Now I'll Tell You Everything

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  “It wasn’t a case of not measuring up, Uncle Milt,” I told him. “We were just too different, and he’ll make a great husband for someone, just not me.”

  “Well, I dated a lot of boys who were too different from me before I met this one,” Aunt Sally said, stroking the back of Milt’s head, letting her fingers slide down the collar of his shirt and up again. “And I’m glad I waited, because I got the best.”

  I smiled, loving that they were still so close. “I’m in no hurry,” I said.

  Alone in their guest room later, I gently turned the pages that my mother’s fingers had turned, and various phrases by Khalil Gibran leaped out at me: Let there be spaces in your togetherness / And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Didn’t that refer to Dave and me? Wasn’t that an admonition not to be too much alike? But just when I felt that old familiar panic begin, I read this phrase: No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge. That meant not even the prophet himself could tell me what was best for me—I needed to trust that I made the right decision.

  I stayed only two nights, helping Aunt Sally sort through some old photos and playing hearts with Uncle Milt. We watched Masterpiece Theater together, and the next day, with my plane leaving for Oklahoma City at 4:15, I could tell that they both could use a nap. So I told them I wanted to get to the airport early—that I needed to find a gift for Val—and they were happy to let me go, with hugs all around. Milt had insisted on driving me to O’Hare, but Sally had wisely arranged for a neighbor to take me, and I was glad. It was a miserably cold day with sleet coming down, making the walk from Aunt Sally’s out to the car slightly treacherous, and I huddled in the passenger seat, wishing the neighbor would turn the fan up a couple notches to get the heat to my legs. At the airport I was in such a hurry to get inside, where, I hoped, it would be warmer—fat chance—that I awkwardly offered the man a twenty-dollar bill. This delayed my exit even longer as he described the many favors Milt and Sally had done for him and refused to take any money.

  Inside the terminal at last, I shook the sleet from my hair and wheeled my carry-on over to the departure board, only to discover that my plane would be leaving an hour and a half late. I was already two and a half hours early, which meant I had four hours to buy a Christmas present for Val, where every shop in this airport charged twice as much for everything as it would cost somewhere else. Besides, I’d already bought a cute little wool cap for her, so I didn’t really need anything more.

  I sighed and tried to figure out which waiting section looked the most comfortable for the next four hours since I really didn’t want to go through security yet. I was walking past a luggage shop, hoping to find a bookstore, when I saw a tall man coming toward me, wheeling a large duffel bag behind him, a smaller bag over one shoulder. He had a two-day growth of stubble on his face, and a lock of hair had fallen down over one eye. There was something familiar about him, and then . . . And then . . .

  He stopped about ten feet away, and so did I.

  Was it possible?

  I took a few steps closer.

  “Patrick?”

  “Alice!”

  One hand went to my chest to restart my heart, and this time he took a few steps forward. We continued to stare at each other in shock and wonder.

  “What are you . . . ?” we said in unison. Then we both began to smile at our awkwardness.

  “What are you doing in Chicago?” Patrick asked first.

  “Heading off to explore the world,” I joked lamely, gazing at the hair that was a darker red now, a reddish brown. His eyes were lined beneath, as though he hadn’t slept for several days, probably because he hadn’t slept for several days, but I’d know his smile anywhere. “What are you doing here?”

  “Coming home,” he said. “Heading to Union Station for a train to Milwaukee.”

  “I can’t believe . . . ,” I said.

  And then . . . I don’t know if it was some small gesture he made, but when he had let go of the duffel bag beside him, we were both moving forward at the same time, and I was in his arms, my cheek against his chest, drinking in his scent, his breath, his heartbeat—all so familiar to me.

  People walked by, and we didn’t care. Someone could have wheeled our luggage away, and we probably wouldn’t have noticed. When we finally backed away, we kept clutching each other’s sleeves as though we couldn’t let go.

  “Where are you going, really?” Patrick asked.

  “Oklahoma City.”

  “Oklahoma!”

  “To visit my roommate. She signed on for a job there after she graduates. She wanted me to come look it over, help her decide.”

