Greetings from the Flipside

by Rene Gutteridge

  I laugh. Well, at least he has a sense of humor. But by the way his eyes cut toward me, I realize he isn’t joking. Or he’s a master of the deadpan delivery. I swallow and continue to follow.

  We arrive at a door in the very tight hallway. The room says 11 above it. As he unlocks it, I notice an old woman, probably in her seventies, hunched over a mop, cleaning the floors at the end of the hall. She has a janitor uniform on.

  “Welcome to paradise, Ms. Landon.” Morris flips on the switch. We both stand there gazing into the closet. Closet is not the right word. It’s slightly smaller. More like a very roomy file drawer. It’s the smallest livable space I have ever seen. A hot plate in the other. A desk so small I think it’s been sawed in half, sits with a chair pushed against it. And there, on the wall right in front of me, is a Murphy bed. I’ve always had a fear of Murphy beds. Doesn’t everyone?

  “Showers are down the hall.” He squeaks away as I have flashbacks of junior high gym class.

  It is late afternoon, but I’m only going by my watch. The room has a small window covered by small gray shades. The sun seeps through the sides. I decide I should unpack. Set on top of my now wrinkled clothes is the plastic bride and groom from my cake. Mom. I toss it in the wastebasket, which is also very small, like it belongs to an elf. I guess people in these circumstances have very little to throw away.

  I have left my room door open. The air seems to circulate better out in the hall and I’m also starting to get claustrophobic. No one passes by for a long time, and then I hear footsteps. I look toward the doorway just in time to see her. She is a young girl, dressed in a plain T-shirt and baggy shorts. Her hair falls across her shoulders but is tangled. She glances in at me and I glance at her. Our eyes lock. She seems to see right through to my soul. I blink and she is gone.

  A couple of hours later, I stand at the doorway of the showers. There are four, all with off-white shower curtains. The tile is stained in nearly every part of its grout. I thankfully brought flip-flops. A roach skitters across the floor. I am completely racked by fear but I’m also equally as terrified by my own body stench. So I take a step forward.

  One shower is taken. I can see the feet under the curtain and they look a little cavewoman-ish. But there is singing. It kind of sets me at ease. It’s an old hymn I remember singing in church but never knew the words to.

  I manage my way through the shower. You’ve never seen an armpit scrubbed so fast. I’m back in my bedroom, hair wet and combed back from my face, sitting with the door closed on my very lumpy Murphy bed. It squeaks with every move I make. And it has to be said, there is a balancing act to these beds. One false move and you’re a goner.

  The next day, I oversleep. It is eleven a.m. and I haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours. I order Chinese takeout, eat in my room and try to figure out the subway map. There are a lot of dots and lines and color-coding that is supposed to make sense. An hour goes by and I finally manage to find the subway route I think I should take to get to the address that is on the back of the Heaven Sent card, when I realize I am within walking distance.

  A knock at my door causes me to jump out of my skin, and that is just enough to throw the whole thing off-balance. Before I know it, the old Murphy bed is calling it quits on me, closing up fast. I’m trying to save my map and my Chinese food when I should’ve tried to save myself.

  The next thing I know, I’m inside the wall.

  * * * *

  So.

  One is forced to examine one’s life when trapped in the wall by a Murphy bed. Strangely, it’s the perfect analogy for how I felt in Poughkeepsie—backed against a dark wall with nowhere to go.

  Now, you’re probably wondering at this point why I’m not screaming my freaking head off. Well, I was. But then someone came to rescue me. The same person who knocked on my door.

  She hasn’t gotten to the rescue part yet. She’s currently in my room eating my food. I only know this because I can hear her slurping the lo mein noodles.

  “So,” she says, “what’s your name?”

  “Kid . . .” I am assuming it’s the young girl who passed me earlier. I don’t really know, but her voice sounds kid-ish. “Would you get me out of here?”

  “Of course I’ll rescue you. Just as soon as you answer my nine questions.”

  “Can it be three?”

  “No.”

