hope, and everyone knew bigger and better was not to be found in Poughkeepsie. The name itself implied its own identity crisis. Few knew how to even pronounce the name and those in the know disagreed as to whether it was
puh
or
poo
or
poe
. The
kips-see
was generally acknowledged by all as the proper way to end the word, but then there was the question as to whether Poughkeepsie was upstate or downstate. Also in question was the matter of the town and the city. For no reason anyone could identify, Poughkeepsie was split into the
Town
of Poughkeepsie and the
City
of Poughkeepsie. The town boasted enormous houses and even larger taxes. The city had low taxes and lower housing.

To grow up in the Spackenkill District was to go to its privileged high school, where lockers didn't even need locks. Hope did not live near nor even infrequently visit that district, but overall Poughkeepsie was a decent place to grow up, with a glorious view of the Hudson at dusk. The smog did wonders for the color spectrum. It was home to Vassar College and the Culinary Institute of America and city-dwellers were flocking to Poughkeepsie, pushing the population over thirty-five thousand.

She looked out the window her grandmother stared out of every day. It was a colorless view of warehouses and smokestacks. Her grandmother was born and raised here and as far as Hope was concerned, she was Poughkeepsie's shining star. But eleven major-league baseball players also hailed from Poughkeepsie, as did professional poker player Hevad Khan and the inventor of Scrabble, Alfred Mosher Butts, who sold his invention to entrepreneur James Brunot. Brunot renamed it
Scrabble
, from the Dutch word
scrabben
, meaning “to grope frantically, to scrape or scratch.”

It was that word,
scrabble
, that defined what Hope always felt about this city and her place in it. The word pointed her toward the escape chute, so to speak. She always felt, someday, she would make a disorderly haste straight out of this town, clambering and scraping and climbing her way to freedom.

Ironically, or perhaps not, the word was also used to mean the act or instance of scribbling or doodling and that . . .
that
. . . was her ticket out of Poughkeepsie. Simple doodling would set her free.

That, and Sam.

She turned to her grandmother, stroked her knobby shoulder with the back of her hand. “I won't be able to see you every day.”

“Okay.”

“But the ladies will make sure you always have a new flower. And Mom will of course come by to see you.” Tears stung Hope's eyes as she looked into her grandmother's bright blue gaze, twinkling with a life Grandma no longer remembered. Hope knew—her grandmother loved this dress. Would love the wedding day if she could go, and would love Sam if she could ever know him.

A soft knock came at the door. “Hope, we have to get to the church,” Becca said.

Hope squeezed the hand that didn't have the flower. “I will send you a card as soon as I get to New York City, okay?” She stood and kissed her on the cheek, which smelled like baby lotion. “I love you,” Hope whispered into her ear.

“Okay.”

Jake tried not
to seem too obvious as he watched Mrs. Dungard's expression. He lifted the bouquet from below the counter, handing it over like it was a newborn baby. But it was the expressions that always made his day. Mrs. Dungard's whole face opened in delight, her eyes shining with pure joy as she grappled for words.

“Oh, Jake! You've outdone yourself this time!” Her fingers delicately stroked the petals of the Egyptian lotus, which he'd encircled with some baby's breath.

“It's called the Sacred Lily of the Nile,” Jake said. “They were grown along the Nile thousands of years ago and the Egyptians ate their roots, which were edible.”

“The color is astounding. And I love how it's all wrapped in lilies! Susan will love these! Did I tell you it's her birthday?”

“You did.” Jake smiled. “And I also remembered, from last year, that hot pink is her favorite color.”

Mrs. Dungard's eyes shone with tears. She patted Jake on the hand. “You don't know how much this means to me.”

He did know. He always knew that a simple bouquet of flowers could reset a fractured relationship, bring hope to something hopeless, say a thousand things without whispering a word.

“How is Susan doing?”

“She's holding her own. But the chemo is taking its toll.”

Jake went around the counter to the small rack of handmade cards he kept in the shop, usually only ten or fifteen at a time. He pulled the one showcasing summer, a field of yellow flowers in the distance that perfectly matched the setting sun. He'd written the poem inside himself.

“Take this and give it to her too.”

“Thank you, Jake. Your cards are so beautiful.” She cradled the bouquet. “Thank you so much for this too. It's just breathtaking.”

“You're welcome.”

Mrs. Dungard left and Jake closed the shop for the evening. He liked this time of day, when the sun was settling to bed and the shop was quiet.

He closed the register and found Mindy, his assistant, in the back.

“Hey Mindy, you can go on home.”

“But we've still got a lot to do for the wedding this weekend,” she said as she measured some ribbon.

“I'll finish it up.”

“You're sure?”

“Definitely. Go home and see that baby girl of yours.” He grinned extra wide to let her know it was okay. Mindy tended to feel guilty about doing things for herself.

She grabbed her bag. “I'm nervous about this one. The mother is kind of . . . strange, I guess you could say. She's the same lady that has us send that Columbine flower to the nursing home every day, right?”

It was true. She wanted it every day. And when their driver was sick, he took the flower himself.

“Yes.”

“She was having a hard time articulating what her daughter wanted, or I was having a hard time understanding. Either way . . . I'm nervous.”

“No worries. I already have an idea what to do.”

Relief flooded Mindy's features. “You rock, Jake. Seriously. You never fail. Why was I worried?”

“See you tomorrow.”