  “Then you’re still in school?”

  “Yes. I’ll be starting my master’s after I graduate in June. What about you?”

  “Coming home to have a serious talk with the U. See how much credit they’ll let me have for my study abroad and my two years in the Peace Corps.” He gave a sheepish laugh that sounded so much like the old Patrick. “Actually, what I was looking for right now was a Big Mac. I promised myself that as soon as I set foot on U.S. soil, I’d treat myself to the biggest burger I could find.”

  “Could I go with you?” I asked.

  His face lit up like a neon sign. “Can you?”

  “I’ve got time.”

  He reached for his duffel bag, but he didn’t take his eyes off me. “I still can’t believe this,” he said as we walked a few feet more.

  “Neither can I. That we’d be in the same concourse, even.” I finally remembered that Patrick’s parents had moved to Wisconsin after Patrick started college. “What time’s your train?”

  “It’s a commuter; I could go any time. All my folks know is that I’m coming this week. What about you? When’s your flight?”

  “It was delayed until six forty-five.”

  “That’s terrific! Great!”

  * * *

  We found a hamburger place. I don’t even remember the name of it. I just remember sliding into a booth across from Patrick and watching him eat two burgers while I ate one and shared his fries.

  “Isn’t this unbelievable?” he said. “What are the odds, do you think?”

  “Ten million to one?”

  “So fill me in on everything. And if I start to doze off, it doesn’t mean you’re boring. It’s just that I’ve probably slept only an hour or two in the last forty-eight.”

  “Oh, God, Patrick! You need to get home and collapse,” I said.

  “Not as bad as I need these burgers,” he told me. “Oh, man, these are really good.”

  “When did you eat last?” I asked curiously.

  “Uh . . . two days ago? I’m not sure.”

  “What did you have?”

  “Rice.”

  “And before that?”

  “Some kind of rice.”

  We both laughed.

  “No, there was food on the plane, but not much. So what about you?” he asked. “Where did you spend Christmas?”

  “With my parents. Then I came to Chicago to visit Aunt Sally and Uncle Milt. I was on my way out.”

  Patrick grew quiet, but his eyes were still fixed on mine. “When I was in Madagascar . . . whenever I visited the capital . . . I checked Facebook, and the last I read, you were engaged.” He glanced at my left hand and back again.

  “I called it off at Thanksgiving,” I said. “We’re not seeing each other anymore.”

  “Oh.” He stopped eating—stopped smiling—and looked at me intently. Those eyes . . . God, I’d missed his eyes! “I’m . . . sorry?” he said. “No, actually, that’s a lie. That’s about the best news I ever got.”

  I felt my heart leap inside me. It actually thumped against the wall of my chest.

  Patrick reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You don’t know how great it is to see you again. There were times in Madagascar I wondered if I ever would.”

  I smiled. “Then how do you know I’m not
an illusion? Maybe you’re so tired, you’re hallucinating.”

  “That’s what worries me,” he said, and his thumb caressed mine. “You feel real. Let’s see if you can pass the reality test. Who was your sixth-grade teacher?”

  I laughed. “Mrs. Plotkin.”

  “What was the name of our high school newspaper?”

  “The Edge.”

  “What did I promise to do on your twenty-first birthday?” Those eyes again. He had stopped smiling now, and his face was more serious.

  “You were going to call and make a date for New Year’s Eve.” I guess I’d stopped smiling too, but he was still holding my hand, his thumb still caressing.

  “Providing you weren’t taken by then,” he said. “But according to Facebook, you were in a relationship, and I didn’t want to interfere.”

  “I wish you had.”

  “Do you mean that, Alice? We’ve been apart a long time. Met other people . . .”

  “I know.”

  “Then maybe I’m an illusion,” he said, grinning. “No, here, feel my cheek.” He pulled my hand over so I was rubbing his stubbly skin.

  “It’s real, all right,” I said.

  We had each finished our food. I had, anyway. Patrick rested his head in his hand, and his eyes were half closed. “Dessert?” he murmured. “I need one of those fried apple pies.” His head began to nod, and he jerked upright.

