Greetings From The Flipside Part 23

"That was a nice hospital. Except for the blood pressure."

I glance sideways at Mom. She is not making sense, more so than usual.

"No dear," the woman says. "The one with the county seal. You order it from vital records."

"The vitals are showing signs of stress," Mom says. I glance again at Mom, give her the look that says please stop talking, the one that never registers with her.

"You guys never said anything about county or anything else."

The woman looks sympathetic even as she is pus.h.i.+ng the certificate toward me. "You'll have to come back when you have the right paperwork and a urinalysis. Next!" She waves to an old man waiting behind me.

"I have to pee in a cup?" I shout. Through the window I notice the police officer and his horse. I can only see their legs. He moves on and I realize I must too.

I walk outside, Mom trailing me.

"I'm sorry, I thought it was the right one."

Her apology is one of the most lucid things she's ever said to me. And the truth is, it isn't her fault. Anybody could've made the mistake.

I smile because moms need to see their daughters smile. "It's fine. I'll get it taken care of. Listen, I have to get back to work. Where did you park your car?"

"I took a taxi."

"To the train station?"

"All the way here."

My throat swells with emotion, so tight and bulbous I can't manage a word. I hug her and that seems to be all she needs. I flag a taxi for her, my heart soft at the idea that she would be so concerned I get the birth certificate she would spend what little money she has to come all this way to deliver it quickly to me. I load her into the taxi and watch as it drives off.

Mom is turned, staring out the back window, with an expression I can't quite pinpoint at first, but it's like she thinks she'll never see me again.

I'm learning some things from Jake, and it's that doing nice things for others keeps you from dwelling on your own pain. I'm dead broke, so I can't do much, but I manage enough change to buy a small box of blue Popsicles for Mikaela. I stash it in the freezer for her.

I find her in the atrium. I watch her for a moment, working hard in her journal, probably her Christmas list. It must be a hard thing to make a Christmas list you know won't ever be fulfilled. I wonder why she works so diligently on it. She doesn't hear me walk up behind her. I manage to glance at her latest entry: An answer about That's all it says.

"Got plans for Thanksgiving?"

She whips around, her hand sliding over her list. "Oh yeah. Turkey. Yams. Cranberry sauce. Four kinds of pies."

I walk around to the chair sitting across from her. "Let me ask you something. Do you think they'll let you get away? My mother, crazy woman that she is, invited Jake, so . . ." I antic.i.p.ate a squeal of excitement from her.

There is no squeal. Just a slight tilt of the head. "I'm your buffer, eh? Not very romantic, you know."

This girl is good. She can read my mind and my motives now. Don't know how she does it.

I slump. "If you're hoping to get Jake and me to fall in love so you can have a new set of wacked-out parents, then you might want to rethink your plan."

"Don't flatter yourself."

There is an edge to her voice and I realize how insensitive that statement was. My humble offering of blue Popsicles can't erase a self-absorbed heart.

Her tone is serious. "That's not what this is about. I wish you would wake up!"

"I wish you would stop talking nonsense. Stop speaking in silly riddles."

We both stare at each other for a moment, cooling our jets.

I nod toward the journal. "How's that Christmas list coming?"

"I don't know yet," she says, but she's distracted by something. She's looking past me, to the TV in the atrium. "Hey . . . isn't that Heaven Sent?"

I turn and she's right. It's a shot of the front of Heaven Sent, the sign and the logo.

I hurry over and turn up the volume. Mikaela kneels next to me.

Starla is standing in front of the Heaven Sent office, right in front of the window Mikaela and I spied through. Her microphone is in front of her chin as she speaks.

". . . and we can tell you, they're not happy."

A packaged news story rolls. A woman being interviewed is crying. "I seriously think he just bought it because he thought it was funny. But he ended our relations.h.i.+p. Four years of my life went to that jerk."

Then another customer, a guy: "Heaven Sent thinks they're being funny? I don't need to be reminded how much dateless life sucks. I already know."

Starla returns to the screen, staring right at me, like we are face-to-face, mano-a-mano. Or womano-a-womano. "Well, you heard it here, folks. What started as a funny trend for the buyer has turned ugly for the receivers. Some of the customers I talked to have even used the word liability and have mentioned they're considering suing for damages. Perhaps," Starla says, leaning in toward the camera, "this is one employee Heaven Sent needs to return to sender." She glances sideways and notices someone. She beckons her cameraman over and suddenly Everett is seen walking out the front door of the office. He glances around and then notices Starla.

She steps up next to him like they're old friends. "Any comment?"

"First and foremost, we'd like to apologize to our customers. It's never our intent to harm anyone. We hear you loud and clear. We're announcing today that the writer of these cards has been terminated from our company. She's done here. That's all, thank you."

"He's talking about you, right?" Mikaela whispers.

I'm too numb to answer. She switches the TV off and helps me into a chair.

"I guess it doesn't matter if I'm alive or dead anymore, does it?"

"What?"

I stand up. My legs are wobbly but I turn and leave.

"Room Eleven, where are you going?"

"Don't call me that."

