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Authors: Rene Gutteridge

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Greetings from the Flipside (20 page)

BOOK: Greetings from the Flipside
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“What is it?” I ask.

“You'll have to wait and see!” He's looking and grinning at me more than the road, but within ten minutes, he's pulling into a parking garage next what looks like a large warehouse. We enter through the back door and I suddenly realize where we are.

The manufacturing plant. It's the printing press.

I stand in the doorway in awe. The machines roar and every second or two make a precise chopping noise. The paper is going by so fast it's blurry.

Everett takes my hand. I'm so thrilled that I don't really care. I just want to see what's going on. We walk to the end of one of the large printers.

Everett shouts over the noise. “Hey Ralph!”

“Hey there, Everett!”

Everett reaches for a stack of cards, sealed in cellophane. He hands it to me.

“My cards . . .” I am as breathless as I've imagined I might be on my wedding day, when it was time to kiss the groom. There must be a hundred of my cards in this one stack. “They're . . . beautiful.” I look at Everett, tears in my eyes.

“They're genius, that's what they are!”

We watch the whole process, how they're packaged, sealed, and then put into shipment boxes. It's a wonder to watch.

I stand there in the midst of all the noise with the realization that I'm finally a published greeting card writer.

I tackle Everett with a hug.

* * * *

I come home for the evening, thankful I can afford a deli sandwich. I'm mentally and emotionally exhausted, but still on quite a high from the excitement of the week. I lay on my bed for a while, picturing all my cards being printed, bound, shipped. I imagine them arriving at card stores, to the delight of all that work there. I imagine them flying off the shelves as women roar with laughter in the card aisle, throwing their heads back, clutching their hearts or stomachs or the lady next to them.

Time passes, maybe an hour, and I decide I should go find Mikaela. I should find out her shoe size, find out what she might want for Christmas. Jake has a kind heart, to remember a little girl he only met once, and to somehow know what she wants for Christmas.

I walk out of my room and go to Room 12. I knock and the door barely cracks open. The woman on the other side is old and hunched, a weary life etched into the deep crevices of her face. Everything on her face is turned down . . . her eyes, her hook nose, a mouth with no teeth to hold it in place.

“Hi. I'm Room Eleven . . . I mean, from Room Eleven. I'm looking for Mikaela. Does she live here?”

The door shuts in my face. Maybe when she said neighbor she meant two doors down. I knock but there is no answer. I try another, but the man grunts and huffs and closes the door.

Then I notice the janitor. She is walking, as she always does, pushing her cleaning cart down the hallway. She is about to pass me.

“Hey! Hi! Um, do you know what room Mikaela lives in? She's eleven years old, about this high, has eyes that . . . they're kind of like mine?”

The janitor only stares me down, but it's after she passes me that I notice it: a Columbine flower tucked behind her ear.

I stop, pondering this, suddenly missing my grandmother very much and wishing she could see me in my element. But I refocus—I need to find Mikaela. I haven't seen her in a couple of days.

I wander the YMCA to no avail, asking people if they've seen her or know her. Nobody seems to know anything about her.

I am passing the front door of the YMCA when I hear noise, the sounds of children. I hurry outside and see a group of them on the sidewalk. And then I spot Mikaela, at the back of a disorganized and rowdy line.

A woman is clapping her hands, raising her voice above the noise. “Kids! Kids! One line, please. You know the drill. The bus will be here in a moment to take us back.”

Mikaela is busy writing in her journal. She glances up and the cute boy she likes is passing her by. She smiles shyly at him. “Hi there, David.”

She's so cute! The perfect amount of flirt in that smile. But the boy bumps her shoulder and walks by without even a glance or an acknowledgment. I watch the joy in her eyes fade and she turns her attention back to her journal, her face nothing but a sad mess of emotions.

I'm going to cry.

I hurry to her, like she needs rescuing or something. As I come up beside her, she looks up, startled. Then she looks toward the crowd of kids, her expression a little sheepish.

I cast my attention toward the line of kids. “So, you're not my neighbor?”