  “Another few minutes and your head will be in your plate,” I laughed.

  “Then maybe I’ll just take some to go.” But he made no move to get up. “Do you really have to catch that plane?” he asked.

  “Well, I . . . I could ask about the next flight.” Now he was leaning forward, arms on the table, both hands holding mine. “Or . . . tomorrow, maybe?” I said. “Or . . . the day after?”

  If my head was doing rapid recalculations, my heart had already decided for me. As soon as we were on our feet, I was in his arms again and we were kissing right there in the burger place. It seemed as though his lips were my lips, his breathing my breath. And when at last he let me go, everyone around us was smiling, and a couple of sailors gave us the thumbs-up.

  When Patrick stopped at the counter on our way out and asked for the fried pies, the man handed them to him and said, “It’s on us.”

  * * *

  I can’t even remember how we got to the hotel—the airport shuttle, maybe?

  As soon as we were in the room, Patrick turned to me, his face serious, and kissed me, a long, intense kiss, his hands running through my hair, pulling me close to him, and when he stopped once to look in my eyes, he kissed me again.

  “I’m going to lie down for a quick catnap,” he said. “You can crawl in beside me. I just need fifteen minutes or so.”

  “Sure,” I said, and Patrick took off his shoes. We stacked the decorative pillows on the desk and folded back the heavy duvet. Patrick lay down, fully clothed, and promptly fell into a deep sleep, lying on his back, his mouth half open, his hands turned palms up beside him. I gently covered him with the sheet and two blankets, and his breathing became slow and deep. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hand caressing his forehead, brushing the red hair I loved so much back away from his eyes.

  Was I just setting myself up to be hurt again? He had already broken up with me twice, but then, I was the one who almost married someone else.

  I’m not sure how long I sat there just watching him breathe, sleep. He didn’t wake in fifteen minutes, of course, and I didn’t try to raise him. How was this possible that we had met this afternoon? If I had gotten to the airport five minutes later . . . If he had not detoured after coming through customs to find a Big Mac . . . If I had stayed at Aunt Sally’s another hour . . .

  We probably would have contacted each other eventually. Once Patrick was back in the States, someone would post the news on Facebook, whether he did or not. But to meet him here . . . to have had the time, both of us, to spend with each other . . . Maybe I believed in magic after all, and I couldn’t stop smiling.

  I got up finally and went over to the desk. Taking out my cell phone, I called my airline first and changed my reservation—not to the next day, but the day after—then I tried Elizabeth’s number. No telling where anyone was since it was winter break for everybody but Pamela, and she was probably on a job. The phone rang six times, and then Liz picked up.

  “Alice!” she said. “How’s Oklahoma City? How’s them broad-shouldered, bowlegged, terbaccy-smokin’ cowboys?”

  “I don’t know,” I told her. “I didn’t go. I’m in a hotel room in Chicago.”

  “Oh, my God! What happened?” And I heard her say to someone, “She’s in Chicago!” Then to me, “You won’t believe this, but Gwen and Pamela are here at my house, and we’re having a blast. What happened to your plane?”

  “Nothing. I missed it. You won’t believe this, either, but I met someone.”

  A shriek from the other end as she relayed my message. “. . . a hotel room with somebody. . . .” A fumbling sound, then Pamela had the phone.

  “Okay, who are you with? Male or female?”

  “Twenty questions. Male.”

  “Twenty questions, my foot. Who?”

  “Patrick.”

  “Patrick!” she screamed at the others, and then I heard Gwen and Liz screaming too.

  Now it was Gwen’s turn. “Alice, tell us: Did you plan this all along?”

  I told her about meeting up with Patrick at the airport.

  “Is he there now?”

  “Here in the room.”

  “Let me talk to him. My God, this is wonderful! He’s back!”

  “He’s asleep, and I wouldn’t wake him for the world. He hasn’t slept for forty-eight hours, and I’m just watching him breathe, as happy as I can be.”