  “Kid. Please.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “It’s getting kind of stuffy in here.” I couldn’t be sure, but I was guessing I was going to have major sheet marks on my cheek by the time I got out.

  “Are you married?”

  “Claustrophobic.”

  “Does that feel anything like being in love? Oh, wow. I thought the lo mein was good, but the orange chicken is amazing.”

  “Let! Me! Out!”

  I didn’t even hear her unlatch it. Suddenly I am falling and now I lay facedown on my mattress. I glance up. Yep. It’s the same girl I saw before.

  “Thank you.” I take in one breath of air after another.

  She holds a piece of chicken on the tip of her fork. “Here. You should try this.”

  I gather my maps and my pencils off the floor and everything else that was on the bed. “I gotta go see about a dream.”

  I grab my purse, my sketchpad, the Heaven Sent card, stuffing everything loosely in my bag, but the girl doesn’t budge.

  “It’s good to have a dream. I’ll hang here. Hold down our fort, sit here pondering my dreamy non-boyfriend.” She plops down on the Murphy bed, but I open the door and wave her on out.

  “Fine.” She sighs, the first indication she’s really a kid. Her face turns pouty. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I didn’t throw it.” She walks out. “See you later, Room Eleven.” And she swings out the door.

  Within the hour, I am sandwiched between two people who did not scrub their armpits like I did. I decide to take the subway to get used to it. I should have walked. But finally I have arrived at my stop. I emerge from the underground into the light, squinting and trying to get my bearings.

  It takes me a second to find North, but when I do, I’m only about three blocks away to the East. An easy walk without the baggage. I find myself walking more briskly than normal. The pace on the street is fast. The stream of people seem to read each other, walking in pace and never bumping. I try to concentrate so I won’t be the odd man out. Their faces are very solemn. There is no acknowledgment of each other. I’m not a smiler, like I said. But I’m not a robot, either. It’s hard for me not to express something when I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with someone.

  Finally I arrive at 352 East 4th Street. I stand there gazing at the building. It doesn’t seem to fit with the rest of the business district. It looks more like a doctor’s office than a greeting card company. The sign reads C.A.T.S.

  “Huh?” I say this because I’m sensing a theme.

  I look down at the address on the Heaven Sent Card. 352. Check. West 4th Street. Oh . . . I’m at East. Dang.

  I trudge back from where I came, my head hanging in slight defeat. But the second I glance up, I spot it . . . the purple jacket. The same one that I remember from my wedding day. The person who . . . who what? Stole the car? It’s so . . . vague.

  I hurry through the crowd. Apparently I’ve hit a doctors’ convention because a bunch of people in scrubs are in my way. Once I move past them and am in the clear, the jacket is nowhere to be seen. My eyes dart everywhere, but whoever it was has been swallowed up by the crowd.

  Stay on task. That’s what I must do. I march forward, toward West 4th Street. When I arrive, I’m thankful to see the logo hanging outside. A cat meows nearby, sending me dashing through the front door.

  Chimes that sound like heavenly harps greet me. Little cherubs hang from the door handle. Artwork from previous greeting car
ds hangs on the walls in the lobby. Behind a beautiful, ornate desk sits a young woman who looks like she just stepped out of an Ann Taylor catalog. Or an audition for The Stepford Wives. She’s on the phone and I study her suit . . . it’s highlighter yellow. Her scarf is yellow too, but it’s more the shade of Pine-Sol. I can’t see her shoes. I’m guessing mustard. Her earrings are two little sunshine balls.

  “Heaven Sent. Sent by Heaven. Where may I send you today?” Her tone smacks of lemon meringue . . . sweet with just a tease of sour. “Sure thing, please hold.”

  As she’s transferring the call, the harp chime goes off again. I turn to see a man walk in, business suit, tie, confident enough to wear both. He’s not a GQ model or anything, but he’s got the kind of swagger that can grow on a girl. I’m trying not to notice but he’s walking right toward me.

  “May I help you?”