“I merely live down the street with 112 brothers and sisters, minus one crush. Can't call him a brother, citing the ick factor.”

I suddenly realize it. She lives in a group home, the one I walk by every day on my way to the subway.

I swipe hair out of her face. “Are you still mad at me?”

“Is Jake?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes. Yes, I am.”

As you've probably gathered so far, I'm impulsive. I snatch her journal out of her hand like I'm the little kid.

“Hey!” she says, reaching for it.

“Then what can I buy off your Christmas list?” That's right, now I'm buying a kid's love. I quickly scan her list titled MY CHRISTMAS LIST. “True love. Pencil set of all colors. More time.” I look at her, holding the pad away from her as she tries to snatch it back. “More time? What does that mean?”

She crosses her arms. “You'll figure it out. If it's not too late.”

The bus lumbers to the side of the curb and the kids burst with excitement as they load in the exact opposite way the lady in charge is instructing.

I look at Mikaela. “Don't tell me you're one of those kids who's sick and going to die on me.”

“I'm not sick.”

“Then what does this mean?”

“Come on, kids! Load up! Mikaela, that means you!” The lady is waving her hands, trying to corral the masses.

While I'm looking at the woman, Mikaela snatches the journal back. She hurries into line and disappears into the sea of kids. I watch the bus roar to life and leave.

More time.
What could she possibly mean by that?

More time for what?

11

M
indy sat there for a moment and then slung her bag over her shoulder. “Listen, Jake, I'm going to leave you with that, okay? If you need me, let me know. Take all the time you need.”

“Oh um . . . thank you . . .” Jake said but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the cards.

The room became very quiet and he held them in his hands for a long time. But it still felt like a mirage.

The envelopes were addressed to him and sent to the shop's address. The handwriting was barely legible, like there was hardly a hand attached to write it. In the return address was the word
Hope
, and under that, only the words
Poughkeepsie, New York
.

Inside the envelopes were typical greeting cards, with beautiful pictures of mountains and streams and rainbows. Inside the cards were messages of hope, offering Scriptures about God's strength and love. But most of the text on the inside was scratched out and rewritten into some kind of punch line. And strangely, each card was signed . . .

By Hope.

But how? How could she possibly send him cards, five of them to be exact, while she's in a coma? He clutched them and closed his eyes, praying to the Father that he sometimes—most of the time—didn't understand. He loved the Father's promises and hoped very much they were true, but deep in his heart he wasn't always sure. All he knew was that he wanted people to have hope and the best chance of hope he ever knew was in God.

And only God knew how a woman in a coma could send him greeting cards.

“Oh, God!!!”

Jake's head jerked up as CiCi rushed into the room.

“Oh dear God!!”

“CiCi . . . shhhh, there are other patients—”

“I'm not talking to you!” Her eyes were fierce, which surprised him, because she didn't really seem capable of fierceness. “Oh dear, dear God . . .”

Jake hurried to shut the door. He turned around, his back against it, trying to figure out what in the world was going on. He cautiously approached the bed where CiCi was splayed out over her daughter, her arms trying to reach the width of the bed in what looked like a gigantic hug.

“CiCi . . . are you okay?”

She turned her head to look at him, still resting on top of her daughter. “I was in the chapel and I was praying and I got a message from the Lord.”

Jake felt equally alarmed and curious. “Uh huh . . .?”

CiCi stroked Hope's face. “She is about to do something that is going to cost her everything.”

Jake cautiously stepped forward. “CiCi, what could she possibly do? She's in a coma.”

“Do you think I understand this?” CiCi snapped. “Of
course
she's in a coma. But I specifically heard from the Lord, that I was to pray that her path is set right.”

“You're not making any . . .” But his words trailed off as he glanced at the stack of cards sitting in the chair. He swiped them up and put them behind his back before CiCi noticed them.

“Something very strange is going on,” CiCi said, her voice low and cryptic. “Some things that can't be explained.” She was standing over her daughter now, both hands spread wide over Hope like cat claws.

