I gasp again. One more and I'll be officially hyperventilating.

"It's official. I'm going to kill her." I glance at all the residents. They look as if no one really knows who her is. "My mother," I say flatly. "For putting this in the paper."

"Oh . . ." they all say in unison, nodding.

"Now, now," Gertie says. "Your momma means well."

"This is a nightmare . . ."

"You know what? After you get rid of them bad boys, that's when the good one sneaks right on up."

"The only people looking at obits for dates are gold diggers, Gertie."

"One day, mark my words, you'll be so thankful you're in all this pain. When the right boy answers this ad."

Maybe it's just me, but have you ever had a moment where you're so mad that you're engulfed by it? Like all facets of your mind are in gear, working out the angst, solving the problem of how to change your current circ.u.mstance? Some call it "seeing red," but I just call it blind-by-rage.

That's why I didn't see the van as I pulled into the driveway of my home. At that moment, I was rehearsing the speech I was going to slay my mother with.

It wasn't until I heard "Hope!" that I realized anyone was even there.

I look up to find a reporter stalking across the lawn of my home, a microphone extended out in front of her, a cameraman trailing behind, and a long cord snaking behind him. My eyes dart to the van. It's a news crew. The woman is wearing fuchsia head to toe-the kind that really only works if you're trying to overexaggerate your presence. Her hair is tied into the kind of bun that makes her look like she's in the middle of getting a face-lift.

"Ms. Landon," she says as she sidles up to me.

I slowly close the car door because the car is dinging a reminder I've left the keys in the ignition.

"How does it feel to be alive?"

"Great. Thank you for asking." I flash a smile because all the awkward photos of me are streaming through my mind and I'm hoping, if I'm lucky, this one gorgeous grin will make up for all the ones that have let me and every other single woman down.

I try to step to the side. She steps in front of me. I try the other side. She's right there, her heel planted so firmly that I think it might have actually sunk into the concrete of the driveway. All the while, she's smiling at me and angling herself to still look good on camera.

"We want to do a news series on you. You give hope to our audience."

I just stand there blinking. Me? Giving hope? What is she talking about? Hasn't she seen all that has happened? I can't give hope. I'm the polar opposite of hope. I'm Oedipus. I haven't killed my father and accidentally married my mother, but you've seen my life. You have to agree that all-in-all this is more Greek tragedy than inspiration. My mother alone is cause enough for despair.

The reporter is still going. Her eyes are all "aura and light," as if somehow her dream is coming true right before our eyes. "To come back from being left at the altar, back from a suicide attempt! Now you're ready to risk, to find love again."

"I'm . . . no, I'm not. I'm still coming to grips with the fact that I was dead. I am still feeling quite dead, to tell you the truth. Not totally dead. Just alive enough to wish I might've really been dead. It's complicated."

"Let us follow your story with our cameras until you find true love! You'd be inspiring many women out there who feel hopeless."

I'm slumping just like an eighth grade girl who is all at once dealing with acne and social dilemmas. Doesn't she see me for what I am? I'm no hero. I'm certainly no reality star. I'm trying to keep my mother from taking more ads out in the obituaries, for my death and for my life. This is not the picture of stardom or hope. This is the picture of complete dysfunction on nearly every level imaginable.

I look at the reporter. She is still smiling as if I'm missing the most exciting opportunity of my life. "What's your name?"

"Danielle Warren."

"Danielle, let me give you some advice. I'm a.s.suming by the way you're looking at me that I'm offering you some hope in life, that you're single and you're looking for that one story that makes you believe true love can happen."

Danielle glances back at her cameraman, then back at me. She slowly nods. "I got dumped too."

Oh goody. We're all in the same club and they need a pack leader.

"So you can understand where I'm coming from when I say that this is not really my dream-to be dumped, presumed dead, only to rise again and find out that my life is way worse than I thought. You see what I'm saying? This is not the kind of story that Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks star in."

