Free Greetings from the Flipside by Rene Gutteridge Page B

Generally, people don’t recover from that. But it must be said, one doesn’t get dumped at the altar because the relationship is going well. And relationships generally don’t go well when one or more of the parties lives in a dream world.”
    “You mean . . . the coma?”
    “Before the coma. She believed she could make a living writing greeting cards.” CiCi shook her head, made circular motions around her ear.
    Jake couldn’t help it, it just rolled off his tongue. “Believes.”
    “What?”
    “Believes. Not believed. She’s still with us.”
    Then her voice grew even louder. She was practically shouting. Or wailing. “My poor baby girl! Her life fell apart the day her daddy left and it’s just getting worse and worse!”
    Before she could shoot her hands in the air for another prayer, Jake gently put a finger to his own lips though he really wanted to put a hand over her mouth.
    She stopped, looking curiously at him.
    “If what they say is true”—he spoke in such a quiet whisper she had to lean in to hear—“and she can hear what we say, perhaps a better use of our time is to speak to her in a way that will encourage her to wake up.”
    CiCi looked as if she was trying to understand, but blinked as if she didn’t. “I know the Lord hears my cries.” And up her hands went.
    But Jake whispered, “The sign down the hallway says he hears them more clearly in the chapel.”
    Her hands dropped. “What sign?”
    “Down the hall, by the door, near the place that has the thing.”
    “What, wait . . . where?” CiCi’s eyes widened. “If that’s true . . .”
    “Oh, it is.”
    She glanced at Hope. “You’ll stay with her then?”
    “Sure.” The room was now very quiet, but the alternative, to have CiCi shouting her daughter’s dysfunction all over the hospital corridor, didn’t seem to be a good option either.
    “Thank you, you dear one! Thank you!” She drew him in for a hug, but she was so wispy it felt like hugging a cheese cloth. Then she was gone.
    He stood and watched Hope for a long time, wondering if she might, on a whim, just open her eyes. When she didn’t, his gaze followed the crowd of cards and flowers, pushed into all the shelves and spaces in the room. He walked to where most of the cards were, gazing at their covers . . . a lot of mountains, waterfalls, bridges, clouds, rainbows, sunsets, grassy fields, barns . . . the most serene pictures that were ever caught on film.
    “Excuse me, sir . . . ?”
    He looked to the doorway, where a candy striper—in actual red and white stripes—stood holding a stack of cards. “These came for her.”
    “Oh . . .” Jake looked around. There wasn’t really a place to put them. “Here. I guess I can take them.”
    “Thanks.” The young girl couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She glanced sideways, with a measure of guilt on her expression. “She looks so peaceful.”
    Jake nodded and thanked her again.
    “Well,” he said, sitting in the chair, counting the stack of cards. “It looks like ten more have arrived today for you.”
    He fingered the sharp corners of the envelopes. He should say something. Something real. Something profound. Something encouraging. But he was no different than that small boy who couldn’t manage to speak when the girl rewrote his card. His tongue was tied even as his feelings were unraveling.
    She was beautiful, even sleeping. Her hands held delicate and long fingers. He wanted to take them into his. He wanted to tell her that it was going to be all right, that she didn’t deserve what happened to her—any part of it.
    But instead, nothing came, and he chided himself for being unable to speak even the smallest amount of encouragement. Instead, he looked at the stack of cards on his lap and then tore open the first envelope. It was a pretty photograph of a gray sky with a vague hint of a rainbow. He opened it, a little sheepishly because he was reading someone else’s mail, but it wasn’t like she