Jake didn't know what to say. She was right, of course. But CiCi was crazy . . . wasn't she?

“I can't lose her too. No . . . no, I can't lose her too . . .” CiCi was wiping tears.

“CiCi, I'm not really one for, um, openly expressing my, um . . . you know . . . God and all that, but I know he hears our prayers. I know he is working in this situation. We just can't see it.”

“I must pray, I must pray, I must pray,” she said, squeezing Hope's arm. “I must pray for her to be set on the right path. She's on the wrong path. She's on the wrong path.” She turned to Jake. “If you have the kind of faith that's going to move a mountain, then put your hands right here on my daughter and together we'll pray. Yes, together we'll pray as the Lord has instructed.”

“Um . . . I just . . .”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “But if your mustard seed isn't cutting it, then get out. Hope needs the Lord to come down into this room and move in one mighty miracle, just like a strike of lightning.
Boom
!”

“I . . . I'm kind of . . .”

But CiCi had returned her attention to Hope, crying and wailing over her daughter, quoting obscure Scriptures that didn't even seem to apply to the situation.

Something very strange is going on.

And CiCi was the only one who had said it out loud.

Greetings from My Life

I discovered over the past couple of days that I'm not hard-nosed. Stubborn, yes. Passionate, most definitely. But putting it to Jake has not brought me the least bit of satisfaction and cost me a lot of sleep. Everett, on the other hand, seems unaffected, which is strange considering this is his brother.

I decide I must make things right with Jake. I must set him at ease, show him with gentleness and care that the switch to a more modern greeting card is only going to help him keep the company he and his father love so much.

It's midmorning when he walks by.

“Jake!”

He stops, looks at me, says nothing. There's not even an expression on his face. Blank hurts. I'd feel better if there was at least a scowl.

“Hey, look, if the cards do well, we'll need our next set. I want your help.”

He stands there for a moment, then shrugs. “I can't help you, Landon. What you write—it makes fun of what I believe.”

I can't help but notice he's given up calling me Hope.

“There are people out there in pain because of love. Love smacks them over the head, leaves them for dead.” I'm gesturing with my black and white pencils. “They could use humor.”

Suddenly, he's standing at the edge of my desk, having charged up to it like an angry bull. His nostrils are even flaring. He leans across my desk now, his hands flat against it, his face glowing with radioactive anger.

“Your
humor
, it just covers up the pain. There are many who lose love and find it again.”

I'm frozen, one pencil pointing to the sky, the other having rolled out of my hand, onto my desk, and then to the floor. It's hard to describe how close he is to my face, but let's just say I'm regretting the everything bagel this morning.

His hand moves. He's reaching for one of my cards. He doesn't take his eyes off me as he picks it up. He stands erect now and reads the card out loud. “‘The Bible says, God is not a man that he should lie. Sorry your man is not God. What a liar he turned out to be.'”

“Happens all the time. It'll be a best-seller. But this one won't be.” I snatch my notepad from the Central Park brainwashing session. “‘Love is patient, love is kind. Our lives will always be entwined.'”

He grabs another one of my cards. “‘The Bible says God keeps your tears in a bottle. That's a bottle. One. Don't fill it up on one ex. Trust me. There will be more.'” He stares at me. “You really think this helps? This isn't even funny.”

He was right. Not one of my best, but it was a first draft.

He tosses it and it lands on the floor.

Now it's on.

Instantly I remember the card I used to find the address of Heaven Sent. It's still in my bag. I plunge my hand in and pull it out. I use a breathy voice, just for effect. “‘In this time through the valley, you struggle to go on. God's hand will sustain, as you mourn one who's gone. Memories will help this pain in your heart. Mountaintops will return as God does his part.'”

“That's the truth,” he says.

“Yeah? Well someone gave this to my mother when she . . .” Filters fly up. Not the time to mention wedding fiasco, rumored suicide, death certificate. “. . . when she lost someone. Do you think that's what she needed to hear?”

BOOK: Greetings from the Flipside
11.78Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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