Danielle lowers the microphone, nods her head slowly.

I'm about to thank her for her time, hug her because, after all, she was dumped too, and bid her farewell when all of the sudden I hear a noise that causes me to freeze-it's the kind of noise you can't at first identify. But it becomes louder and the only thing that's moving in my entire body is a sudden flush of adrenaline, the kind that makes it possible to lift a car to save a life if need be.

What is that noise?

It almost sounds like a herd of elephants. Or geese. It's the weirdest sound. I look quickly at Danielle. She doesn't look alarmed. She looks . . . guilty.

I turn around, just in time to see it-the source of the noise: a dozen men are piling out of the news van, each and every one of them sweaty like they'd been stuffed inside a duffel bag for a while. They're gathering on the front lawn of my home, adjusting their shirts, feathering their hair, checking their armpits.

Now, I am just like any other American woman. I see a hot guy and even if I truly believe he's toxic and would eventually be the death of me, I strike a pose. I smile, maybe run my fingers through my hair. It's just instinct. Primitive, really, if you don't include the hair spray and the lip gloss.

So you'll understand what I mean when I say I don't strike a pose. I don't smile. At all. I'm just staring, that kind of awkward stare that you never want to be caught giving.

I count them one by one. Eleven. How did they all fit into that news truck?

I scan the crowd as they smile and wave. Four look like they should be at ComicCon. Three just got off the farm, literally. Two are wearing reds that don't match. And the other two don't look right. That's all I can say.

Danielle puts the microphone back in my face, her eyes wide with antic.i.p.ation. "Every one of these men called today to answer your ad!" She makes a sweeping gesture, as if I'm royalty, these are all princes and I get to choose with which one I will live in eternal bliss.

A croaking noise comes up my throat. It shocks me because I can't remember another time I've actually croaked, besides when I supposedly died. And I'm no psychologist, but if I'm sticking with the fairy-tale a.n.a.logy, I'm pretty sure somewhere in this scene there are toads. And I'm no amphibian, so . . .

The croaking sound erupts again from my throat. Danielle's face grows concerned. The cameraman tilts his head away from the viewfinder, takes a step back, as if preparing for me to yack. At this point, I can make no promises.

Now you're probably thinking that I'm going to say something clever. Or give the ComicCon guys a shot, because you and I both know that Nerd is super-hot right now. But I can't tell you the difference between Star Wars and Star Trek. That kind of ignorance can get you murdered at ComicCon.

It takes me a whole second to decide, but I realize I need to beat the next croak, because all I can see are five-second sound bites of me on the news, four seconds of which are me croaking like a frog.

So I bolt. Straight for the front door. I actually jump over the iron railing around the porch. I don't remember even opening the door. I am just suddenly inside, my back against the door, my pulse a thick, ticking thud against my neck.

"Mommy?"

It took me eighteen days to decide, but I did it. I stare at the duffel bag and rolling suitcase that are open on the couch. Both look like wide, gaping mouths that are ready to devour the hope and the future that G.o.d says I have. That's stenciled on my wall. Some of the letters have worn off through the years so now it reads: I now the p ans I have for yo , pla s for a hope and a futu .

I don't know what my futu holds, to tell you the truth, but anything has to be better than this. I realize that people have different thresholds for their low point. Anyone who has ever dealt with an alcoholic knows that just because you think they've hit bottom doesn't mean they have. But generally speaking, I'm pretty sure being dumped at the altar and then falsely declared dead by suicide is a low enough point to consider a new life plan.

My friend, Becca, disagrees. She's standing next to me, looking into the same gaping suitcase holes that I am, but with a completely different perspective. Her hands are on her hips, which is the first indication she believes she's right. The second is that her belly is swollen with new life growing inside, which changes the chemistry in women's brains to believe they have insight into all life, in any form, in any predicament, regardless of their own life experience. It doesn't say that in What to Expect When You're Expecting, but I'm certain a lot of men can confirm my suspicions.