Alone in the back room he sat on his favorite old stool, the one his father had carved for him when he was ten years old, and began his final sketch of the bouquet. She wasn't frilly. Or girly. But she was feminine and pretty. Tough but vulnerable. At least, that's how he remembered her.

A lot of his youthful memories had faded, but he would never in his life forget the day he gave Hope Landon a card in the first grade. It was Mrs. Mosley's class.

It had taken every nerve he had to do it. The night before, with a flashlight under his covers, he wrote the card, practicing good penmanship and making sure he spelled the important words correctly. The next day in class he'd managed to add some crayon to it, for a final touch. Then he stuffed it down his pants to hide it from Mrs. Mosley—in hindsight, possibly a mistake.

Then it was time. Art class. They were painting spring cards. He was watching her from across the room as she fervently worked, as if the whole world depended on the card she was creating. Her passion—and her dimples—fascinated him.

He finished his spring card in five minutes, which he intended for his mother, and started painting the easel itself. If caught, no recess for him.

Admittedly, he was just delaying because he was nervous. This was the first girl that hadn't grossed him out.

He was a scrawny thing with big magnifier glasses and wispy hair that even back then seemed too old for him. High-priced hair gel couldn't hide the fact that even at seven his hair was receding like the tide on the shoreline.

He watched her and then, she stopped painting. Her hand rested on her knee, the paintbrush poking out between two fingers. She slumped a little, observing whatever it was she was painting. In one spectacular moment, he'd found a burst of confidence. He stood and walked to her with a strut he'd only seen on TV, his shoulders back, his chin tipped upward enough to make him at least an inch taller, he estimated.

Then came the sudden realization, only four feet away from her, that he'd forgotten to take the card out of his pants. He had to think fast. And he did. Halfway through his stride, he turned, pulled it out, kept walking.

Very smooth.

But with each step closer, his confidence faded. By the time he got to her, he was shaking. But she didn't notice. She didn't even look at him. He cleared his throat. Nothing.

There he stood. It was a very Charlie Brown moment.

So he dropped the card in her lap and ran off.

To his surprise, forty minutes later during free time in their class, she stood by his desk.

“I appreciate the thought,” she said, towering over him. “But this is cliché.” He didn't know what that word meant. She slapped the card down on his desk and opened it up. “See here?
Do you like me? Yes, no, maybe so.
The rhyming is good, but I think you can do better. Something funny, like ‘Do you like me? I also come in chocolate and strawberry.' Girls like boys who are funny. Also, you're not telling me how you
feel
about me.” She grabbed his pencil and pointed to the front of the card. “And stick figures? At least give them expression. Personality. Enthusiasm. It's got to catch my eye.”

And that was the end of it. She walked off and never checked a box.

But she never stopped being his Lucy, either. By the time they got to their senior year of high school, he was pretty sure she didn't even recognize him anymore.

And now, he was arranging flowers for her wedding. Bittersweet, to say the least. She probably didn't even know it was him. Her mother was the one who came in and made all the arrangements.

No matter. His life was not one he wanted to share anymore. But he was going to give her the most beautiful bouquet he'd ever designed. She deserved that. His whole young life, she stood out as the girl who deserved better than what she had.

His pencil flowed over the paper. Two hours later, he was still working.

The day retreated
and night settled over the old, wooden frame house she'd lived in her whole life. It was drafty, creaky, sometimes moody in a way. A lingering smell of cooked cabbage that to this day could not be explained. A tar-black woodstove in the kitchen held its own against some of the more modern appliances. A beautiful, hand-carved mantel stretched the length of the living room, with bookshelves on either side.

The house had character, but if it were human, Hope would be taking care of it at the nursing home.

Hope was in her room, doodling out some fun wedding cards she'd been imagining when her mother's thin voice rattled the even thinner wooden door of her bedroom. “I'm home!”

“Okay! Just a sec.” Hope sat at the small white desk she'd had since elementary school, her knees bumping into all parts of it if she didn't try to stretch her legs out. Sticking out between each finger of her left hand were five colored pencils, her signature colors: red, black, blue, white, and flesh tone. Colors she'd be known for if she ever made it big, which she had every intention of doing.

The plain white, heavy card stock sat centered on her desk, and she sketched the long and lean bride, one sassy hip poked out and a delicate hand set atop it. Hope pressed the pencil to the paper, drawing a grin that said,
I've got something to say, but I'm holding it in out of politeness.

“Hope?”

She set down her pencils, cracked her knuckles, and decided she would have to work on the groom later. It was time to talk wedding details with her mom, but she wasn't sure she was up for it. The pre-exhaustion that usually set in before she had to try to have a normal conversation with her mom was wilting her resolve by the second. With a long sigh, she put the Scrabble box that sat on her bed back on her desk, covering the card. She didn't like anyone seeing them before they were done. And the Scrabble game was a constant reminder of her task at hand.

At the door of her room, she closed her eyes, then forced herself to turn the knob and walk out into the hallway. Her sneakers dragged against the carpet but she kept her focus on the end result . . . the wedding and the race out of Poughkeepsie. She had a dream to fulfill. Five hundred cards, all carefully packed away in the garage, needed her to be strong. They had a dream too . . . to make someone, somewhere, laugh.

Hope found her mother at the kitchen table, still surrounded by mustard yellow chairs that came in and out of style all in the same year: 1975. Her mother was dumping a sack of fake flowers and mismatched ribbon out onto the table. Hope sat down with the kind of caution that is normally reserved for people in dangerous occupations like alligator wrestling or rattlesnake wrangling or customer service.