Hope smiled, trying her best to enjoy each moment of this day. This would turn out to be one of those memories you laughed about. Later.
The downpour started up again. “So today’s the big day!” her mom shouted over the racket of the rain and the squeak of the wipers. “You finally get to hear the song Sam’s been working on for you!”
This brought a genuine smile to her face. “I know!”
“That boy has some God-given talent! I see him in a church one day,” she declared, lifting her hand toward the windshield like it was a portal into heaven. “Yes, yes, yes I do. Leading a choir of hundreds.”
Over his dead body. But Hope kept her mouth shut. Sam had wanted to wed at Pairaview Hall, where Black Sabbath once played. She’d told him that wasn’t going to fly.
Hope wasn’t a big church attender, but a church seemed like the proper place to wed . . . a good way to start off the whole deal. There would be lots of things coming against a marriage. God shouldn’t be one of them.
Finally they arrived at the Poughkeepsie Community Church, quaint but colorless on this dreary day. The wedding dress was double-wrapped and her mother insisted on carrying it in. Hope resisted twice. Her mom insisted three times.
As she watched her mom maneuver the dress up the steps of the church, Hope was certain something catastrophic was going to happen on its way through the front doors.
Potato-farm catastrophic.
Hope held her breath and wondered how she was going to break the news to Sam that they were going to Idaho. It was supposed to be a big surprise. Well, it was surprising all right.
Okay, so . . . their first big disappointment to tackle. Fine. They could do it. Besides, Sam was a pretty laid-back guy. He could find the fun in anything, which was what first attracted Hope to him. He’d probably suggest they go cow-tipping or something.
Hope pulled her mom’s industrial-sized raincoat over her head and raced toward the church. Inside, she found her mom in the room where Hope was to get ready. It smelled musty and the carpet was dense, dark, and old. The rain thumped loudly against the wooden roof and poured down onto the concrete sidewalk just outside the window.
Her mother joined her at the window. “This is going to be the perfect day, my dear. Just perfect. Who cares about the gloom outside? It’s going to be warm and sunshiny inside, just like you!” She gave Hope a tight, sideways squeeze. Sometimes her mom’s misplaced enthusiasm came in handy.
Her mom disappeared into a side room to change and Hope stood and watched the rain. She wondered how her mom could see her as warm and sunshiny. She wasn’t that person. Witty, yes. Sarcastic, nearly always. She just didn’t smile that much. But her mom, well, she saw reality a little differently.
“Hope Landon, you should be smiling. It’s your wedding day!” Becca breezed in, carrying her sapphire-blue matron of honor dress, made especially for her pregnant body. She hung it on the door and frowned. “Why aren’t you dressed? And what’s going on with your hair?”
“Just waiting for you.” Hope moved away from the window, smiling for Becca’s sake. Hope plopped down in a chair and pointed to her hair.
“No kidding,” Becca said. “Looks like you drove here with the top down!” She fluffed Hope’s hair with her fingers. “But no worries. I can fix it. I brought all my magic.” She grabbed a large bag off the floor.
“This is my wedding day.” The breath in her lungs felt inadequate. “It seems surreal.”
“You’re going to look stunning. The hair’s definitely going up.”
And for the next thirty minutes, Becca sprayed and combed until her hair looked sassy and elegant and part of this decade. She then went to work on Hope’s makeup.
“Take a look,” Becca said, handing her a mirror.
Hope gasped. “I do look good!”
“Dress time!” Becca sang. She helped Hope into it, tugging on the zipper as Hope sucked in. Her mother flitted back into the room, twirling in her new outfit: cream and almost no polyester except her floral vest, which was trimmed with burgundy piping. Hope thought she looked pretty, with her hair pinned back by jeweled-toned clippies. Her lipstick was vibrant—enough to come with a radiation warning—but even that looked right on her today.
“Gorgeous, Mom.”
