"Oh yes. What an ordeal." She's looking at me with some pity, so ordeal might be referring to being dumped at the altar, but no matter, I'm just happy this horrible nightmare is almost over.

"Yes, it has been." I nod. "It really has been."

She picks up my pa.s.sport and driver's license, examining them both. Then she looks at me. "Unfortunately, we have a problem."

12.

Jake didn't know what to do. CiCi continued to pray, though not as loudly and boisterously as before. She was praying about Hope not being fooled. It was absurd. How could a woman in a coma be fooled? He wanted to leave because it was all making him feel uncomfortable, but it also felt wrong to leave Hope with her mother draped over her body praying prayers that didn't make any sense.

There was not a seed tinier than the mustard seed, so was it a trick question? The next level after faith as big as a mustard seed was no faith at all. And that certainly wasn't him. He had faith. He'd written dozens and dozens of cards about faith during the dark times, faith that the sun would rise tomorrow, that G.o.d is good, that G.o.d has a plan. He'd written about all of it. So why couldn't he join CiCi at Hope's bedside, lay his hands on Hope's arm, and try to pray her out of this coma?

Instead, he sat glued to his chair, staring at a woman who believed with all her might that her prayers were working and moving mountains. There was no such thing as faith by proxy. You either had it or you didn't.

The door opened. Jake shot out of his seat, for no particular reason except he was being caught off guard in so many respects it just felt like he should be ready for anything.

Relief flooded him as Becca walked in carrying a teddy bear. She noticed CiCi flung across Hope and shot Jake a questioning look. Jake quickly took the bear, tucked it at the end of the hospital mattress, and guided Becca outside. CiCi never looked up. She was still praying.

He closed the door behind them as Becca whispered, "What is going on in there?"

"You don't want to know. It's the kind of thing that can send a woman into early labor."

Becca smiled, patting her big belly. "At this point I wouldn't mind. Four more weeks." She glanced toward the room. "Is CiCi going nuts?"

Jake cleared his throat. "Well, um, she's been very . . . what's the word . . . enthusiastic about praying Hope out of this coma. But honestly, most of the time, I don't think she's making sense. Today she was rambling on about Hope taking the wrong path. I just think the stress is getting to her."

Becca nodded. "That is very strange."

"The thing is, Becca . . ."

"What is it?"

Behind them a flurry of chaos erupted. Someone was coding behind a curtain. Doctors and nurses rushed by them with a crash cart. It was a grim reminder of how serious Hope's condition was, no matter how peaceful she looked. He didn't know how much time she had. n.o.body did. And here he was, dragging his feet, trying to come up with a way to express what he was feeling in a way that felt safe. He glanced over to the room where all the staff had flooded. Maybe they didn't have time for safe.

"Jake, what's wrong?"

He looked down at the cards he was still clutching in his hand. "It's just that . . . things are getting kind of strange."

"What do you mean? Hope? Is she not doing well?"

"I got these . . ." How could he even explain this? He was getting cards from someone in a coma. He was going to sound as crazy as CiCi.

"Yes? You got what?"

And then it came tumbling out of his mouth, partly because it was time to say it out loud and partly because it was easier to say than trying to explain the cards: "I love her."

Becca's mouth parted slightly. It didn't drop clear to the ground, but there was shock there. Her expression backed that up. Her eyes were enlarged like she'd just seen some sort of meteorological phenomenon.

"I . . . I know that sounds crazy, doesn't it? I mean, we hardly know each other. We know each other. Gosh, we've known each other since we were kids, but . . . sometimes she'd come into the shop and order those flowers and she was just so . . . and I couldn't ever say anything to her. I could barely say h.e.l.lo. I thought about writing her a card once, but that's all it was. Just a thought. And now she's here, and I was there on that day, and I'm just thinking that . . . well . . ."

"It's not a coincidence?"

Jake looked up at her, catching his breath after a long-winded explanation that tried to capture what Becca said in four words. "Right. Maybe we're meant to . . ." He shook his head. "It sounds so stupid. I get that."

Becca placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Jake, you've been here nonstop since this happened to Hope. You've been at her bedside. You've shown total dedication. I think she'd be lucky to have a guy like you."