  I step toward the desk, ready to introduce myself to the receptionist. And right as I do, I feel an incredibly sharp pain stab right through the bottom of my foot, again, as if I’d decided to wear my stiletto upside down. Except slightly more piercing.

  I yelp. I reactively grab my foot and in doing so, drop everything I own, including what little self-worth I have left. The pain is gone, but my cards, my pencils, my sketchpad are all scattered across the floor. I drop to my knees, fumbling to gather it all, trying to keep myself from crying. I can’t rent an apartment. And now I can’t even properly introduce myself to a company I’m dying to work for.

  “Oopsie,” the receptionist says. “Did that hurt?”

  The question was, what hurt me? I hadn’t turned my ankle. I didn’t step on glass. What was that? Probably some mutant heel spur gene that runs in my family.

  “I’m fine. Really.” We can’t see each other. She’s on the other side of the desk. I’m on my hands and knees, fishing for my red pencil that has rolled into a shadow.

  “Fine, huh?”

  I look up. The shadow has a source. It’s the guy in the suit.

  He squats beside me. “I’d like to hear how you define great.”

  “The view from here is . . . it’s . . . well, breathtaking.” I don’t get to finish my witty punch line about the aesthetics of the linoleum because he’s holding the Heaven Sent card that I brought in for the address. I stand up, brushing myself off, trying to hold the gigantic mess of papers in my hands. “I’m hoping to meet the ladies who wrote that card.”

  “Looking for an autograph?”

  “Well, um . . .” If it gets me in the door, sure. “My mother, actually, she got the card for this . . . occasion. An occasion where people get cards. So, if you could introduce me to the ladies . . .”

  “You’re looking at them.” He smiles, opens his hands in a “ta-da” motion. “Jake Sentinel. I didn’t realize I had such a lovely fan.”

  “I’m Landon.” It’s the first sign that I’m shedding my old life. New town. New job. New name. Hope always seemed so . . . overly expectant. I shake his hand. “Flattery will get you everywhere. I would even work for you.”

  He keeps his eyes on me but addresses the receptionist. “Heather, can you make sure the children’s home received the new Christmas line? I promised them five hundred.”

  “Sure thing, Jake.”

  “I need a job.” He lets go of my hand, gives me a polite smile, and walks toward the elevators. I quickly follow. “I just moved here. And besides my stellar talent for embarrassing myself, I’ve always wanted to write greeting cards. If you’ll let me show my samples . . .” They’re clutched in my hands at the moment.

  “People don’t just come here and start writing cards.” He pushes the button.

  “Oh, I’m all about blazing a trail.”

  “Seriously, they don’t just commit pen to the papyrus and start writing.”

  “But I’m mad with a pen. And papyrus. If you’ll look at these . . .” I hold up both of my hands. It’s a grand mess of cards and papers and pencils, any one of which could fall to the ground at any second.

  He glances hopefully at the elevator but the doors don’t open yet. “Look, I worked under my father for six years before he let me write a single card. When he retired, he left me to do the writing because he trusts me to continue our message.”

  “I kind of don’t have six years. I have rent. But no cats. I illustrate too.”

  “My dad’s sisters, Pearl and Ruby, do that.”

  “And how they’ve mastered those puppies and kittens.”

  He doesn’t catch the sarcasm in my voice. His face actually brightens. “Haven’t they? The kids, they love Pearl’s tabby cat. There’s nothing like coming up with cards that make a child smile.”

  The elevator doors open. With one step, he is inside. They are closing.

  “I’d be a devoted employee!” I have no idea why I’m shouting, but that’s how it’s coming out. “I have no life right now! Literally!”

  “It was nice to see you . . . Landon.”

  Swoosh. They are closed.

  I just stand there staring at the door. I can feel Heather’s yellowishness burning my backside like the actual sun is sitting there.

  To my surprise, the bell dings and the doors open right back up like I’ve said the magic word. Perhaps it took pity on me.

  Jake is standing there.

  “This is all I can do.” He puts a wad of cash in my palm, stuffing it between one of my cards and my drawing pad. “I hope you can find the best job, you know, where you can use those talents. Let me know how you weather.”