“Me? Look at you! Good heavens, Lord Almighty! You are a drop of sunshine in a bucket of chemical cleaner, my dear. You’re like the smell-good in the Pine-Sol.”
Hope leaned toward the window. “There are actual cars out there! People are coming! I thought nobody would show up.”
“Are you kidding?” Becca said. “Now suck in, or they’re going to see more than they bargained for.”
Hope obeyed. “I’m sorry, I ate a Popsicle last night.”
“Hope Landon, I thought we agreed to no sugar for the last three days?”
“Oh God!” her mother shouted. “Please cause that zipper to—”
“Got it!” The zipper slipped up her back and the dress closed. Hope turned, gazing at herself in the long mirror.
“Are my hips wide?”
“Shush,” Becca said. “This is your wedding day. Nothing is going to ruin it for you.”
Her mom walked over, observing her daughter with complete delight. “Oh, I nearly forgot!” She handed Hope a small envelope. “The best man gave this to me to give to you.”
“Lyle.” Hope smiled. Sam’s ever-faithful band mate. It was probably the marriage certificate they applied for.
She turned and gazed at herself in the mirror again. She’d never felt prettier in her life. Her mother walked up behind her, placed her hands on Hope’s shoulders, just like in the commercials that all the normal families can relate to.
“Oh, Hope . . .”
Hope felt her eyes swell with tears.
“You are gorgeous,” her mom continued. “Just like a perfect turkey, right out of the oven!”
Becca glanced at her and gave her a playful shrug. Becca knew her mom. There was never a need to explain away the odd remarks. She tapped her watch. “It’s almost time, friend.”
Her breath caught in her throat and she nodded. She opened the envelope in her hand to make sure it was the wedding license. It wasn’t.
Instead, she pulled out a handwritten note.
“What is it?” Becca asked.
“It’s a note from Sam,” Hope gushed. “Sam wasn’t happy about the tradition of not seeing the bride before the wedding. So I guess this letter is his way of peeking.”
Becca patted her heart. “That is so cute.”
Hope unfolded the note and began to read.
Dear Lan,
Last night I made one final attempt to write your song. Nothing came, nothing flowed. Which can only mean one thing. We’re not supposed to be together. I’m sorry. Good-bye.
Sam
The letter slipped from her hand, gliding against the invisible air, floating like it was angelic, until it landed and lay perfectly still.
All of Hope’s senses roared to life. The air conditioner blew cold against her skin. The sunlight broke through the clouds and sent blinding light into the room. The faint murmur of the crowd that had gathered outside sounded like a thousand haunting voices. The room grew small. The musty smell overwhelmed her.
She looked up. Becca stared at her, unblinking, not moving a muscle. Then she started toward her, her expression intensifying with each step.
“What’s the matter?” Becca grabbed her arm like Hope might tip over if she wasn’t held steady.
A clap of thunder shook the church and the wink of sunlight now disappeared under the sudden downpour.
“It’s okay, dear!” her mother shouted from across the room. “The show must go on! A little thunder never killed anybody. Now lightning, well, that’s a different story . . .”
Hope snapped her attention to Becca and lowe
red her voice to a whisper. “Can you distract her?”
Becca searched her eyes, then looked at the note on the ground between them. “Okay.”
Becca moved toward Hope’s mom, taking her by the arm and guiding her to the window where they struck up some conversation about rain. Her mother’s hands shot in the air and she was no doubt praying for the rain to stop.
Too late.
Lightning had already struck. And scorched her soul.
Hope grabbed her bag, which sat by the door, and slipped out. To her right, the hallway led to the sanctuary, where she heard people’s conversations. Did they already know?
To her left was a side door.
Hope hiked up her dress, instinctively perhaps, to keep it from dragging on the wet ground. Thunder grumbled above.
She darted into the heavy downpour. It had nothing on the sobs that escaped from her, loud and heartbreaking, but nevertheless swallowed up by the sound of the rain. She ran across the sidewalk, stupidly trying to save her dress. She was soaked to the bone within seconds.