  Then I told them about how he’d planned to surprise his parents and how I wouldn’t be going to Oklahoma for two more days. We talked until the connection got lousy and my battery ran low.

  “Sweet dreams, girlfriend,” Gwen told me. “You deserve them.”

  “Kiss him for me, Alice,” said Pamela.

  “This is the second most wonderful thing that’s happened this week,” said Liz.

  “What was the first?” I asked.

  “Mo and I set the date for our wedding. A year from now, right after Christmas.”

  “That’s wonderful, Liz,” I told her.

  I had to call Valerie and tell her what happened, and she was as excited as I was. I said I would let her know when I was coming, and her final words were, “Take your time.”

  * * *

  Patrick moved only once in the next two hours, and that was to turn on his side, but his breathing scarcely changed—deep and slow.

  Now what? I asked myself. In all my fantasies of making love with Patrick for the first time, none of them went like this. Patrick zonked. Me with my clothes still on. Sleet coming down again outside and hitting the window. Here on the tenth floor, I could hear the whistle of wind through the air ducts. And me, happy as a clam.

  I got the charger from my suitcase and plugged in my cell phone. Around eight o’clock I ate one of the fried apple pies. Then I went in the bathroom and took a hot, steamy shower to warm up. There was a silly nightshirt in my suitcase with a terrapin on the front that I slipped on. I brushed my teeth and took my pill. I’d been good about taking my birth control pills, knowing it was part of my life now. Then I turned out the light and crawled into bed with Patrick.

  My feet were freezing. I’d turned the thermostat up, but I think it was probably there for decoration, because it didn’t seem to make any difference. Then, carefully, I inched myself over until I was spoon shaped in Patrick’s arms. Both of us lay on our sides with our knees bent, and I gently lifted Patrick’s arm and pulled it forward across my body. He simply took a deeper breath and went on sleeping, and after a while I slept too.

  I woke sometime in the night—I wasn’t sure when—and I could tell by the way Patrick readjusted his arm a
round me that he had wakened too. “Alice?” he whispered behind me.

  “Yeah?” I didn’t want to turn around, because I’ll bet my breath was horrible.

  “Just wanted to make sure it was really you,” he said, and pulled my body even closer to his. And then, “What do you have on?”

  “My terrapin nightshirt,” I said, laughing.

  “I’m still drained.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you care if we wait till tomorrow?”

  “No, I’d rather.”

  “Let’s make it a date. I’ll shave, brush my teeth . . .” And then his voice trailed off, and he was gone again.

  * * *

  I was awake and dressed before he got up the next morning. I think he’d slept eleven hours straight. When the housekeeper knocked on the door, I told her we didn’t need anything, and she disappeared.

  Patrick lay with his arms behind his head, smiling at me from his pillow.

  “Ah! The man awakes,” I said. “Should I order room service?”

  “Why not?”

  I found a menu in the drawer and kissed him. “What do you want? Rice cakes? Rice pudding? Chicken soup with rice?”

  Patrick ordered pancakes with scrambled eggs and sausage, and dared me to kiss him again with fifty-nine-hour-no-brush breath. I agreed it was horrible, but kissed him anyway, and then he got up, went in the bathroom, and showered.

  When he came out at last, sweet breath and body, a clean shirt with a pair of wrinkled trousers, we couldn’t seem to stop kissing, and then we settled down at the little table the room-service guy had wheeled in for us and talked.

  I told him about Dave—what a really nice guy he was, but I simply didn’t feel that we had enough in common.

  Patrick just listened and nodded.

  “So tell me about Jessica,” I said when I finished.

  Patrick buttered another piece of toast, then set it aside and sipped his coffee. “I did like her a lot at first. We’d both joined the Peace Corps at the same time, and she was in a neighboring village, but . . . I don’t know. When we met at the capital, all of us together, and had our meetings, she just seemed to have a different attitude—approach, maybe—to the Madagascan people, a bit too paternalistic, I guess you’d say. Not the way I saw them at all. And then, even more of a deal breaker, she fell for another volunteer. Which made the breakup easier—a lot easier.”