"You're sure you're not just running away?"

I've a.s.sured her for seven days, ever since I told her my plan to go to New York City. But that hasn't taken. So I try a different approach. "I live in a small town that most of the country can't p.r.o.nounce. Humiliation rests behind every corner. Why would I need to run away?"

She starts to answer but I interrupt her. "Example, and I'm just pulling this out of the pile of four dozen examples. But I was at the grocery store a few days ago. I have about six items in my basket. I get to the cash register to pay and the cashier says to me, *It's paid for.' I ask her what she means. Apparently the lady in front of me handed the cashier a hundred dollars, asked her to pay for my groceries, and then wanted to give me the change."

Becca can't even sell it as it comes out of her mouth. "It was a nice gesture."

"It's pity, Becca. I don't want to be pitied. I don't want any of this. I want out." I gesture toward the small round table I'd eaten most of the meals at in my life. On top of it I've constructed a house of cards. A house of all the cards that have been sent since my death and all the new ones sent since my resurrection. There are of course no cards made for people rising from the dead, so people are sending awkward ones, like the one today meant for someone getting a promotion. Congratulations! We know this is well deserved! "Look at this house I built."

"Nice." She doesn't smile.

"That's what I've been doing for the past two weeks. Building a three-foot house of cards out of cards."

"I should get you a Popsicle. That's what you need. Just one of those blue Popsicles that makes you feel so good."

"You think a blue Popsicle is going to solve my problem?"

Becca sighed. "It's just that my grandmother said something to me once. She said if you are not happy, geography isn't going to change a thing."

"That of course insinuates that I am the problem. Save that psychobabble advice for the ladies at the nursing home-you know, the ones who have no control over their geography. They can't even choose whether they want to go to bingo or not. They just get wheeled in there, like it or not. I have the freedom to go and do and you're saying I shouldn't?"

Becca softens a little. Her hands leave her hips. Even that big, sa.s.sy ball sticking out of her tummy appears to deflate a bit. "It's just . . . by yourself? New York City by yourself?" She chews a nail that hasn't grown past the nail bed. "We're just small-town girls, Hope. I mean, what do we know of the big city? When you were going with Sam, that was different. He was with you. He'd lived there once. But how are you going to survive in a city like that? By yourself?"

"First, you've hit your quota for saying *by yourself' to me. No more. Obviously, yes, I'm by myself. That was evident the day my wedding fell apart. So there's no reason to reiterate it. Second, why should I stop chasing my dream because Sam isn't coming with me?" I pull one of the cards off the house of cards. I flip it over and point to the New York City address and the "Heaven Sent" logo on the back.

Becca arches a brow. "You've already been to heaven. And back. And I'm not entirely sure about this, but if I'm guessing, heaven isn't in New York City."

"Becca, my entire life I've been too afraid to leave Poughkeepsie. To chase my dream of making cards professionally. These"-I point to the one in my hand-"well, yeah, they're kind of sappy. But they got published. And they're very popular. We received dozens of them when I came back from the dead. And I look at these, Becca, and I know . . . I can do better than this. I'm good at greeting cards." I say this with a grand gesture. I b.u.mp the table. The entire house of cards falls down-revealing my mother, who was apparently standing there listening the whole time.

It's such a shocking exposure she actually covers her privates even though she's fully dressed. But indeed, she has been exposed.

"You can't leave! Your life is here!"

"Mother, what life?" I take a breath, realizing I'm going to have to defend this decision once again. That's why I need to get out of here, so I don't have to explain anything to anybody anymore. "Taken inventory lately? I even lost custody of my twin bed."

"I'm working on getting that back." Now my mom has her hands on her hips. "No one's going to publish your cards."

"Now that's just mean."

She nods heartily in agreement, her eyes watering. "I know it was. I'm just desperate."