She hated herself for crying, even though she knew if ever there was a proper time to cry, this was it. But she didn’t want to let another man abandoning her cause her this much pain. She swore she would always guard her heart.
She screamed into the noise and racket of the storm, but she couldn’t even hear herself. The dress made it hard to run, but she kept running, dragging the dress on one side, her overnight bag hanging off the opposite arm. She got to the Oldsmobile and dropped her bag onto the ground, causing a small splash against her ankles. She plunged her hand into the side pocket and withdrew the keys.
But her hands were shaking and she couldn’t get the key into the hole. She sobbed louder and louder, cursing and scratching the car as the key slid back and forth everywhere except into the hole.
“Get in that hole!” Her hands shook more and the rain got louder.
She stood there for a moment, her dress growing heavier as it took on more water. She was going to have to get a grip. If she didn’t hurry, people were going to start trying to find her.
She took three deep breaths, during which she noticed a white delivery van parked by the church, the writing across its side partially blocked by an SUV. So it only read HEAVE.
Normally that would be delicious and ironic and funny and land somehow in a card, but on this day it was only a dreadful cue. Right there on the pavement, she heaved.
She stood up and felt a little better. She tried the key again, begging herself to hold it steady.
“Got it!” But the words had barely left her mouth when a sharp pain splintered through her skull. She fell against the window of the car, her cheek smashing against the glass. Her body slowly slid down the side, her face knocking against the door handle as she slumped to the ground. She tried to reach for the side mirror, but she had no control of her body.
She spilled onto the wet blacktop, face down.
Something heavier than rain trickled down her forehead, around her cheek, and over her lips. She turned over, tried to open her eyes, but everything was a blur. A shadowy figure stood over her, a young girl, maybe a teenager. She wore a purple winter jacket.
Then, without her permission, her eyes closed.
3
En route to the wedding, Jake decided to get over the irony of it all. Besides, he had better things to do with his time than revisit old losses and regrets. But he did regret quite a bit that he never tried again with Hope Landon, that he didn’t get over his fear of rejection and just tell her how he felt.
There he was again, with the regret. He’d just about talked himself out of letting it go, too. His only hope, he supposed, was to finish up this delivery and get it over with. Maybe then, with the flowers delivered, he could move on.
He’d already brought most of them in, wrapped in sheets of plastic to protect them from the rain. The only thing left was the bouquet. It was his tradition to always hand-deliver the bouquet straight to the bride, with a card attached for well wishes and a personal good wish from him as well.
But in this case, he was having second thoughts. Then again, maybe seeing her in her dress, ready to walk down the aisle, would give him closure. He was sure not to make a good impression either way, because he was already soaking wet from this horrible storm. What a day to get married. He had no doubt Hope had some witty and snappy remark about it, probably already written out in a card—if she still wrote cards.
He stood at the front doors of the church and decided to hand-deliver the bouquet. It was the least he could do, to wish her well and hope for her happiness. He was about to dart back to his van, which was parked at the side door, when he noticed something in the back end of the parking lot. At first he thought it was a white trash bag. But the more he peered through the rain, the more he realized it wasn’t a trash bag fluttering against the wind.
It was a wedding dress. And the woman wearing it wasn’t moving.
Ducking into the rain, he began to run toward her, noticing a car speeding away from the church.
He hurried toward her. He could see she was missing a shoe. Her toenails were painted bright pink. The only thing moving was her wedding dress.
“Hope?” he yelled through the rain. He rushed to her side and knelt, trying to take in everything. Blood trickled across the side of her face and dripped into a small puddle beneath her. Her eyes were closed and she wasn’t responding to him.
“Hope? Hope, can you hear me?”
He could barely hear himself with the rain and the noise of the storm. Lightning cracked in a wicked flash overhead, followed by a thundering clap. He leaned over her, made sure she was breathing. He tried to wipe the blood with the sleeve of his coat, but it was gushing, running off her head like water off a gutter. “Help! Somebody help!”