  Then, like he was swallowed up by the elevator, he is gone.

  Where did that come from? Let me know how you weather? Saying hope like it’s got some magic power?

  Well, it doesn’t.

  6

  Praying you are resting peacefully in the arms of our Heavenly Father. May He carry you through this stormy time.’” He closed the card. On the back of the card was a small sunset.

  Jake glanced up. Well, she was resting peacefully. Of course, that was just observation from the outside. Maybe she was frantically trying to climb out of the coma. Now, though, she just looked peaceful.

  He opened the next card. They were coming in by the dozens. For the past four days, he’d made it his job to come and read them to her. There was no way of telling when her mother would be here, and he tried to avoid her as much as possible. But mother or no mother, he felt compelled to be with Hope, even if she didn’t know he was there.

  He slid the card out of the envelope. It was a picture of a cross on a hill. Green grass rolled in the distance. The sun was setting directly behind it, spraying light in all directions. “‘It is in the most difficult of times that we rely on and pray to Jesus. Through His stripes we are healed. Cling to Him in all things.’” He laughed a little. “Well, you don’t appear to be able to pray or cling, but we have to cut them some slack.” He set the card aside.

  He was about to start a third card—it had a little lamb on it—when the nurse walked in. Her name was Bette (“like a gamble,” she’d said) and they’d met two days ago. If he was sick, she was the kind of nurse he’d want. Like many in the healthcare profession, she seemed not to have the time or energy to take care of her own health. Her scrubs fit tight in all the wrong places and she nursed some sort of energy/sugar/coffee/spiked water drink throughout her whole shift. All her features were sunken, but most of all her eyes. Sometimes Jake sensed when she came to check on Hope that she was a little envious of the sleep she was getting.

  “Hi there, Jake.” Her voice was always cheery even while her eyes looked swollen with fatigue. “How’s our girl today?”

  It was this kind of response that caused him to believe that he really shouldn’t speak very much. “She’s not mine. I mean, she’s not . . . we’re not . . . you know, together, unplatonically speaking. Speaking of speaking, we haven’t really. Not in a long
time. But I was delivering flowers for her wedding—I mean, the one that didn’t—and then I found her, so . . .”

  Bette raised an eyebrow at him as she took Hope’s blood pressure. “You’re trying to say you’re just friends?”

  “Of course, yes, that’s a much easier way to say it.”

  Bette patted her hand lightly. “Hope, when are you going to wake up, girl? If I had a hot guy sitting next to my bedside, I’d sure as heck wake up.”

  Jake actually glanced behind himself.

  “Yeah, you,” she said with a smirk.

  “Oh, um . . . thanks?”

  She shook her head. “Sweetie, I believe in divine intervention. You know what that is?”

  Jake nodded. “Yeah. I write about that a lot.”

  “Oh? You’re a writer?”

  “Not really a . . . per se . . . greeting cards, I write the little . . . inside where you sign . . . you know?”

  “I’m going to have to teach you to speak in complete sentences, but I think I’m following. You write greeting cards.”

  “Not a lot. Just a few to keep in my store. We send a lot of bouquets for funerals and things, so I try to write something hopeful in each card, something that will give them strength.”

  “That’s very sweet, Jake. And you’re very sweet to sit in here and read these cards to her.”

  Jake shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s doing much.”

  “Oh, come now. I don’t want to hear that from you. We can’t give up hope. On Hope.”

  Jake laughed. “I guess her name requires that we don’t, huh?”

  From a nearby tray, she took what looked like large needles from a plastic sheath. She walked to the end of the bed and untucked the sheets and blanket, exposing her feet.

  “They give shots in the feet now?” Jake cringed. He wasn’t sure if he could watch.

  “It’s called Coma Arousal Therapy. We just call it CAT.” She held up a needle. “The bottoms of the feet are extremely sensitive. So we gently stick needles, pricking her here and there, to try to get her to wake up.”

  She pricked the bottoms of her feet, but Hope remained motionless.