Part 13 (1/2)

”It seems,” he says, acknowledging me with another wink, ”that we've been making enemies. Our first set of hate mail.” He throws part of the stack in his hands onto Jake's neatly arranged desk. The letters slide into a line, stopping right at the edge. Everett holds a couple in his hand. He reads the one on top out loud: ”*Dear Heaven Sent People. Your cards are far from heaven sent. After my marriage ended, I received a card that said life will get better. It hasn't. If you're going to lie to me, you could at least make me laugh. Sincerely, the Former Mrs. Teasley.'”

My eyes widen so much my eyeb.a.l.l.s start to hurt. Wow. I didn't know Mrs. Teasley had it in her. I glance at Jake. He looks genuinely pained. I'm kind of regretting the plan now, but Everett begins the second letter: ”*Your cards make me mad. When the love of my life left me, people gave me your generic sympathy cards, as though they would help. They didn't. Miss Lonely.'”

Jake is thumbing through the envelopes. Everett continues with a third. I've bitten every single nail off every single finger on my hand. Now I'm about to bite through my lip as I watch Jake, his eyes dark with worry.

”*When my husband died, my family sent me cards saying everything would get better. That I'd find love again. I haven't and I'm still a spring chicken! I should sue you for your empty promises!'”

I didn't have to guess who that was.

”*Signed, Miss Gertie.'”

There's no way for me to leave. Everett is blocking the doorway. The room grows very quiet, so quiet that I wonder if guilt is audible, because if it is, I'm toast. But then I calm myself down, realizing there is no way they can know my plan or figure out who sent these. I remind myself this is a gentle nudge-though it turned out to be a bit a.s.saulting-to help Jake see the light.

”We've never received feedback like this before.” Jake's voice is quiet.

”Oh, well, you know . . . I mean, take the constructive parts, see what you can do with it . . .” My hands are clasped behind me, pressed forcefully into my b.u.t.t.

”It's interesting, they're all about lost love.”

There is something lost in his expression just then, something that dwells deeper than what I have access to. He's been hunched over his desk but suddenly stands up, a couple of envelopes in his hand. I think he's about to declare the humor department reopened when he says, ”Hey . . . these are all from the same address.” He looks closer at them. ”From Poughkeepsie.”

Turns out guilt is audible-it wheezes. Didn't I tell Gertie not to put the addresses on them?

Everett laughs. ”Seriously? Poughkeepsie? What good thing ever came from Poughkeepsie?” Everett turns his attention to me. The tuna smell is now masked by the musky stench of my own guilt. ”I'd ask you what you think, Lan, but I already know Jake won't listen.”

Lan? Seriously?

But Jake is looking at me like he might listen. So I try to seize the moment. ”Maybe we should help people through the pain of lost love with humor, you know, instead of telling them they'll get over it. You guys have an entirely vacant department over there. Nice, roomy desks. Firm chairs.” I smile like I've just struck gold with the best idea ever.

I notice Jake glance at Everett and Everett glance at Jake. Something pa.s.ses between them, something I'm not privy to, but sense nevertheless. ”What?”

Jake ignores the question. ”People who receive our cards already know they're in pain. They need encouragement to get past it, a reminder that even in the midst of trouble, they're not alone. That things will get better.”

Everett smirks. ”Yeah. That'll save us. Your best intentions are going to sink us. Don't blame me when this fails.” Everett walks off, but his words still hang in the air.

Jake sits down in his chair, gazing at all the mail. There's at least a dozen letters there. I feel shame for what I've done. It's hurt him and I'm sorry for it. I take a few steps toward his desk.

”Have you ever received a card and gotten past your pain?”

A flash of pain temporarily freezes his expression but is gone as fast as it came. Then he grabs one of the envelopes and taps the return address with his finger. ”I want to get these ladies on the phone.”

”Whh . . . . at? I'm sure a letter that lets them know you heard them would surely be . . .”

He's not listening to me. He's Googling the address. His hands drop from the keyboard. ”A nursing home? Old ladies are complaining about lost relations.h.i.+ps?”

”It's probably some kind of exercise they're doing to help improve memory. Like bingo.”

”I've got to talk to these ladies.”

”I am your a.s.sistant,” I say hastily. ”Right? Let me take care of this. I'll reach them.”

”Okay, make initial contact and we'll go from there.”

For the second time today, I rush to the bathroom.

8.

He'd gained a lot of favor from Bette, and was allowed to stay past visiting hours now. She felt strongly that the Coma Arousal Therapy would work for Hope, but she needed help. Jake was encouraged to talk to her, squeeze her hand, even eat his tuna fish. It all felt a little preposterous but here he was, despite it all.

It was getting harder and harder to leave her side.

At exactly 8:19 p.m., Jake took her hand into his, scooted the chair closer to her bedside and whispered, ”Hope, where are you?” He was shaking as he said it. But she needed to know that n.o.body really knew where she was.

He looked down at his feet. No. What she needed to know was that, no matter where she was, she had something to come back to.

But he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. He popped open a can of tuna and stood, stretching his legs. With a plastic fork, he ate it bite by bite.

The door opened and CiCi slid in, glancing behind her like her life was in danger, and then she shut the door as carefully as if it were made of paper. She yelped as she noticed Jake.

”What are you doing here?” Then she smiled, pointing a finger at him. ”You snuck in too, didn't you?” She plopped down in the chair at the end of Hope's bed. ”That nurse . . . Bette? . . . she is something else. Real strict about those visiting hours. Always lecturing me about how to get Hope out of this horrible mess she's in.”

”It's not a mess, it's just what-”

”It's all a mess! Her whole life's a mess!”

Jake set his tuna aside and sat down. ”CiCi . . . yes, something bad happened, but we can't let Hope believe that her life is a mess. She has a lot to live for. She's very . . . driven. Very . . .” The words were stuck in his throat but she needed to hear it. ”. . . pretty.”

CiCi glanced at her daughter. ”She could use a hair was.h.i.+ng.”

”I think what Bette is trying to say is that we need to be encouraging.”

Suddenly tears streamed down CiCi's face. ”But look at her . . . she's so . . . lifeless.”

Jake tried to find the right words. He was so bad with speaking words and so much more comfortable when he could write them down. ”It's not true. She's in there. We just have to figure out a way to get her back here.”

CiCi wiped the tears with a tissue that looked like it'd been through a war. ”Do you know where she was planning on going after she was married? To New York City. She wanted a career writing greeting cards. Who has heard of such a thing?”

Jake's gaze snapped to Hope. For real? Sure, he remembered how much she liked to write cards, but he never imagined she wanted to do it for a living.

”She's got real talent,” Jake offered, his attention back on CiCi. ”She has to believe in herself.”

CiCi blotted her face. ”The truth is, Jake, that I didn't believe in her. I thought the whole idea of moving to New York City was a huge mistake.” Her hands shot in the air and she shouted out a hallelujah. She looked at the ceiling, waving her hands. ”Oh, Lord, Lord! How I wish now that she was there! Oh how I wish she was there right now!”

The door opened to the room and Bette stood there like a mad bull. CiCi's arms dropped to her side and she mumbled to Jake, ”We're caught.”

Bette's finger pointed straight at CiCi. ”You, missy, come here right now.”