But there wasn’t a soul around.
His cell phone was in his truck. With no time to waste, he went to retrieve it. By the time he returned, Hope’s mother, CiCi, was running out of the church, her eyes frantic. A small group of people huddled around Hope’s seemingly lifeless body.
“Hope! Hope!” her mother screamed.
Others from the wedding attended to her, and Jake stepped back, calling 911. He gave the address and all the pertinent information.
What in the world had happened to this beautiful bride-to-be, struck down in a parking lot on her wedding day?
He wanted to dive into the crowd and grab Hope’s hand, plead with her to hang on. But she was swallowed up by everyone else.
So he prayed, his heart as heavy as his rain-soaked body.
Greetings from My Life
I can sum myself and my life up like this . . . I have trouble stepping onto escalators. It’s all about the timing, you see, and I am either too early and stumble or too late and then my legs awkwardly stretch away from one another and people instinctively reach out to help me.
To be exact, right now the escalator analogy doesn’t really apply because I’m more in a state of free fall from the second story of a mall.
Perhaps that’s too bloody of an example. People don’t normally live when they fall off something that high. I’m definitely alive.
Let me go back to the escalator. Maybe it’s like I’m wearing flip-flops and get my toe stuck. Well, shoot. I’m not stuck. I’m actually in just the opposite state.
Okay, I’ve got it. It’s like I stepped onto the escalator, fully expecting it to continue as it does every second of every day for everybody else. But when it comes to me, it jolts to a stop, throwing me forward as I tumble all the way down the thing and land at the bottom, somehow managing to live through it but wishing I hadn’t.
Yes, that’s it. That’s exactly what I’m trying to convey.
To catch you up, I got dumped at the altar. Not at the actual altar. It was before I got to the altar but after I got myself into my dres
s. It came by way of a handwritten note from Sam, my fiancé, right before I was to walk out of the dressing room and into the sanctuary.
I guess nobody knows exactly how they’ll react in a situation like that. I can tell you that I surprised myself by grabbing my bag and bolting for the side door. There was a terrible storm that day and it had been pouring rain since morning. I was in my dress, trying to raise it up so it wouldn’t get wet as I splashed through the puddles. I remember my hands were so shaky I couldn’t even get the key into the car. I just wanted to leave. Flee. Bolt.
After that, things get a little fuzzy. To tell you the truth, I think I went into shock. Sam was not only the love of my life, but my ticket out of Poughkeepsie.
I cannot tell you why, but now I am at a diner, missing one shoe. Hobbling in with my bag, my hair falling out of its chignon, my dress muddy and sopping, I stand at the Coca-Cola door and look over the decor. It is fifties-nostalgic with an old soda fountain and black-red-and-white-checkered counter tops. Pictures of classic cars line the walls. A sign above the register says Odyssey’s. It is charming enough that I take another step inside, hardly noticing that I’m leaving a puddle every few feet. A girl in a purple jacket brushes by me, knocking my shoulder, not even apologizing.
Nearby is a booth of locals enjoying their lunches. A waitress stands over them, a rag flopped over her hand, the other hand planted into her hip, chatting it up. All at once, they look over at me. Look me up and down. I try to smile. Maybe I grimaced. Whatever the case, the waitress who is smacking radioactive-colored gum stops chewing and walks to me like I’m in desperate need of assistance.
“You lost, Sugar?”
“No. I, um . . . I’m just on my way to the . . .” I glance outside through the large window to see that my car is no longer there. I swear I just parked it, but there is nothing but empty space. “I just need . . .”
“Oh, sweet baby.” The waitress takes her rag and reaches for my forehead, swiping her rag across. When she’s done, we both look at the rag. It’s covered in bright red blood.
I’m bleeding?
Greetings from the Flipside Page 3