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.
“Look what I bought! It was all on sale. Clearanced at 90 percent off! I figured we could use it somehow. We must have some decor at your wedding.”
At the word decor, Hope’s attention drifted to the rust-colored walls of the kitchen. It was still unclear in what year the color had been popular. In the living room, the paisley print couch sat atop a green shag carpet. On the end tables were two lamps she swore came straight from the set of The Brady Bunch.
Her mom hadn’t updated anything since 1979, including herself. Everything about her—from her frizzy, unkempt hair to her polyester floral skirt—seemed a bit faded, like an old photo. Hope watched as her mom continued to rummage through her craft store goodies. As she often did, she imagined they were having a normal conversation, a conversation any mother and daughter might have before a wedding. She’d done this since she was little, sit close to her mother and pretend they were conversing about school or boys or an upcoming dance. That made her feel better. That . . .
And Popsicles.
“When I make the pigs in a blanket, do you want Swiss or provolone? I’m thinking cheddar.”
“Cheddar is fine.” It was the pigs in a blanket that worried her. She’d agreed to let her mother cater only because there were no other options. They couldn’t afford to have it professionally done, and their circle of friends was only about an inch across, thanks to her mother’s unusual outlook on life.
On the brighter side, her mother had agreed they could pay a florist to do her bouquet and a few other arrangements. She was looking forward to seeing what he was planning. Rumor was that he always sketched out his bouquets before designing them, to get the client approval. It made her feel like she was from Spackenkill.
“So provolone?” her mother asked.
With her mother catering, she feared her wedding might look more like a backyard barbecue, complete with American flags and sparklers if she happened to find them in a discount bin somewhere.
Her mother chattered on about the pigs in a blanket, and Hope grabbed one of the ribbons, running it through her fingers. So much rode on her mother and Hope knew all too well that things dependent upon her mom were in a world of trouble. Hope bit her lip, desperately wanting to ask the same question she’d asked for four weeks now. But why would she assume the answer would be different this time?
Except Hope always seemed to live up to her name.
“Mom, did the travel documents come yet?” She held her breath.
Her mother blinked, as if trying to remember what a travel document was.
“For whatever this surprise honeymoon is that you’ve been talking about.” Well, Mom mentioned it only once, but that was enough to get Hope’s hope up.
“Documents! Yes!” Her mother jumped from the chair and hurried to the kitchen. “Came today!” She returned, clutching an envelope close to her heart, gazing at Hope with her head tilted to the side. She said nothing, just stared at Hope like she was a famous monument.
A tinge of excitement rose up in Hope and she couldn’t help it: a grin hit her face like it was catapulted there. “So . . . are we going somewhere tropical?”
Her mother smiled and handed her the envelope.
Hope ripped it open, snatching up the folded contents. Tickets! Actual airline tickets! She turned them over to try to find the destination. A thrill rushed through her as she read the destination.
Then read it again.
Hope slowly lowered the tickets, placing them on the table.
Idaho.
The state.
The place nobody would go to for an exotic honeymoon. Her grin was still slapped onto her expression, but it began to quiver. She was about to burst into tears, but she had to hold it in. Crying extracted the strangest of all her mother’s behaviors.
“It’s a bed and breakfast!” her mother stated, her enthusiastic expression equivalent to Oprah’s when she gives away new cars. “That B and B harvests their own potatoes!”
“We’re spending our honeymoon in potato country.”
“I know how much you love your mashed potatoes.”
“Is this refundable?”
“Nope! Paid in full, my dear!” She smiled, missing the grave disappointment sinking into Hope’s expression. Her mother started messing with the ribbon again.
What was there to say? She couldn’t be ungrateful. She was certain her mother saved for months for this. A sharp pain cramped her stomach. Her mother reached across the table, patted her hand, grinned widely enough for the two of them.
“By the way, if your daddy shows up at the wedding, how about we both take an arm?”
No. Not now. Not talk about Daddy. “Sure, Mom.”