"You can't give up. You can't!"

I keep walking.

"Hope Landon!"

I turn, looking at her. This little kid, with all this wisdom, all this pain, all this . . . me-ness.

"You're stronger than this. Fight!"

"You'll find someone else to hang out with." My heart feels dead right inside my chest.

"No, I won't!"

I stomp away and can hear her crying, but I don't care.

As I unlock the door to my room, the old lady janitor, with her mopping bucket in tow, brushes by me slowly. Our gazes meet. I realize instantly that I have just seen a glimpse of my future, that I am the old woman whose dreams are nothing but dirty mop water.

They say a new day brings hope. It doesn't. It feels as bad as the day before. And all you can think about is how bad it's going to feel every day from now on. I thought I might feel some relief leaving behind this tiny room with its hazardous bed, but I don't. I guess it's because where I'm headed is far worse.

The tiny trash can in the corner is overflowing with all my cards, which I ripped up last night. I throw one last card away, my favorite. It was the one I always laughed at, no matter how many times I read it.

It doesn't seem the least bit funny anymore.

I zip up my bag. The truth is I want to kick the daylights out of Murphy, because I'm mad and desperate and pathetic and Murphy seems like he could handle it. But I don't. I've already made a scene. No need to make another.

I open the door and he's standing there, leaning against the wall of the hallway, waiting patiently.

"I really appreciate you doing this, Jake. I'm sorry I had to call you. There's just no other way I could afford to get home."

"I don't mind at all. We'd be going anyway, for Thanksgiving, right?"

"You still want to have Thanksgiving dinner with the meanest girl in town?" I shake my head. "I'm so sorry for what I've done to your company."

He starts to say something, then notices my bed. "You left your pencils."

I look at him. I don't have to say anything. He understands instantly it's intentional. He sighs and walks in to get them.

"I don't want them anymore."

"Maybe Mikaela will."

I look at the concrete floor. It's like I can feel its coldness through the bottom of my shoes.

"Thanks for . . . this thing with Mikaela . . . thanks for understanding. She doesn't get that I'm not coming back here, you know? She doesn't quite get the ways of the world. So when it's time for you to return, you will probably have to take her kicking and screaming. I'll try to say my good-byes as best as I can, okay? But I know you'll take care of her. I know she'll be looked after, because that's the kind of guy you are."

"She adores you."

"Don't remind me."

"Hey!"

We turn and Mikaela is making her way toward us, dragging behind her a tiny suitcase she could probably better carry. "Who's ready for a Thanksgiving road trip?"

I try a smile, but it's like the corners of my mouth weigh a hundred pounds each.

Jake picks up the slack and grabs her suitcase. "Come on, let's get this trip going!"

They walk together and I follow along. My suitcase makes a horrible sc.r.a.ping sound along the concrete floor, like a wheel is stuck.

There is a sudden sharp pain, the one that always. .h.i.ts my heel. I don't even flinch. Pain is relative.

We load into Jake's town car and I tell Mikaela to sit in the front. As she buckles her seat belt, I realize she's really too small for up there. The whole seat kind of swallows her. But she is lit with excitement and jabbers all the way out of the city. She finally settles down, decides to work on her journal. I can see Jake glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

"Hope . . ."

I must look really pathetic. "I don't want to talk about it."

About an hour goes by and then Mikaela turns and looks at me from the front seat. "I should have invited Matthew to join us. I want you to meet him before you leave me."

"I'm not leaving-"

"Who's Matthew?" Jake thankfully interrupts what was about to be a lie straight to her face. But somehow I get the feeling Mikaela already knows.

"The new boy, he just moved in. He's got these weird gla.s.ses, but I kind of like him."

"You move on fast," I say.

"Lose one, find another. Isn't that how it works?"

"According to Jake's cards, yes." I sigh, wis.h.i.+ng I weren't so mean when I get upset. But Jake doesn't seem to be rattled by this defect in my personality. I point ahead. "Turn here, on the right."

But Jake turns left. He glances at a set of directions he has sitting beside him.

"I said right." But he ignores me.

I slouch in my seat and stare out the window, a hot mess of grudge.

Just as fast, I slide back up, my spine totally erect as I stare out the window. This can't be happening. We've just pulled into the nursing home parking lot. I roll down the window to make sure I'm seeing this right.

I'm trying to find something to say, some way to get out of this. Jake and Mikaela hop out of the car.

"Uh . . . wait. You know, my mother, she's neurotic. She likes people to be on time." This may be the only time my mother's neuroses save me.

Jake opens the back door, offers his hand. I realize instantly I cannot refuse a chance to put my hand in his. It's probably going to be my undoing.

"Your mom doesn't seem to be the type to get ruffled over time," he says. "Besides, I have a few ladies to apologize to."

I try to keep my pace in front of theirs. I'm walking so fast I look as awkward as those speed walkers you see on the jogging trails. But maybe I can thwart this somehow, get to Gertie before Jake does.

The doors swoosh open and a gaggle of residents are gathered in the front commons area, all wearing turkey hats and watching some black and white movie.