I look down at the card in my hand. It's so sappy, like it came straight out of a tree. Sticky with the residue of a useless kind of hope, the kind one sits around and waits for instead of going out and getting. All these words, they're meaningless. Prayers that sound good on a page, rhyme well, tickle the ear, but have no use otherwise. Well, I refuse to write sap. Refuse it.

"Dad always loved my cards." Sure, they were all the ones I created when I was kid, but even then I had a certain edge, a certain way with words. I didn't care about b.u.t.terflies and rainbows, I can tell you that. I once wrote an entire poem to give to the old lady that sacked our groceries, wishing her a windfall of money so she could sit and her ankles wouldn't swell. Just sayin', that's how I saw the world. It's how I still see the world. But now, I have an even newer perspective-one that most women don't have, but should.

I cover my face with my hand as my mom's hands shoot into the air. I always know it's coming yet each time it always feels misplaced-which obviously it is, but there's a pattern you'd think I would've settled into by now.

"Lord! Tell her if she stays she'll find love here!"

To my surprise, my hands shoot toward the ceiling. Becca stumbles backward. Even my mom looks caught off-guard. Her mouth is open, mid-prayer, but nothing is coming out.

I look up at the ceiling. Notice some cobwebs and a moldy patch from where the roof leaked in '88. I don't see the Almighty, but that doesn't stop me from shouting at him: "Tell her that love and all the pain that comes with it-I don't need it! None of it!"

My mom catches her second wind. Now she's back in gear. "You know love, Lord! It sneaks up on ya! Tell her it's sneaky!"

"Tell her that it's my time! It's my chance to be heard! Which has never been a part of my-"

"But you gotta be in that right place to be snuck up on, Lord! Like Poughkeepsie!"

I drop my hands. Becca gives me a wistful, sympathetic look. "Mom, I believe you just proved my point. I'm trying to state that I'm never heard and then you interrupt-"

"I hear the Empire State Building is a perfect place to find love." It's Becca this time who keeps my declaration from fully escaping, but at least she's now seen my perspective.

I turn to my mom. I take her hands. Tears, fat and bulbous, are welled in her eyes. I know this is so hard for her to understand. All she's ever known is me, Poughkeepsie, and our little way of life. "Mom, this is my chance to say something. To give something to people in pain. To help them laugh at pain."

She is so lost. "Oh, honey. Pain's not funny."

I realize it right then. No matter what, she will never understand I have a gift. She will never see what it does to my soul to see someone laugh at something I wrote. It's my balm, but it's not hers.

"Maybe it's not," I say to her as gently as I can. "But can you support me? Just this one time?"

My mom slides her hands to either side of my face, right at the cheeks. I don't know if she's going to slap me, squeeze me, or pop me. "At least I can take comfort."

I try to smile, but her hands are in the way.

"When this fails, you'll be back. I'll save the couch bed for you!"

5.

It was the strangest feeling, to not be connected to someone for years and then to suddenly feel an inexplicable-even relentless at times-tug toward them. Yet Jake was, for all intents and purposes, just on the sidelines. An onlooker. At the right place at the right time . . . or seconds late, as he felt. So many regrets had been running through his mind over the past week. If he'd not stopped to get a drink on the way to the wedding, he might've been able to intervene, to save Hope from this terrible mess.

He felt helpless, too, unsure if he should visit her at the hospital. He'd gone a couple of times but always felt out of place, even when he was the only one in the room. Yet it seemed she didn't have a steady stream of people coming and going. It was mostly her mom and her friend, Becca. They couldn't be there all the time, so maybe he should be.

Then he would talk himself out of it again. This was how every day at the shop began and how every day ended.

"You should go see her."

Jake whipped around, holding cut stems in his hand that he intended to toss in the trash fifteen minutes ago. Once again, he'd gotten lost in his thoughts.

Mindy stood there, her head tilted to the side, a compa.s.sionate smile on her lips.