Then the dim mood of the room was undone by what could only be described as the spontaneous prayer version of Tourette’s syndrome. “Lord! Please hear this our prayer!” Her mother shouted, like there was some racket she needed to be heard over. She waved one hand in the air. “Bring Hope’s daddy back in time for her vows!”
Her mother’s eyes were squeezed shut so Hope rose, went to the freezer, and grabbed a blue Popsicle. She’d gone through ten or twelve Popsicles a day when her dad left. Now she only needed them every once in a while . . . like now. They had a calming effect, maybe because they temporarily froze her brain.
“Bring her daddy home, dear Lord!”
Hope returned to the table, sat down, sucked on her Popsicle.
“And please, please, please Lord, convince Hope and Sam they don’t need to move away.”
Hope’s heart sank. Her mother was having a hard time with it, and it kind of broke her heart. But she needed to leave. She had to.
“It’s going to be okay, Mom,” Hope said, patting her on the hand. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed. Good-night. I love you.”
In her bedroom, against her will, she picked up the picture of her dad, the one where he grinned like he could see their whole future together and it was magnificent. It was winter and they were bundled tightly together. His mustache was thick enough that it seemed it could keep them both warm. She always wondered what he’d look like now, whether he’d still sport that mustache or not.
“I’m not going to get any silly ideas about you coming to the wedding,” she said to the photograph. “There’s a new man in my life now. He is my family. He is the one that will be there tomorrow. Not you.” She tossed the frame aside and grabbed her cell phone, speed-dialing the man who would take her away from this place, forever.
His voice mail picked up. “Hey, it’s Sam. I’m probably off playing some outrageously sick gig right now. But if you’re important, maybe I’ll ring you.” A guitar vamp roared through the phone, followed by a delicate beep.
“Hey, it’s me. I love you and can’t wait to walk down the aisle. I can’t wait to hear the song you’re writing for me. I can’t wait”—she glanced at the picture of her dad on the bedspread, still grinning—“to not live in Poughkeepsie anymore . . .” She was talking as if the voice mail might conver
se back. “You know what, I’m just rambling now. I’ve got lots to do, so I’ll catch ya on the flipside.”
Outside her room, her mother sang some gospel music or something. Hope hopped off her bed and went to her closet, where her beautiful white gown hung, wrapped in plastic, off the back of the door.
She was actually getting married. Crazy was about to be a distant memory and normal was where she planned to relocate.
2
In solid sheets of white, rain gushed over the 1972 Oldsmobile that Hope drove along at fifteen miles an hour because, starting in 1994, her mother refused to drive in anything but pure sunshine. Wouldn’t even drive on a cloudy day.
And as luck would have it, on their way to the church, the windshield wipers stopped working. Her mother now hung out the window and loudly declared the wipers to be HEALED!
“Oh God!” she wailed, soaked to the bone on her right side, “Come! Heal these wipers.”
When the wind shifted, rain splattered against Hope’s cheek. Good thing she never had any grand ambitions about her wedding day. She hadn’t pictured frills and carriages and perfect weather. Of course, she hadn’t pictured her mother hanging out the car window praying over the windshield wipers either, but things could always be worse.
“Mother!” Hope yelled over the rain.
But her mom couldn’t hear her. She still hung out the window, trying to fix the wiper blades, half her body teetering out of the car and one arm wrapped around the car frame. She wouldn’t drive on a cloudy day but had no problem with this.
“Lord! Hear our prayer!”
Hope glanced down at the speedometer. She was now going thirteen miles an hour.
Her mother started manually moving the wipers back and forth across the windshield. Hope slumped in her seat. At this point, frills and carriages and an ounce of sunshine wouldn’t kill her.
God, please . . .
Suddenly, the wipers squeaked to life again. Her mom emerged from the rain. “There! Sometimes when the wipers of life get stuck, you gotta arm wrestle them to life.”
Greetings from the Flipside Page 2