Jake smiled. It felt good to be affirmed. "The thing is, Becca, I can't . . . I mean, I've sat there and tried to tell her. I even tried to write her a card. I just can't get it to come out. I'm too scared."

"Don't you think she senses you're there?"

"I don't know."

"It's hard expressing feelings. I get that. But there's probably no safer place to try out what you're trying to say than when she's in a coma. I mean, what's she going to do? Laugh at you? Storm off? Tell you you're crazy?"

Jake smiled. "True enough."

"I know one thing about that girl in there-she needs to be loved. She needs the kind of love that transcends from this life into whatever place she's in now. Sometimes I'm afraid she's in this dark, cold place, with n.o.body there for her. Maybe if she heard you tell her how you feel, she'd somehow find her way back to us."

"But she's just been through the thing with the wedding. Isn't it too soon? Aren't I treading on some kind of timeline boundary or something? Isn't there a rule that you can't go for the girl who gets dumped at the altar for six months or something?"

Becca laughed. "You and Hope . . . you two kind of think alike. I don't know what the rules are, but I think we're under special circ.u.mstances here."

Suddenly the door to Hope's room flew open. CiCi stood there for a moment, breathing hard, glancing between the two of them, her knuckles ghost white as she gripped the doork.n.o.b.

"We must pray she doesn't go with him!" CiCi said.

Jake and Becca exchanged glances. Jake asked, "Who, G.o.d?"

"No!"

"The devil?"

"Stop making this spiritual!" CiCi barked.

If this wasn't spiritual, then what was it? Who in the world would Hope go with?

Becca stepped forward, her face the picture of calmness, her voice smooth and low. "CiCi, maybe you should walk around the building."

"What?" CiCi's attention snapped to Becca.

"Around the hospital building. Isn't there something in the Bible about walking around a building seven times?"

CiCi's expression indicated this was registering.

"Is it seven?" Jake asked. "I thought it was seventy?"

"Oh, gosh, maybe you're right. I think it is seventy," Becca said.

CiCi looked to be counting something on her fingers. Then she nodded. "Yes, it's seventy. Seventy. Seventy." She walked away nodding, her hands lifted in the air, completely oblivious to the room down the hallway with all the activity. She walked right past it without even noticing.

Becca had moved into the room to see Hope. Jake let her have some time alone. He stood in the hallway a long time, staring at the cards with Hope's name as the sender, with her handwriting on the inside.

Then he noticed everyone filtering out of the room down the hallway. Doctors pulled off their masks. Nurses peeled off their gloves. Monitors were unplugged. Whoever was in there was gone. Jake closed his eyes. He'd written cards for people who were blindsided by tragedy. He knew firsthand that n.o.body knows what is waiting around the corner, so everyone should seize every moment.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and prayed for even a half of a mustard seed's faith in himself.

GREETINGS FROM MY LIFE.

Remember when I told you that my life is like a poorly timed step on to an escalator? You've probably already seen several examples of that, but here's another. I am on the phone with my mother and, as you already know, this is an exercise in patience. And when I'm impatient and frantic and frustrated out of my everlasting mind, I pace and gesture. Pace and gesture. Pace and gesture.

I'm all of the above times ten, so you can imagine I'm quite a sight to behold. And the mounted police officer confirms this as he pulls his horse to the curb and gets my attention.

"You again," he says.

I cover the mouthpiece of the phone. I don't want him to hear my mother. He's already looking alarmed and she's sort of shouting through the phone.

"I'm fine," I say, before he asks if I am or not.

"You're outside the Social Security office again, behaving . . ."

"Emotionally?"

"Fine. We'll go with that. What seems to be the trouble now? They're open. There's not even a line."

"I know." I nod, my head bobbing up and down so hard that the horse is getting startled. "Yes, it is. I've been in there already. My morning is not working out as I had planned. I prayed for a parting of the Red Sea at the Social Security office and indeed, the sea was parted, but I wasn't specific enough, I guess, and I should've asked that he also raise me from the dead." I know, I know . . . total wrong choice of words and metaphors and, accompanied by my gestures, body language. That statement alone has probably put me on a federal watch list.

"Ma'am"-he uses the kind of tone that makes you realize he has a badge and a gun and the authority to use both-"I am going to need you to leave. Now."

I can hear my mom, she's calling my name, wondering what's going on, thinking we've got a bad connection. There's a metaphor in that, too, but now's not the time for metaphors, obviously.

I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk. I glance back once and he's watching me, so I take the first corner I can to get out of his line of sight.

"Hope? Are you there?"

I sigh and turn my attention back to my mother. "I'm here. Sorry. Listen, what I was saying is that the Social Security office told me a pa.s.sport and driver's license isn't enough. I need my birth certificate. Can you please overnight it to my work address?"

"Well, um . . ."

"What? What??"

". . . I'm going to have to find which souvenir box that might be in."

"What? You put my birth certificate in a souvenir box? Mom, that belongs in something like the safe-deposit box. Look, never mind. Just please find it, as soon as possible, and overnight it to me, okay?"

"I'm praying, Hope. I'm praying. And I will keep praying until you come back to me."

"Mom! This is important! I am going to lose my job if you don't help me."

"Does that mean you'll come back? That's what I'm praying for. I still got your couch bed."

Tears are stinging my eyes. I cover my eyes as I talk. "Mom! For once in your life, can you listen to me? I know you don't care about my cards, but Dad did." And then I do a despicable thing. I know it's wrong, but I do it anyway. I play to Mom's delusions. "If Dad comes back, don't you want him to know you supported me in this?"

There is silence. Silence is uncomfortable anyway, but when it's coming from my mom it can be utterly terrifying. Silence is usually followed by a shout to the Lord in the most socially unacceptable way possible. I brace myself. At least she's not here in person.

But there is nothing, and suddenly I'm overwhelmed by guilt. I shouldn't have played the Dad card, for her sake or for mine.

"Mom, I'm sorry, I-"

"You're right. I'll find that birth certificate, Hope, and I promise on the grave of Abraham that I will get it to you."

I nod. I've just resurrected the most useless form of hope in my mom and I feel terrible. I thank her and get off the phone. I'm on a side street, leaning against the brick wall of a building that stands eleven stories high. I'm engulfed by emotion. Tears stream down my face. People walk by, taking no notice of me, and I am thankful. You can't cry on a side street in Poughkeepsie and keep it a secret. It's going to be in the town newspaper the next day and in the gossip of half the dinner tables that night.

I wipe my tears with the back of my hands and glance up just in time to see her.

It's hard to describe, but it's like everyone else is a blur and she is in full and complete focus. n.o.body else even looks my direction, but she does. As she pa.s.ses by me, she turns her head and looks straight into my eyes. I recognize her immediately-she's the waitress at the diner that I first arrived at after I left the church. I was still in my wedding dress, and coincidentally probably looking the mess that I am now.

Stranger still, she is not wearing her diner uniform. Instead, she is wearing a nurse's uniform. She smiles at me. Fluorescent pink gum sticks out against shiny silver fillings.

And then, just like that, she disappears into the crowd and is gone.

I stand there, tears now dry, determined, above all else, to make things right with Jake. What good is saving his company if he gets wounded in the crossfire, lost in the jumble of it all? I take my cell phone out of my pocket and dial his number, but there is no answer.

It doesn't surprise me that he won't take my call. I'm going to have to find him in person. I return to the main street and enter the rapid current of the stream of people. I'm aware, suddenly, of how lonely a crowded street can be, and how far away one human can be from another even while our shoulders brush against each other. I stand and wait at a crosswalk and dial the office number. I ask for Ruby.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Ruby, it's Landon."

"Hi, dear."

"Listen, I'm trying to find Jake. He's not answering his phone. Do you know where he is?"

"Well"-Ruby's words are as slow and aged as she is-"let's see here." Long pause. I can hear her breathing. I try to be patient. I wonder how scary the world around her must seem, how fast it moves and how different it is from how she grew up. "Oh, that's right . . . what, Pearl? . . . Oh, I thought you were talking to me . . . who is this again?"

"It's me, Hope. Wondering about Jake."

"That's right. Yes, I remember now. Some cute little girl came in crying. She was looking for you."

The crosswalk light glows white and the crowd pours into the street, heading for the other side, but I don't move. My heart sinks at the thought of Mikaela crying. She seems like such a strong kid, but a kid can only take so much. She was obviously upset last night and I dismissed her. Then she sought me out again and I wasn't even there.

"Jake talked to her and I think I heard him say he wanted to take her skating at Rockefeller."